Haunted (17 page)

Ash leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Like her, he looked towards Edbrook. ‘Why did you leave me alone in the woods?’ he said.

The tune stopped, and she seemed truly regretful when she said, ‘I didn’t mean to. I thought you were right behind me. Do you forgive me?’

‘Wasn’t it another one of your games? Something that you and Simon – and probably Robert, too – devised among you? Something to give me a little scare?’

The rhyme again, mournfully intoned in a minor key.

‘What business are your brothers in, Christina?’ Ash persisted. ‘How do they manage the upkeep on a place like Edbrook?’

‘I thought I told you. My father left us money. Investments, stocks and shares – I don’t get involved. That’s why Robert and Simon have gone to London.’

‘Yet you don’t have enough wealth to pay for staff. It’s a big estate for your aunt to run all on her own.’

‘She hires people when necessary. In the spring and summer gardeners come in to take care of the grounds. But mostly we like to be alone.’

‘Why should that be?’

‘Because we have each other. We don’t need outsiders.’

He turned to face her. ‘Don’t you ever feel the need to get away, Christina? Don’t you ever leave Edbrook?’

‘Oh yes.’ She smiled at him. ‘Yes, frequently. For long, long periods at a time.’

But now Ash was staring past her at someone standing beneath a group of trees on the far side of the lawns. A diminutive figure, shaded from the sun by overhead branches. A small girl, too far away for him to determine her features or her age. White ankle socks indicated she was very young.

Christina was still talking, unaware his attention was elsewhere. ‘I’m always drawn back to Edbrook. I don’t think I could ever really leave . . .’

He touched her arm. ‘Look, Christina, over there. Can you see her?’

She looked to where he indicated. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘There, by the trees.’

She squinted her eyes, peering intently. She shook her head at him. ‘I still can’t see . . .’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Surely . . .’ Ash gently guided her face with his hand.

But now there was no one there. No figure stood beneath the trees.

He wandered through the house, its emptiness an oppressive thing, his footsteps loud, echoing in the hallways. Ash was not completely alone, for Christina and her aunt were in their rooms, yet his sense of isolation was difficult to shrug off. Outside, the night was clear, cloudless, the moon proud and crisp in its uncontested rule; the building’s old walls seemed to be absorbing the atmosphere’s coldness rather than fending it off, for everything, even furniture, felt frigid to the touch.

He had dined alone that evening, Nanny Tess barely speaking when she had set the meal before him. But then Ash, himself, had been in no mood for conversation. When he had enquired after Christina, assuming that her brothers had already departed for London, he was informed by Nanny Tess that her niece had retired early, the late activities of the previous night no doubt having their effect. The aunt had added that last remark as though it was
his
fault.

In various rooms he checked the detection equipment, ensuring that each piece would function properly should anything trigger it off. He sprinkled more powder, finding new locations to layer, then made sure all outside doors were closed and locked. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he went from room to room, and where his fingers brushed against walls and banisters, he noticed they came away smeared with dust. Something else he noticed, and which he hadn’t before, were the cobwebs: they hung in dark corners like tattered miniature drapes, matted with dirt, the worst of them in the furthest reaches of the house in rooms that obviously were rarely used. He shook his head in disgust. The Mariells expected too much of their aunt if they imagined she could take care of the property all on her own. No wonder she appeared so agitated.

In one room a spider scuttled across his hand as he reached in and flicked on the light switch. Ash flinched, his flesh crawling at the tickling sensation. He watched the spider disappear into a hole in the skirting board. The light was dim, as it was throughout Edbrook, and he wondered why he hadn’t come upon this particular room before. Then he remembered it had previously been locked and, as the Mariells had alleged no ‘sightings’ inside, he had left it alone. Perhaps they had now left it open so that he could have full run of the house.

The furniture was covered in dust sheets and, above the mantel opposite, was a portrait of a man and a woman, both of them in formal evening dress. He had the eerie feeling of being under their inspection.

There was no doubting who the subjects were, for the woman bore an undeniable resemblance to Christina, although this woman’s countenance was less soft, her hair lighter in shade, dissimilar in style; but the eyes were the same, their hidden amusement skilfully captured by the artist, enigmatic in that they were not quite mocking, nor were they warm. They seemed to express an inner knowledge.

The man was altogether more austere, an older, more rigid, version of Robert. If there was humour in this person’s life, it had been kept well at bay at the time of the sitting. The stern features offered scant insight into the nature of the man.

Thomas and Isobel Mariell, deceased parents of Robert, Simon and Christina. Isobel, sister of Tessa Webb.

Their unflinching gaze made Ash uncomfortable. He turned off the light and closed the door.

As he walked back along the hallway, he was aware of the vapour of his own breath. He checked the nearest thermometer and found the reading very low. Nine degrees C. How cold did it have to get before the family switched on Edbrook’s antiquated heating system, or at least lit fires in the many hearths around their home?

He reached the library, entered. And was blinded by white light.

Ash cursed as his hands went to his stinging eyes, realizing he must have left on the capacitance change detector. A white sheet of film whirred from the Polaroid camera and dropped to the floor. The spools of the small tape recorder slowly revolved. Blinking his eyes rapidly and shielding them from another flash, he made his way towards the tripod-mounted camera. Another blank sheet emerged and landed by the previous one. Light flared again.

He fumbled for the button on the detector and discovered it was already off. Impossible! The machine couldn’t operate in that mode. He yanked out the connecting wire to the camera.

The flash once more, like sheet lightning. The whir of expelled film. The tape spools still turning.

‘Impossible!’ This time he said it aloud.

Blinding brightness yet again. In incredible succession. Film was spewing from the camera’s mouth. And he could hear the tapes as they spun faster.

Ash stumbled towards the plug socket, tripping over furniture as he went, unable to see for more than a second at a time. He crouched, reaching down, ready to pull the plug by its flex.

The flashes ceased. The last developing print fell from the camera. Tape snaked into a looping arc as the spools stopped dead. There was no sound in the room other than his own breathing.

Ash was stunned. It was inconceivable that the instrument should malfunction in such a way, that the camera, once disconnected, should operate on its own. Had there been some kind of power surge, enough to upset the delicate mechanism of the capacitance change detector? He glanced up at the dull light. He had noticed nothing as he’d entered the room, but perhaps the surge had happened just as the door opened, the camera flash instantly spoiling his vision. Yet the detector hadn’t been switched on. Had that mattered? Ash rose from his crouched position, baffled, but suspecting trickery of some sort.

He went to the scattered prints on which images were emerging like shapes from a mist. Bending down, he picked up two whose development was more advanced than the others; he examined them closely. One showed his figure in the doorway; in the other he was approaching the camera itself. He squatted to sift through the rest on the floor. The colours and shapes surfaced steadily so that he could see his own image growing larger in each shot, then smaller as he retreated towards the wall socket. Apart from the surrounds, that was all that the prints revealed.

Ash shuffled the photographs into a neat pile and slipped them into his jacket pocket. He left the library, confused, but without touching the equipment again. Closing the door behind him, he paused for a moment in the hallway and listened.

There were voices coming from somewhere. Hushed voices, little more than whispers.

‘Christina?’ he said loudly. ‘Miss Webb?’

Silence now.

He went to other doors, looked in, searching. They were all empty.

Ash climbed the stairs, taking the opposite direction to his own room when he reached the corridor. He stopped outside Christina’s bedroom and knocked softly. There was no response. He called her name, but still no reply came.

He went further along to mount a narrow set of stairs that twisted round to the floor above. In the distant past, the rooms up there must have been occupied by Edbrook’s servants, but he knew that this was now where the Mariells’ aunt had her living quarters. There were several doors along the rough-boarded corridor, and he tapped on each one. Again, he received no answer.

He stood there for a while, in that shadowy place, mystified. Apart from himself, the house appeared to be empty.

When he returned to the ground floor, his face was resolute. The Mariells were playing another of their stupid games, setting him up, trying to unnerve him, obviously an attempt to render his imagination more susceptible to . . . to what? What could be their purpose? Did they really believe they could frighten him again? Did they expect him to flee from the house, scared away by the inexplicable? To become a figure of scorn to others in his profession? He smiled grimly. It would take more than this family’s fun and games to do that.

On the last step he came to a halt. He listened intently.

One voice this time.

A tune being hummed.

That same melancholic tune he had heard from Christina earlier that day.

Ash took the last step into the hall and walked to its centre where he slowly turned a full circle in an attempt to get a bearing on the sound.

The cellar door was ajar. The voice drifted up from its depths.

Although his footsteps were soft as he approached the open doorway, the faint humming stopped.

He bent close to the gap, waiting, listening, a draught chilling his face. Nothing.

Ash pushed the door further open and felt inside for the light switch he knew was at the top of the cellar stairs. The light was poorer than before, casting even deeper shadows.

He descended, the wooden steps groaning under his weight.

Once at the bottom, he took in the broad, rough-bricked chamber, alcoves on one side dark and impenetrable, cobwebs clinging untidily from low rafters, covered furniture and broken statues scattered here and there. The smell of dankness and mould seemed stronger.

‘Christina, are you down here?’ His voice was controlled. It sounded hollow within the confines of the basement. Only silence greeted him.

It was difficult to restrain his anger. ‘If this is another silly bloody game . . .’

Somehow the silence was mocking.

He shivered, feeling the bitter cold. The thermometer hanging from a rack registered three degrees C. A quiet click made him turn. The camera’s motor wound the film on, Ash’s presence having been recorded. The shutter clicked again at his approach and he quickly switched it off. He noticed the tape recorder, positioned on a shelf along with a vibration detector, was running, and Ash wondered if he had set it in motion, or had someone else before him? He pressed REWIND.

As he waited, he lit a cigarette, the inhaled smoke a small comfort against the icy atmosphere. The tape reversed to a stop and he touched the PLAY button. For a second or two there was only a barely audible hissing, then he stiffened when he heard footsteps from the machine.

They grew louder, descending the steps. A pause. Ash wasn’t quite sure if he was relieved or disappointed to hear his own voice say: ‘Christina, are you down here?’