House of Shadows (17 page)

I pushed hard against the door and almost fell into the smelly, dark, seaweed-slippery porch of the building – if it could be called a building. There were holes in the roof, showing small beams of dull, fading light, and the windows were eroded and cracked by the rush of the water that must continually pound the glass.

‘Tom?' My voice was subdued in the sodden surroundings of the church. I walked cautiously along the isle towards the pulpit, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rising in fear. I don't know what I feared . . . Vampires, perhaps, or at least drowned sailors? But most of all my fear was for Tom. Was he still alive?

‘Tom!' I called more loudly, and I heard a small sound above my head.

‘Riana, over here.'

I could see Tom at the far end of the church; he was tied to one of the pillars! I hurried along the broken, rotting aisle and saw that he'd got his hands free, but was struggling to untie the rope around his feet.

‘Riana, we have to get out of here – and quick. It's going to be high tide tonight, and then the entire island will be under water – at least that's what one of the men who brought me here today said.'

I ran to him and managed, with difficulty, to untie the knots around his feet. He stood up and towered over me, and I
resisted the urge to fling myself into his arms.
Tom, please love me
, I thought – and could not tell if I had spoken those thoughts aloud.

TWENTY-ONE

T
he moon was just a pale shadow in among the misty clouds as I looked up through the holes in the roof of the building at the grey, threatening skies above. I realized I was clinging to Tom, kissing his cheeks, his eyelids, his luscious mouth. At last, he held me away, and I came out of my dream, realizing we were trapped in an old building with the water rising around us.

‘We have to get out of here.' Tom's tone was urgent as he held me away from him.

‘What's going on, Tom?' I asked. ‘Why were you taken here and tied up like a cat about to be drowned?'

‘No time for questions. We have to get away before the church is flooded.'

‘It's going to be all right.' I smiled at him, which was something of an effort because I was shivering with cold and damp and relief. ‘The man with the boat is coming back for me soon.'

‘If you believe that, you'll believe anything.'

‘You are being melodramatic,' I said. ‘Of course he'll come back. Why shouldn't he?'

‘They want me dead, that's why, and they don't care if you die too. You are a stranger who has poked her nose into things, and you'd be better out of the way.'

‘Who are these people, and why do they want you dead?' I said, almost disbelieving.

‘They think I know too much. As I said, there is no time for discussion, Riana. The tide is already creeping under the door. We've got to get away before it's too late.'

I hurried to the door and tried to push it open. It didn't budge. ‘It's stuck!'

My words were unnecessary, however, as Tom barged against the slime covered door with all his strength and it failed to open.

‘It's been nailed from the outside, probably with a strong beam across it. That must have been after you came in here. As I said, they don't care if you die too.' Tom looked up at the cracked windows. ‘That's our best bet. Come on, Riana, we have no time to waste.'

‘The river! How are we going to get across if it's in full tide?' I suddenly realized Tom was right; the situation was desperate. Someone wanted us out of the way!

Tom edged off one of his flying boots and began to strike at the glass with the heel. Water was already gushing up to my ankles; it wasn't a very high building, and the tide would soon reach us and be over our heads. The place was now almost pitch black, and it smelled of salt and seaweed and slime. I couldn't stop myself from shivering.

Tom was cursing under his breath in his honeyed American accent, and I resisted the desire to laugh hysterically. He kept hitting the glass, and at last it shattered outwards – like diamonds of light falling into the lapping sea.

Tom began to pull planks of wood from the benches in the gallery. ‘Good thing they're rotting. These were once good, strong wooden seats. I'd never have moved them then.' He gasped as he manhandled one of the planks towards the window. ‘Use this as a float,' he said, sliding the plank half out of the window.

I looked at the water outside. My feet and legs were already soaked, and the tide was beginning to lap at my waist. Soon it would be too late to get out at all. ‘I'll wait for you. Come with me, Tom.'

‘Go while you can.' Tom began to prize another plank from the benches, but the water was hampering him now. ‘Go!' he said commandingly. He hesitated and then took my face in his hands and kissed me soundly.

‘Go. Please, Riana, just go. Save me the pressure of worrying about you as well as myself. I think I must disappear for a while and let my enemies think I'm dead.'

‘All right, Tom.' Before I could lose my nerve, I decided he was right I would have to go. I kissed him on his lips; his mouth was cold, but I felt the warmth of his emotions as he hoisted me up and then gently pushed me out through the jagged gap and into the cold sharp air.

I slid the plank into the water and lay on the full length of it. My sweater got stuck on a point of glass and I struggled with it for a moment, and then I gasped as I was in the sea, driven by the rushing tide.

I was lucky. The fierce wind pushed me towards the bank, but as I almost reached safety – after what felt like a lifetime of horror – a wave pushed me off the plank, and I was submerged in the freezing cold muddy water. Fronds of weeds reached curling fingers towards me, but then thankfully another wave drove me towards the bank and I felt the ground under my feet.

Gasping, I hauled myself up out of the freezing water and lay there – panting for breath, soaked and shivering, and almost crying with worry and fear. I scrambled to my knees and looked for Tom on his makeshift raft, but the water had risen even further and was rushing recklessly towards the sea, with no sign of Tom on the boiling surface.

I waited, shivering, for over an hour. Perhaps Tom had come ashore further up the river, I told myself eventually. Perhaps even now he was waiting for me by the car. Hope gave me strength, and with my feet squelching at every step, I made my way back to where I'd left the car. I stopped when I could just see the spiral of the tower of the church, for the rest was under the water.

I began to cry, silent tears that ran unheeded down my freezing cheeks. A piece of seaweed hung from my hair, and I pulled the slimy strand off with a grimace of disgust. I shouted for Tom, but my voice was carried away on the wind.

TWENTY-TWO

M
y van was where I had left it. Clearly, no one had expected me to survive the floodwater at the church. I climbed inside, wet and shivering and crying with shock. At last, I managed to get home to Aberglasney – but without Tom.

Mrs Ward didn't say a word. She made me some hot sweet tea, and after my bath I changed into a fleecy nightgown and a warm woollen dressing gown and sat in my room, cup in my hand.

Tom had vanished, Rosie and her baby had vanished, and if that wasn't enough to worry about I hadn't sold a painting for some time. I would have to borrow from the bank to finance my next ghost-haunting weekend.

I started to plan the weekend to try to take my mind off Tom. Perhaps he'd been washed downriver? He'd talked about disappearing, and I felt sure in my heart he was still alive. He'd wanted his enemies to think he was dead. I must keep that in my mind, I told myself, and hope and pray that his problems would be resolved soon, and in the meantime I must immerse myself in my plans to make enough money to keep Aberglasney afloat – and that meant working on my ghost weekends.

I stayed in my bed for a few days, getting over a chill and trying to come to terms with my despair about Tom. But at last I knew I had to face life again – alone if necessary. So Mrs Ward and I went shopping together for food in the local market: meat, vegetables, fruit for puddings, cheese and biscuits, and bottles of wine that were cheap but looked good once their contents were poured into my decanters, which appeared like cut crystal in the gaslight. The villagers might scorn Mrs Ward for her past, and me for the present, but they took our money without a flinch.

Mrs Ward was busy setting the long table in the large hall for dinner on the first evening of our renewed ghost-haunting evenings. It was just before Christmas; the air outside was pure – crisp and cold – but inside the downstairs fires roared and flamed with warmth and welcome.

The old colonel was first to arrive, and then Miss Grist turned up, briefly. ‘I can't stay,' she said, staring round my empty hall with something like satisfaction. ‘Something unexpected has come up.'

The lanterns were lit along the drive and under the archway to the road, and as the car drove Miss Grist away I recognized the driver: it was the young man Colin, who'd come to my last weekend. I felt piqued. Why hadn't he attended my get-together this time? What business could he possibly have with Miss Grist?

The colonel had the answer. ‘I don't like to tell you, my dear,' he said and coughed a little, ‘but another ghost hunt has been arranged, at a much reduced price to yours, and we were all circulated with letters of invitation. Someone has clearly got hold of your guest list, my dear.'

And I knew full well who that person was. ‘Miss Grist,' I said bleakly. ‘She's taken my list and used it for her own ends. Where is this ghost hunt taking place, colonel?'

‘It's in an old castle. A huge place in a large park. The grounds are extensive, and the guests will not be fed or given any sort of hospitality, but the ghost of a royal duke is reputed to haunt the ruins at this time of year. Apparently, this ghost carries his head underneath his arm. Sounds a bit phoney to me.'

‘Thank you for your loyalty, colonel.' I sat at the empty table and thought of all the food we had prepared. In bed that night I cried until I was weary, and I fell asleep knowing I was more in debt, I'd been deserted by people I thought were loyal guests, if not friends, and – worst of all – Tom still hadn't come back and I didn't know if he was alive or drowned beneath the waters of the huge river under the hills.

In the early thin light of the winter's morning, to my surprise cars began to arrive. My guests – full of apologies – begged to be given shelter and food, and Mr Bravage took me aside and told me what a miserable night they'd had at the castle. ‘Frauds!' he said. ‘The people were charlatans. They must have thought we were all idiots to believe such an obvious fake.'

‘Why, didn't you see the ghost with no head then?' I was trying not to laugh; even saying the words sounded silly.

‘Ghost, indeed. You could see at once it was no ghost. The man had his head hidden in a specially adapted coat, and as for the “head” it was that of a plaster mannequin, any fool could see that.' He shook his head. ‘A man of my experience, being tricked like that . . . but then I was suspicious when I saw the “ghost”. I've been a doctor too long to be fooled by a fake. I ran up the stairs, wrestled with the head, and when it came off I threw it down the stone steps and the wig fell off – and the nose too. Oh, and one ear!'

‘A bit like Van Gogh then?'

‘Eh?' Mr Bravage looked puzzled for a moment, and then he laughed. ‘Oh, I see. The artist chappie who cut off his ear!'

‘Did you see Miss Grist from the library there, Mr Bravage?'

‘Who? Sorry, I don't know of the lady. Can't help you there, I'm afraid. Oh, she did sign the letter of invitation though. A Miss Grist, you say? Yes, I remember now, that was the lady. She sounded very forbidding too. Not the sort to have a jolly good weekend, with ghosts or no ghosts.'

In the kitchen, Mrs Ward already had the pots steaming on the stove. She looked brighter than she'd done since Rosie disappeared. ‘I like it when the house is full,' she said, confirming my hope that she had nothing to do with the list and the other ghost night, and I returned her cheery smile, feeling better myself.

Tom would come back when he was ready, when he'd sorted whatever it was his problem was – I was sure of it. Rosie and the baby would be found safe and well, living with a good-natured man who would take care of her, and I would soon be able to paint again. Already, I had my guests back. Miss Grist's scheme to steal them away from me had failed, and her ‘ghost' had been exposed as a fraud.

At least my ghosts were not trickery or deception on my part. Of course, there must be a natural explanation for the lights and the noises from upstairs – the moonlight, and the wind rattling the old house – but nothing
I'd
faked.
Except Beatrice
, a voice whispered in my head. But then I was just withholding the truth about Beatrice. She had once owned the house, and now still felt she had the run of the place. I knew she was tied to it by her dead husband, but it was strange that
he
never seemed to haunt the old house!

We had a jolly – if quiet – weekend, and though my guests drank a lot of mulled wine, and at midnight we ate the delicious mince pies Mrs Ward had made, no ghost or noises or lights bothered us – much to the disappointment of the ghost hunters.

It was almost dawn when the quiet was disturbed by a cry and a series of thumps, and I hurriedly pulled on my warm woollen dressing gown and hurried on to the landing, only to see that the colonel was crumpled at the bottom of the stairs! He was moaning and holding his side, but at least he was alive. I ran to him and knelt down. ‘What's happened? Have you had a fall, Colonel Fred?'

‘I've had a push, not a fall,' Colonel Fred said indignantly, ‘and it was no ghost. It was a human hand I felt in the small of my back. Pushing with some strength, I may tell you!'