Poison Heart (17 page)

I frowned. ‘What sort of help?’

‘The sort that cannot reside in a sacred place.’

The interview was at an end. We were practically pushed out of the back door into the cold night air, but something had stuck in my mind. I took a step back and managed to wedge my foot in the door frame to stop it closing.

‘The children’s home,’ I whispered. ‘Did it have a name?’

The eyes that gazed into mine were dull and lifeless. The lips barely moved and I heard just one word that was almost a sigh: ‘Martinwood.’

Luke and I made our way to the bottom of the long garden and scrambled through a hole in the fence in the darkness. My shirt ripped and twigs buried themselves in my hair but I pressed on, desperate to be back in Luke’s car. The minute he opened the door I jumped inside and curled into a ball with each hand inside the opposite sleeve of my jacket to keep warm.

As we both stared straight ahead I scrunched my face up with regret. ‘We should have asked Genevieve’s real surname.’

‘Want to go back?’ Luke laughed.

I shook my head. ‘Not likely.’

His voice was wearily scornful. ‘These people are so
superstitious and ignorant. She might as well have said that Grace was in league with the Devil. Did you get what you came for, Kat?’

‘Kind of … but we’ve still got no proof … The vicar’s wife won’t repeat anything she told us.’

‘Probably not,’ Luke replied.

My teeth began to chatter gently. ‘What did you think of the house?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a typical vicarage – big, draughty, ancient and full of damp. Why? Did you see a ghost?’

‘I’ve … been there before,’ I answered hesitantly.

‘When you were little, Kat?’

I was suddenly glad of the dark to hide behind. ‘No … only in my dreams.’

Luke laughed. ‘We all have nightmares about spooky places.’

I shook my head and turned my face towards him. ‘Not like this. I’ve been climbing that staircase my whole life.’

We were so late already that I figured another half an hour wouldn’t make much difference to our journey. I asked Luke if he could make a small detour to the village of Appleby because it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. He didn’t even seem surprised or ask me why. I think we were both shell-shocked at the way the day had unfolded, and we had closed down, each lost in our own thoughts. It was no more than ten minutes away, but I made a mental note to offer Luke extra petrol money, though he was sure to refuse it. The roads were narrow and the traffic scarce although it was only 9 p.m. I wondered what everyone here did on a Saturday night, apart from stay indoors and watch TV.

Luke headed for the main street, which ran alongside the market square. I could see benches positioned around a small fountain and a war memorial with several wreaths laid at its base. There were only two other stationary cars so he was able to park easily. I noticed a light on in the
pub, but everywhere else was deserted and in darkness. Luke switched off his headlights, sat quietly and waited for my instruction. He seemed content to be part of a magical mystery tour. I opened my door without speaking and he followed me out of the car with only a small nod of acknowledgement. It felt good having him as
my
captive audience for a change.

With a sly smile I led him towards the church of St Mary, walking slightly in front with an affected little wave of my hand. There was a hawthorn tree guarding the entrance, twisted and bare without its leaves. It reminded me of a gnarled hand reaching up to the sky in some kind of entreaty. There was a padlock on the gate and I gestured to Luke that we’d have to climb over the wall. He waited for me to go first and gave me a leg-up. I heaved myself on to the parapet without realizing how sharp the decorative stone was and managed to become stuck, rocking forwards and backwards like a stranded porpoise. Luke had to vault over and gently help me down, catching me as I fell. I rubbed my stomach in pain, annoyed at my own clumsiness.

It was lucky that the church was tucked away out of sight because I didn’t think the local residents would be pleased with us mooching around the grounds after dark. I quickly left the pathway and began walking among the graves. The ground was springy with bracken interspersed with hard acorns that felt like small pebbles underfoot. Spiky green cases were strewn around, empty of their shiny russet conkers, and rotting crab apples stuck to my shoes. A
small light positioned above a buttress of the church helped to guide our way.

‘There’s a full moon,’ Luke said, craning his neck upward. ‘And we’re in the middle of a very old graveyard miles from home. Should I be worried?’

‘I need to find Greta Alice Edwards,’ I told him simply.

I could just make out Luke’s expression and he seemed vaguely bemused but not annoyed. ‘I assume she’s dead. What date did she die?’

‘Er … 1691. Born in 1675.’

He laughed gently. ‘You won’t find her here, Kat. Look around you.’

I looked from one headstone to other, my brow furrowed, but still I didn’t understand. It was only when Luke used his finger as a marker to draw a line under the births and deaths that his meaning filtered through. The earliest dated from 1820.

‘But … she
was
here,’ I told him. ‘At one time.’

‘She might still be,’ Luke replied gently, ‘but after so many years they run out of space and have to … well … reuse the plot.’

‘So they … bury someone else there,’ I asked incredulously, ‘and take away the headstone?’

He nodded apologetically, as if he was somehow personally responsible. ‘Or worse, Kat. The graves are cleared and the remains stacked in a charnel house to allow for more burials.’

‘What’s a charnel house?’

‘A place to store dug-up bones,’ he answered bluntly.

The idea seemed incredible, but there was no reason to disbelieve Luke, and he was a mine of surprising information. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Why would you know? It’s not the kind of topic people discuss.’

‘So … another dead end,’ I groaned. ‘I was hoping for some sort of sign … I don’t know what … but something significant.’

‘Are you going to tell me who she is, Kat, or do I have to guess?’

I looked far away into the distance, breathing in the woody smell of pine cones mixed with moist earth. I didn’t know whether it was the beautiful moonlit night or because Luke seemed more approachable than usual, but I didn’t even attempt to modify my supernatural tale. Laying myself open to complete ridicule, I filled him in on the background to the story of Thomas Winter, my voice barely above a whisper because every sound seemed magnified here.

‘You did that all on your own?’ He sounded genuinely impressed.

‘Well … Mum gave me some ideas,’ I admitted.

‘And this guy made up the spooky tale to enthral everyone?’

My cheeks filled with air like a gargoyle’s until I blew out again. ‘Seems so.’

‘But …
you
can’t think so, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’

Luke could read me so well that it was impossible to hide things from him.

‘When I read his account … I was certain he was telling the truth.’

‘Because you felt it in your bones,’ he teased.

I studied his face in the velvet darkness as I prepared to drop the latest bombshell. ‘There’s something else … a link I only just discovered tonight. The vicar’s wife said that Genevieve’s children’s home was actually “Martinwood”, the same haunted house Thomas Winter wrote about.’

Luke cracked his knuckles, which sounded like someone stepping on twigs and always made me cringe. ‘OK, then. Tell me your theory,’ he encouraged.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud as I began speaking, and it helped that I could no longer see Luke’s face. ‘I think that everything in Thomas Winter’s column was true,’ I began earnestly, ‘and he retracted his story because something … well … happened.’

‘Something or someone,’ Luke hissed, and blew on the back of my neck, making me jump into the air.

‘OK … someone,’ I agreed. ‘Martinwood is the link between Greta the witch and Genevieve.’

Luke began to splutter as he realized what I meant. ‘You don’t mean that Genevieve and Greta … they’re the same?’

‘Maybe,’ I muttered defensively. ‘And after Thomas disturbed all the … er … devices to protect the house, the evil was kind of … unleashed, and she came for him …’

‘And held him prisoner until he retracted his story,’ Luke chortled.

I moved my eyebrows up and down, and put on a spooky voice. ‘Mysterious and destructive happenings follow in Genevieve’s wake …’

‘It has to come back to Genevieve, doesn’t it?’ Luke commented sadly. ‘You just can’t shake her off.’

I paused for a moment. ‘Maybe … she really does know me from somewhere.’

‘You never met her until she joined your college, Kat.’

I put on a low, portentous voice. ‘Maybe not in this life.’

Luke made a noise somewhere between a groan and a guffaw.

‘OK then,’ I challenged, ‘how is it I recognize places I’ve never been and have this weird déjà-vu feeling around Genevieve?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But … if history is repeating itself and the witch has returned to continue her 300-year-old search, or vendetta … then you don’t have long to worry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she died at the age of sixteen.’

This hadn’t occurred to me before. I clammed up and chewed my lip thoughtfully.

‘Kat Rivers,’ Luke said with mock exasperation, ‘you’re so infuriating, maddeningly wilful and … completely bonkers.’

I wasn’t offended and laughed softly. I scrunched up my face and sucked in some more of the outdoor aroma. I could detect lingering woodsmoke and noticed a pile of leaves and brush in one corner with a rake still beside them.

‘It feels like we’re the only two people in the world tonight,’ I said with wonder. ‘Isn’t this the strangest place? I know there’s a wall, but if you look into the distance the graveyard seems to extend forever … right into the wood.’

‘Just an optical illusion,’ Luke murmured.

‘And this church has been here since the twelfth century. Imagine what it’s seen.’

He grinned. ‘Not sure I want to.’

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood up. ‘Luke, what was that? I heard voices.’

He grabbed my hand and we ducked down and made our way towards the far wall of the graveyard, which was covered in climbing ivy and other creepers. There definitely were voices, sounding loud and strident, which indicated that we’d been spotted. I thought I heard the gate opening and footsteps coming our way. My heart was thumping so loudly it must surely have been audible.

Luke will sort it out, I told myself. It’s not as if we’re doing any damage. He can talk his way out of anything. There was a definite rustling now and it seemed to be coming from all sides, which meant we would soon be surrounded. The moment when we’d have to explain ourselves was getting closer, and I gave Luke a jittery, worried glance. He closed his eyes and tensed up as if he was about to jump
into action. The last thing I expected was for him to lunge forward, put both arms tightly around me and sucker his lips to mine.

‘Pretend to enjoy it,’ I think he whispered.

It wasn’t just a peck, but a long, lingering, searching kiss that I couldn’t help but respond to. My lips automatically parted, my head tilted to one side and my hands reached for his neck. One of us was even moaning slightly, and I was horrified that it might be me. Kissing Luke felt so normal that this was scary in itself. We stayed this way for at least five minutes until I heard a deep voice laugh. ‘Just love-struck kids. Leave them be.’ Footsteps moved away and then there was silence.

I finally summoned the strength to push Luke away and sank to the ground to get my breath back and stop my knees trembling.

‘Sorry about that, Kat,’ he announced breezily. ‘It’s what they always do in the movies when they’re trying to escape attention, and it seemed to work this time.’

‘Good idea,’ I panted, unable to look at him.

‘You look so freaked,’ he laughed. ‘I was a bit jumpy myself, but we got away with it.’

I stayed on the ground, still trying to compose myself, unsure which had affected me more – the threat of irate villagers or Luke’s kiss. For support, I rested my hand on a piece of stone about a metre from the wall. It was only when I rose that I noticed worn lettering among lichen spores and overgrown foliage. It must be an old gravestone that had
sunk into the soft earth at an angle, leaving a wedge shape sticking up.

‘Wow, look at this.’

I sank on to my haunches and Luke did the same.

‘Can you decipher the name?’ I asked him.

He shook his head and looked at me pointedly. ‘Only the letter G is visible, Kat, but don’t read anything into that.’

‘There’s a number though,’ I said triumphantly, tracing my finger across the worn sandstone. ‘A number one and … a six. This grave dates from the sixteen hundreds. This is one person who
wasn’t
dug up.’

‘You might be right,’ Luke responded, ‘but I’ve found something more interesting. Look at this.’

He moved aside one of the trailing plants and I could see the shape of a hand clearly chiselled into the stone.

‘What is it? I mean, it’s obviously a hand, but what does that mean?’

Luke stood up and cupped his hands around his face with a pained expression. ‘I’ve seen it before. I’m trying to remember.’

I stayed silent as he paced about, kicking his heels against the bricks. He eventually punched his fist in the air triumphantly.

‘I never forget a story. It was Halloween when I read about it – all the crazy ghost tales surface then – and this was about a cemetery somewhere in the Midlands that showed carvings of hands and feet. The locals say they’re
the mark of a witch, and the belief is that whoever can fit their own hand or foot into the imprint will come to serious misfortune.’

‘And you believe that?’ I asked with an involuntary shiver, quickly moving my hand away in case it followed the same lines as the carving.

‘Of course not, but … it could explain why Thomas retracted his story. If the grave was discovered, together with his findings, hordes of ghost and witch hunters would descend on the village.’