Haunted (23 page)

Even the house, even Edbrook, seemed strangely quiescent.

Ash was aware of all this, though his thoughts were directed inwards and were of the night before. He saw Christina, pure and beautifully white in her nakedness, dark hair loose around her face, her shoulders, the longest strands falling against the rise of her breasts. He touched her again in his mind and remembered her sensual response; again he felt her moistness, sensed her pleasured shudder.

Ash turned from the window and sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, his face pressed into his hands. Where had she gone? Why had Christina left him in the middle of the night?

He dressed slowly, without washing first – somehow the thought of cleansing himself never even entered his head. At the door he paused, hand resting on the handle. He waited there and wondered why he was reluctant to go out into the corridor. Ash realized that the very stillness of the house was unnerving him, for it seemed to hold a brooding quality, as though the timbers, the mortar, the house’s
essence
, were waiting . . . For what? He was annoyed at himself. David Ash, the ultimate pragmatist, was now indulging in fantasy, and a foolish one at that. Edbrook was just a house. No more than that. With a tragic history, to be sure, and one so strong that possibly it could still project its image long after the event. But that had little to do with haunting in the truest sense. There were no ghosts here, no spectres, nor spirits, to bother the living. Perhaps Edbrook entertained trickery though.

With that thought in mind, the investigator pulled open the door.

The corridor was empty, and he hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. That was the eerie thing – the house itself felt empty. Empty of life. Yet still . . . pensive.

Ash went along the dim corridor, passing the galleried stairway, glancing over into the well of the hallway as he did so. The very air inside Edbrook seemed heavy, aged. Perhaps the atmosphere had more to do with his own condition than actuality, for the previous night’s trauma –
and
that of the first night – had left him weary and depressed. Even though he had slept most of the day away, there was a lassitude to his step and a muzziness inside his head that was difficult to dismiss.

He reached Christina’s room and tapped lightly on the door. There was no reply. Ash didn’t bother to knock again: he entered.

He stood at the doorway, mouth open slightly, his gaze roving.

There was nothing unusual about Christina’s bedroom. The bed, with its brass head and foot rail, was neatly made, its feather quilt barely ruffled. Ornaments on old furniture were arranged tidily. Patterned curtains were tied back with splendid bows, decorative net diffusing the window light.

Nothing unusual about the room, except . . .

. . . Except that everything was too orderly – no magazines or books, no clothing, night attire or otherwise, lay scattered or draped over chairs – and everything was dulled, faded. As if the room and its contents were tempered by dust.

There was no vibrancy here, no indication of occupancy. Christina’s bedroom had all the vitality of an unattended museum.

Resting on a bureau beneath an oval mirror were two silver-framed photographs and Ash moved closer to examine them. He picked up one and wiped dust from its glass: he recognized the sepia-toned couple from the portrait he had come upon the night before. Christina’s parents, in formal pose, smiled frozenly and somewhat bleakly for the camera. The group in the second photograph, which had obviously been taken in more recent times, was the Mariell offspring. He was about to pick it up when he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror, a light screen of dirt weakening the image; even so, he could discern the puffiness beneath his eyes, the darkness of his stubbled chin. Disconcerted, Ash moved away, brushing fingers through his tousled hair in token gesture of grooming.

He touched the bed, not knowing why (but perhaps in the way someone might caress their absent lover’s clothing in surrogate intimacy), trailing his fingertips across the padded quilt. The material felt stiffened, its softness somehow brittle.

Leaving the bedroom, Ash went back to the stairway and descended hurriedly, anxious now and disturbed by the unnaturalness of the silence around him. He went from room to room, checking for any broken seals or powdered footprints before entering, and inside switching off detectors triggered by his own appearance.

With considerable trepidation, he approached the cellar, and it was from the top step that he checked for fire damage. Apart from the lumpy dust cover, beneath which lay the shattered brandy bottle, there was no evidence of anything having happened down there: no blackened walls, no charred timbers, no lingering stench of smoke. It had all been an illusion. The files at the Psychical Research Institute were full of such. Ash was not sure whether he felt relief or dismay.

From the cellar he walked down the hallway to the kitchen and here he stopped before going through. There were noises coming from inside. Faint sounds. A scratching.

The door was ajar and Ash pushed it further open with the flat of his hand, the pressure soft, cautious.

The mice on the kitchen table were unaware of his presence until the door came to the end of its slow swinging arc to bump against a unit behind. The tiny creatures scuttled without even bothering to glance at the intruder, some leaping onto a chair pushed in at the table, others running down (impossibly it seemed) the table’s legs.

Ash felt his skin crawl at the sight of them, with their furry bodies and trailing worm-like tails. There had been perhaps a half-dozen on the table top, but there might well have been hundreds such was the nauseating effect on him. The ravaged bread – half a loaf, a grey-bladed knife lying nearby – they had feasted upon was pockmarked with black mould. The sight of it, together with the after-image of those busy creatures smothering its surface, set Ash’s stomach to heaving.

He headed for the sink, hoping, although at that moment not caring too much, he wouldn’t step on one of those tiny fleeing bodies. It was bile only, and not undigested food, that spattered the backs of two cockroaches in the sink, and he shrank away, swallowing back the sour juices that continued to rise.
Dear God, the place was filthy! What had happened overnight at Edbrook?
Of course, even if the question had been voiced and was not just a yell inside his head, there appeared to be no one around to answer him. He reached for the tap and twisted the old-fashioned cross head. Brown water spurted and clunked in the pipes like caught metal before running smoothly and becoming clear. The black beetles swilled around with his bile, their thread-legs frantic paddles. He turned off the tap and walked away from the sink, trusting the subsequent whirlpool to suck them away.

The back door was unlocked and he stepped outside, relieved to be in the open, wintry though it was. He wiped the wetness from his lips and chin with the back of his hand and took in deep gulps of air, some of his tiredness instantly vanishing. He shivered with the cold and then, almost desperately, he called Christina’s name.

Had he really expected an answer? Ash couldn’t be sure. Nevertheless, he called again.

He listened to the silence.

From the terrace overlooking the gardens, he cupped both hands around the circle of his mouth.

‘
Chriiistiiinaaa . . .!
’

Once more he called, but with less effort this time, and with little heart.

Christina had left Edbrook. And so too, it seemed, had Nanny Tess. Ash was alone, and he wondered why he so foolishly imagined that the decaying house behind him was gloating.

The red Fiesta eased itself cautiously into the motorway’s traffic flow, headed in a north-westerly direction, picking up speed quickly as if joyous to be free finally of the congested city streets.

But there was no joy on the face of the bright vehicle’s sole occupant. And it was not wariness of speeding juggernauts that caused Edith Phipps to grip the steering wheel so tightly.

Ash pulled on his overcoat as he walked along the corridor towards the stairs, not even taking time to close the bedroom door after him. He descended swiftly, wanting to be clear of this place, this empty abode whose brooding gloom oppressed the spirit. The sharp air outside had done something at least to shake off his lethargy and his intention now was to move fast before the reviving effect waned.

At the bottom of the stairs he hesitated. He looked back along the hallway at the black monstrosity of a telephone. One more try, he decided. Nothing to lose save a few seconds. He went to the instrument and lifted the heavy receiver to his ear. It was hardly a smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. The phone was dead, as he knew it would be.

He dropped the receiver the last couple of inches onto its cradle, then wiped dust from his hand with the sleeve of his coat.

His footsteps clattered on the wood floor as he hastily made his way to Edbrook’s entrance. Ash opened one half of the double-door, stepped through, and descended the three stone steps outside scarcely breaking stride.

He tugged the collar of his coat upright, folding a lapel across his chest to ward off the chill breeze. His feet crunched noisily against the gravel of the pitted drive.

So dangerously close did the articulated lorry sweep by the Fiesta that Edith was afraid she and her vehicle might be sucked beneath its huge wheels. As it was, the slipstream of the giant’s wake buffeted the car so that her hands had to grip the steering wheel even more tightly to keep control.

A glance in her wing mirror told her the lorry had its junior cohorts close behind, vehicles whose drivers’ patience had probably been discarded the moment their machines’ wheels had touched three-lane concrete. She checked her own speed. Fifteen below the limit. Perhaps the fault was hers, then. Still, she wasn’t alone at 55 mph. ‘And just look at us,’ she mumbled scornfully, ‘bunched together like a convoy of hearses.’ A cheerless simile – and how it suited her mood. Why this awful debilitating dread, Edith? Why this irrational fear for David? Impossible to answer. ‘Second’ sight did not mean ‘clear’ sight. Mostly there were only feelings, intuitions; but oh, this was so
strong
, so overwhelmingly
strong
! And it came from David himself. He was the link. It was as if the poor man were sending out a distress signal. But it was blurred, so confused . . .

Her foot touched the brake as she realized she was mere yards away from the car in front.

Calm yourself, she ordered. Whatever was wrong, whatever was going on at this house called Edbrook, she would be of no use to David if her body were splattered across the motorway. Good Lord, such morbid thoughts! And bad for you, Edith, she admonished. Very,
very
bad for you.

Edith risked looking down at the road-map book lying open on the passenger seat. She did not want to miss the motorway exit and the road which would lead to another road, which would lead her to yet another road, which would eventually lead her to the Ravenmoor area.

Watchful of the way ahead again, she shifted the two letters obscuring the relevant map page, letters signed by Miss T. Webb, then quickly checked the correct exit number.

‘A long way yet,’ she murmured to herself, and flinched as another lorry thundered by.

Once inside the telephone box, Ash gave himself time to recover his breath before ringing the Institute. At least the walk from Edbrook along the country lanes had cleared his head. He felt sharper, and somehow more vigorous despite the hike; perhaps all he had needed to throw off the mental tiredness was fresh air and brisk exercise. He blamed the house itself, with all its staleness and dismal light for his earlier condition. And the traumas of the past couple of nights, he reminded himself. The Mariells were playing games with him, trying to discredit him, and he didn’t know why. Did he care? Did he really give a damn about what they were up to? Curiously, he did. What he wasn’t sure of, though, was whether he cared
enough
. They disturbed him, the Mariells; and perversely, he had to admit, they fascinated him. Especially Christina. Last night . . .

He stopped himself. He needed some sanity brought into the situation, some direction. He needed to talk to McCarrick; solid, sensible and logical Kate.

Ash dug deep into his pockets. He swore when he brought out pennies only.

He pushed open the heavy door and stepped out onto the grass. He looked behind him, back down the lane towards Edbrook.