Burn them!
Ruth put her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it!’
Malcolm reached across and gathered the letters together into a pile. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said sternly, looking round, unsure where the voice that was addressing her was coming from. ‘She has to read them, you must see that. Then she can decide. She is of your blood, Thomas. She will do the right thing.’
Ruth looked up, her hands, palm down on the table in front of her. She sighed. ‘He says I don’t understand,’ she said helplessly.
‘And you never will if he doesn’t give you the chance to examine them.’ Malcolm put the letters into the box and closed the lid. ‘Leave them for now. No one can touch them up here.’
‘Couldn’t Thomas destroy them with a blast of psychic power?’
Malcolm smiled. ‘If he could, he would have done it by now. If Dion Fortune is right and he’s an advanced soul, then he knows that the truth is paramount and must prevail. If he made mistakes, it was because he was human. Perhaps his incarnation as Thomas Erskine was one of many and he has gone on to live more perfect lives that have exonerated his mistakes. He lived in turbulent times, at the heart of power amongst men who changed the world. We need to know what happened.’
The room was silent. If Thomas was still there he did not, presumably, disagree with what Malcolm had said.
Thomas
To my enormous sadness, Charles Fox died that same year. I was a pall-bearer at his funeral in Westminster Abbey and found it hard to contain my grief, so much so that later the Duchess of York presented me with a ring containing a lock of the great man’s hair. The government could not survive without him; when it fell months later, I fell with it. I was disappointed and sad and angry to have to relinquish the great seal so soon. I had not had the chance fully to exploit my talents in what became known as the Ministry of All the Talents, but in many ways I was pleased to resume my legal career, although this time in the House of Lords.
We entertained as we always had. My daughter Margaret at my side, we welcomed our old friends to dinners and soirees and with them came princes and dukes and earls, and, so important in a household of animal lovers, a new puppy came to live with us. I called him Fox.
I now had time and opportunity to pursue a cause very dear to my heart and introduced in the House of Lords a bill against animal cruelty, something one saw everywhere, every day, in the streets of London. If any piece of law was to be attached to my name, I wanted it to be this one. To my delight it was passed in the House of Lords, but alas, due mainly to the campaign of one man, it was thrown out of the Commons. My speech was published as a pamphlet and I gained much support nationwide and I did not give up. The law was passed the following year.
Life was good, though often I thought of my darling Fanny. She would not have revelled in the company as I did. She would have craved the peace and beauty of the gardens and the joy of watching the children and grandchildren at play, and with her there I would have enjoyed them the more.
In my desire to be near Frances and Samuel and their ever-increasing brood I bought a country estate of several thousand acres near Crawley in the Sussex Weald. I felt I could grow to love Sussex with its forests and Downs and sweet air, but I craved a wilder landscape too; watching my family grow up and away I thought of my own childhood and dreamt of taking them all one day to Scotland.
But they were busy building their own lives and I suppose I was lonely.
For then I met Sarah.
71
Thomas was about to go out when he heard the harpsichord playing in the drawing room. He handed his greatcoat back to the footman and went to the door. Margaret didn’t notice him as he stood there silently listening. She was enraptured by the music, rocking back and forward a little as she played, completely transported. She was a far better player than Fanny had ever been, or Frances either, but she steadfastly refused to play in public, shyly shaking her head and withdrawing from the company whenever he tried to persuade her. He didn’t move until she finished then quietly he applauded. ‘That was lovely, my darling. What was it? I don’t believe I have heard you play it before.’
She blushed a little and stood up. ‘It is a sonata by Scarlatti. I have been learning it when there was no one listening.’ She smiled reproachfully. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘You are too modest.’ He went over and kissed her cheek. ‘I am going to Lincoln’s Inn. Would you like to accompany me in the carriage? I can easily wait until you have your maid pack a valise.’
She shook her head, then almost as an afterthought she caught his sleeve. ‘Papa, wait. I have an address for you.’ She hesitated anxiously. ‘I took tea with Caddy yesterday.’ They all referred to Davy’s beautiful American wife by her nickname. ‘She was telling me about a young woman she met. A bonnet-maker, as I understand it.’ She paused again and catching sight of her father’s raised eyebrow she gave a nervous giggle. ‘She is a talented medium. Genuinely gifted. Caddy thought she might interest you.’
Thomas gave no sign of having heard her for several seconds then he sighed. ‘These people are often tricksters,’ he said gravely.
‘But this one is good, so Caddy said. Apparently, the woman said …’ Margaret paused and took a deep breath, ‘she said she could contact Mama.’ She turned away to hide her tears.
Thomas closed his eyes. Of all his children only Margaret, he suspected, understood his deep loneliness, the visceral ache he experienced when he thought of Fanny and how much he missed her.
‘Have you seen this woman yourself?’ He spoke more sharply than he intended and she flinched.
‘I wouldn’t dare go. I think Caddy was planning to, but she couldn’t go on her own and Davy would laugh her out of it. He has no time for …’ again she hesitated, ‘for things like that.’
Of course he didn’t. Thomas didn’t think any of his children had inherited his ability to see beyond the immediate. Once he had guessed that his daughter, Frances, could do it, but she had never told him outright and now she was married to a man of the cloth she would never admit it. He thought fleetingly of the doll he had given her for her wedding day and wondered if she’d kept it.
Margaret had gone over to the escritoire which stood between the windows and she pulled open one of the small drawers. Inside was a piece of paper. She handed it to him. ‘If you want to contact her, this is where she lives,’ she whispered.
Preoccupied with preparing an important speech, Thomas did not give the piece of paper another thought for several days. It was only when he pulled it out of his pocket when looking for another address that he had stuffed inside his wallet that he stopped in his tracks and looked at it hard. Miss Sarah Buck, bonnet-maker, lived off St Martin’s Lane. On a whim, he picked up his hat and cane and set out on foot.
It appeared that the lady in question lived with her brother’s family in Stonecutters Court, a narrow shabby court off the main thoroughfare. Mr Buck was a plasterer by trade. One of his assistants directed Thomas to a dark staircase in the corner of the yard with a jerk of his thumb.
Sarah was sitting by the window stitching a frill of lace onto an elegant blue hat when he arrived. She looked up as he pushed open the door. She was a small woman, in her thirties, he guessed, neatly dressed with a thin face, a prominent nose and high cheekbones. She studied him for several seconds as he stood looking across the room at her, then tucked her needle into her work and set it aside on the table. ‘Have you come for a reading?’
She did not stand up and he was forced to approach her. ‘I have heard that you have a certain talent, madam,’ he said cautiously.
‘I charge sixpence for half an hour,’ she said, indicating the chair opposite her. She watched as he put his hat and cane and gloves down on a side table, her eyes narrowing slightly as she noted the expensive cut of his clothes and the gold signet ring on his finger. ‘Lord Erskine, I presume,’ she said quietly.
‘My face is familiar to you from the newspapers, madam?’ h
e sat down on the edge of the chair.
She ignored the question. ‘Normally I would ask for something belonging to your deceased wife to help me focus on her, but she is here, waiting to speak to you,’ she said. Glancing up she noted how he clenched his fists on his knees. ‘And normally,’ she went on, keeping her voice cold and disinterested, ‘I would require payment in advance, but I am sure a nobleman such as yourself can be relied upon to pay me fairly for my services.’
He reached into his pocket and brought out a shilling. He put it down on the middle of the table without a word.
She resisted the urge to grab it and put it into her pocket, leaving it lying where it was as she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She could feel him watching her closely and forcing herself to ignore him she searched in her mind for something to say. They were sometimes there, the people on the other side, and sometimes they weren’t and then she had to improvise. It was important her customers were not disappointed or they would not return. Just enough to keep them satisfied, to make them curious, to comfort them. She read her clients very well, something she had been good at since she was a child. For all his flash clothes and confident manner, this man was lonely and unhappy. She had to be convincing. The silence spun out round her and then she heard a voice out of the darkness. ‘Tom? Tom, my darling, I miss you so.’
The voice when she spoke was hers but the intonation, the accent wasn’t. She heard her own tongue curl round the unaccustomed speech patterns, the words coming without plan or pretence. ‘I am so proud of you and of the children, my darling, and I am so pleased Margaret looks after you. You must make sure she finds a husband, Thomas. I do not want any of my girls to grow up old maids.’ And so it went on, the happy rush of words, inconsequential as they so often were when the dead contacted the living, continuing with conversations just as they used to. No revelations of the afterlife, no comments on their surroundings or their new companions. Sarah relaxed and let the words flow until at last Fanny was silent. ‘I’m tired, my darling,’ were her last words. ‘Come and speak to me again, but not too often. Not too soon. Let me rest in peace.’
When Sarah opened her eyes she saw he was crying and she closed them again quickly, giving him time to compose himself.
‘Sixpence is enough, my lord,’ she said, pushing the coin back towards him. ‘I do not require more.’
She heard the muffled, indignant, exclamation on the stone stair outside and knew her brother had followed her client up to listen at the door. She hoped he hadn’t heard. If he had, he gave no sign. Lord Erskine stood up and turned away to gather up his things, leaving the coin untouched. ‘She said not to come back too soon,’ he said. His voice was husky.
She hesitated before she replied, ‘And she was right. She must be allowed to continue her journey.’ Her conscience would not allow her to lie. ‘But,’ she went on carefully, ‘it may be that she has much to say to you before she can calmly and composedly move on, so …’ again the hesitation, ‘it may be that she will use me to pass on further messages now that she has found a way. If she should wish to use me in that way, how may I reach you, my lord?’
She lowered her eyes, strangely moved by the look of anguish that crossed his features.
‘Send to my chambers,’ he replied. ‘I will come to you.’ He turned away and walked back across the room leaving the coin still lying on the table.
When he opened the door, the stair was empty.
When Ruth awoke the next morning she was alone in bed. Descending the spiral staircase she found Malcolm standing staring out at the hills. The sky was full of racing clouds. His laptop was open on the table behind him. Hearing her come in he gave a deep sigh and turned towards her. ‘I’ve a problem.’
She sat down at the table and waited, reaching down to fondle Pol’s ears as the dogs came over to greet her.
‘I need to go to London.’
She had not been expecting that. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve been trying to find someone else to give a talk I’m scheduled to deliver. I’m so sorry. So far, it’s proving impossible to sort this out. Apparently, I signed a contract of some sort. These wretched events are booked so far in advance.’
She swallowed hard. ‘You’re not my keeper, Mal,’ she said gently. ‘You can’t put your life on hold because of me.’
He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I need to be here.’
‘No. You don’t.’
He looked up to study her face and for several seconds they were both silent. He reached out and took her hands. ‘No, you’re right,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t need to, do I. You are much stronger now.’
Max, when he heard, suggested she join him and Finlay in Heriot Row but she refused. ‘Malcolm will only be away a day or so. I’ll be perfectly safe here.’
‘Alone?’ Finlay’s voice boomed at her from her mobile as he grabbed Max’s phone. ‘I don’t think so. If you won’t come to us, then we’ll come to you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘There’s every need. Let me speak to Malcolm.’
She was being manipulated again, looked after, but suddenly she realised she didn’t mind. They cared. They all cared very much and she was so lucky to have them.
April put out her hand, pushing it flat against Timothy’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Don’t try to intimidate me, Tim. You don’t scare me and you never have. If I choose to leave, that is my choice. It seems to me we both did perfectly OK on our own. Maybe it’s time we branched out. We can always meet up now and again.’
He smiled. ‘What makes you think I would want to meet up with you?’
He raised his hand and fastened it around her wrist, slowly twisting it off his chest and pushing it away.
‘Ow! Let go, Tim.’
He went on twisting, a strangely dispassionate smile on his lips. ‘Do you know how upset I was when I found the Dump burned down and I thought you were dead.’
‘Let go, Tim!’
‘I thought I was alone in the whole world.’ They were still standing on the doorstep.
‘I only left because you never came home that day. I assumed you’d gone for good!’ She was determined not to struggle, sensing it would only excite him, and then over his shoulder she glimpsed movement at the end of the street. She relaxed, smiling. ‘Our friendly police patrol is approaching. Shall I call him? How long do you suppose it would take him to recognise you?’
‘Shit!’ He shoved her inside and, stepping in after her, slammed the door behind them with his foot. ‘Did he see us?’
At least he had moved his hand. He walked past her into the kitchen.
‘I don’t think so.’ She followed him.
He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. ‘Go, if you want to,’ he said, defeated.
‘I don’t want to. I’m just afraid of what you might do next. Why did you attack that girl?’
‘I told you, it wasn’t me. It can’t have been. I don’t remember it.’
‘They have your DNA.’ She leaned against the cupboard, her arms folded, studying him intently. ‘Tim, you’re a sick man. We’ve never done violence. We never hurt anyone.’
He looked at her defensively. ‘You think people haven’t been hurt by what we do?’
‘I’m talking physically, Tim. You raped those girls. You nearly killed Finlay Macdermott. That is not you.’
No, it’s not him.
Tim groaned and smacked his forehead. ‘Go away!’
April shrank back against the wall. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘The voice in my head.’ Suddenly he was a little boy again. ‘He won’t leave me alone. I don’t want to play with him, I don’t want to do these things, but he won’t leave me alone.’ Tears were running down his face.
April pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. She studied him, torn between sympathy and fear. ‘How long has this been going on?’ she asked. The sight of his intense misery touched her as it alway
s did. She was his big sister. She looked after him.
‘Since I was at the Old Mill House. He was there waiting for me. He was there with them. He clawed his way into my head.’ He looked up at her pitifully, his face swollen with tears. ‘It’s not my fault, none of this is. It’s him.’
‘And who is he?’ She managed to keep her voice calm.
Andrew. I’m Andrew. Tell her she’s a fat cow and it’s none of her business what you and I do. And we can do it again tonight. You’d like that, wouldn’t you.
Tim let out a shriek of rage. He was sobbing loudly. ‘Go away!’
April stood up and backed away from the table.
‘He’s called Andrew,’ Tim whispered piteously.
‘Jesus Christ!’ April clutched her coat round her tightly. ‘They said in that American article that Malcolm Douglas was an exorcist. That’s what he was doing, wasn’t he, when you barged into that house. It was haunted and he was going to get rid of it and you’ve brought the bastard thing home with you. You’re weak and stupid and it’s clinging to you.’ Her voice rose in panic.
Give the lady a prize!
‘I’m not weak and stupid!’ Tim thumped his fists on the table.
April took a deep breath. She didn’t know what to do. Half of her wanted to comfort him, the other half wanted to run. She glanced towards the door, trying to judge whether she could make it before he reached her.
‘It’s all right.’ All at once he relaxed. He smiled miserably. ‘He’s gone. Go if you want.’
She hesitated. ‘You need help, Tim. We have to find someone who will get rid of him.’
‘Malcolm bloody Douglas?’ He laughed sarcastically.
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘And you think he’s going to say, “Of course, Mr Bradford. Why not, Mr Bradford. Let me help you. No don’t worry about the things you’ve done, Mr Bradford, none of them were your fault.”’
April’s eyebrow twitched. ‘So,’ she said quietly. ‘What do you think we should do?’