Stillwater (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

By the time Beth rolled into the office carrying a tray with two mugs, Miranda was reading the last page. Beside her was a large yellow legal pad filled with scribbled notes. That was her usual way of working. She liked to take a physical record of her thoughts as she was reading. Then she would habitually break them down into bullet points she could discuss with the author. If there was a query she had her handwritten pages to flesh out the details.

“Well?” Beth said, as she set the tray down on the desk.

Miranda reached for her bag and took out her cigarettes and lighter. “This smoking ban is ridiculous. How am I supposed to think without a fix?”

“Go ahead,” Beth said. “I'm sure one cigarette won't hurt—either you
or
the house. I might even join you.”

Miranda looked aghast. “You?”

“Why the hell not? I used to do twenty a day when I was at uni…and that was just tobacco. I've become very dull lately. I want to start living a little.”
May as well have a few vices now I can't do things like I used to.

Miranda took two cigarettes from the pack and stuck them between her lips, lighting them both with a red plastic disposable lighter. She handed one cigarette to Beth.

“Sure?”

“The book?” Beth said. “Well?”

“It's different,” Miranda said. The word hung in the air. Neither praise nor criticism.

Beth stared at her for a long moment. “Different?”

“If I didn't know you'd written it I wouldn't have guessed it was you. It's much darker than you've written before. Are you going to elaborate on the supernatural element of the story, or is it just a plot device?”

“You don't like it?” Beth angrily blew smoke into the air. “I'm right, aren't I? You don't like it.”

Miranda shook her head, dislodging the ash from the end of her cigarette. The ash dropped onto her cream shirt. She flicked it away impatiently. “I'm not saying that. The writing is up to your usual superb standard. I'm just a little taken aback by the plot. I'd been expecting a love story.”

“It
is
a love story,” Beth protested. It wasn't
her
love story but it was someone's.

“A man is madly in love with a woman. Loses her in a horrible accident but carries on the love affair with her ghost. I mean, it worked for Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, but will your readers accept it? It's not exactly a laugh a minute is it?”

“I'm trying something a little different, that's all.”

Miranda said nothing, and the silence between them started to crackle with tension. Beth sucked hungrily on the cigarette. It tasted foul, but it was giving her a small buzz, making her feel slightly light-headed. Maybe she'd drive into town later and buy herself a packet.

“I'm finished here,” Derek Clarke said from the doorway.

Beth wheeled away from the desk, stubbing the cigarette out in a small brass dish that once contained paper clips, but was now being utilized as a makeshift ashtray. The paper clips sat on the desk in an untidy pile.

“So it's all fixed?” Beth said. The reality of what Clarke had been doing hit her.

“Well. The water's running away okay now the…er…blockage has been cleared.”

“And the
blockage
itself?” It wasn't his fault, but she felt a cruel anger overtake her.

“Dealt with,” he said. “You can see the grave from the back door, just in case—”

“That's great,” Beth said quickly, cutting him off. “Just great. How much do I owe you?”

“No, nothing. Jimmy asked me to pass my bill on to him. Falmer's will take care of it.”

Beth reached out and touched his forearm affectionately. “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for burying…” Her voice trailed off.

“Happy to oblige,” he said awkwardly. “Well, must be off.”

Beth accompanied him to the back door to see him off.

As he walked to his car she looked beyond him to the small mound of freshly dug earth. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. There was nothing she could do but accept that her cat, her companion, was gone. She was going to miss Teddy; one more lousy kick from life. Once Miranda went home it would be just her. Her and the chair. A constant companion.

As Clarke climbed in behind the wheel and closed the car door, she spun 180 degrees and went back inside.

“Do you want to take a closer look?” Miranda said.

“At what?”

Miranda nodded her head in the generally vague direction of the garden. “The grave.”

Beth shook her head, and took and lit another cigarette.

Miranda picked up her notes. “I can go with you, if you like.”

“Another time. Let's carry on with the new book.”

Miranda lit another cigarette for herself. “Perhaps it just took me by surprise. I mean you're known as a romantic novelist.'

“And this is a love story. Trust me.”

Miranda sighed. “I know when I'm beaten. I
do
trust you. The writing is great so let's wait and see how it turns out.”

“It's pouring out of me. It's as if the story has possessed me…”

“Careful or you'll start sounding like the peace and quiet has gone to your head.”

Beth laughed, though it was a bit strained. “In a way it has.”

Miranda hadn't stayed long after the departure of the plumber. There were contracts to pore over and finally sign, a small discussion about possible casting for the series, even though they both agreed, it was pie in the sky. Beth wouldn't have that much clout to influence such things. But it was an interesting and amusing diversion that took her mind away from dwelling too much on the horrible and lonely death of Teddy. It helped to move her attention away from the fact that clearly Miranda was worried about the book she was writing.

By four o'clock Miranda was hitting the road again, heading back to London, where she had a publisher's party to attend. Now Beth was alone, the evening was creeping into night. The house seemed very empty, and loneliness was starting to flatten her mood, taking the edge off the excitement she was feeling about
Mirror Ball
's transatlantic success.

By nine o'clock she was in bed, reading a novel and not taking in a word of it. She yawned, reached over and switched off the light. The darkness came rushing at her. Until her eyes adjusted, the blackness was absolute and oppressive, and she nearly switched the light back on. She resisted the temptation, telling herself she was being foolish but, as the seconds ticked by, the oppressive feeling increased, smothering her. The vision of the woman in the bathroom, staring down at her as she was drowning, was vivid in her mind, the expression of complete disinterest on the woman's face mocking her and making her feel vulnerable.

Another few minutes rolled by and she stared across at the bedroom window. A few stray fingers of silver moonlight were streaking the blackness, and in the room she was able to make out the shape of the wardrobe and chest of drawers. It wasn't ideal—it wasn't light enough. There were still far too many shadows in the room, and within them more shadows still, blacker, impenetrable.

She adjusted her breathing, forcing herself to take slow and steady breaths. Gradually she started to relax, her heart rate slowing to somewhere near normal. She felt sleep approaching behind her eyelids, and she relaxed, ready to embrace it.

Then she heard it. At first it sounded like the wind blowing some loose tiles on the roof. But then she realized it was a much softer sound than that. It may have been coming from outside her bedroom door. She listened. No, she was wrong. It came from upstairs.

It sounded like a woman crying. Not sobbing, not frightened, more persistent, resigned. It was a continuous weeping, quietly personal.

Beth tried to rise from the bed but she was too tired. The crying subsided, as if her movement had been heard. Beth lay back down and despite trying to keep them open, her eyes began to close.

As she started to drift, she heard a noise from outside her bedroom window: the unmistakable meow of a cat.
Have to let him in
, she thought.
Can't leave him out there all night
.

She tried to rouse herself, and shake off the seductive embrace of sleep, but it held her tightly, pulling her deeper and deeper down into a netherworld where Teddy was still alive, out there in the dark of the night, crying outside her window to be let in. “I'm coming,” she mumbled, without opening her eyes, but her body refused to move. The best she could manage was to lift her arm an inch from the bed, and flick her hand toward the window. And then she was gone, drifting away on the placid black lake of slumber.

Chapter Thirteen

“
Beth! Wake up!
”

The voice was strident. Insistent.

Her eyes flicked open. A gray dawn light filled the room, driving out the darkness. She scanned the room. It was empty. So was the voice all part of her dream?

She tried to recapture it, but the dream was elusive. Every time she recalled an image it skittered away to be replaced by another. And the situation? She was back in London, strolling across the rolling green of Hyde Park, heading down to the Serpentine where a crowd was gathering. They were standing on the bank of the river, watching as a car was hauled from the water by a massive truck that held a crane.

Water poured from the car, from the closed door, the partly opened windows, and was flooding from the trunk. It was
her
car, a green Peugeot 207, the side of it a tangle of twisted metal and scoured paintwork.

But that never happened
, the rational side of her brain shouted. There was no water involved in her life-changing accident. It happened on a busy street with shops and pedestrians. So why was her subconscious drawing parallels with the tragedy at Stillwater, linking the two unrelated events?

“
Because your accident brought you closer to me
.” The same voice she'd heard before whispered in her ear. “
Help me, Beth. Help me.
”

“Help you, how?” Beth answered.

“
Help me.
” The voice was growing fainter—diminishing, fading away.

“How? How can I help you?”

Silence.

But how could Beth help her? Jessica had drowned fifteen years ago. Wait. Was it Jessica?

As she lay there, she strained her senses, waiting for the voice to return; willing it to come back, to prove it wasn't just her dream-addled mind imagining it. From somewhere in the house she heard a door close, the unmistakable click of a catch engaging, followed by footsteps padding across the wooden floor. Outside her door the footfalls paused, as if someone was standing beyond her bedroom door, waiting for her to call out a challenge, or perhaps just listening to her breathing.

She drew in a breath and held it.

After a few moments the footsteps sounded again, moving away from her room. And seconds later came the creak of boards as someone…or something…ascended the stairs to the floor above.

She stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before getting herself out of bed, and into her wheelchair.

Once out of her bedroom, she rolled across the floor to the foot of the stairs. From above she could hear muffled voices. She couldn't distinguish the words but from the cadences she could tell they were in conflict. For a full five minutes she sat listening, before a door slammed and more footsteps, running this time, were heading along the upper landing toward the stairs. She weighed up the consequences of meeting one of the combatants head on, but as the footsteps drew nearer, she retreated, back to her bedroom, withdrawal seeming the wisest course of action.

She sat behind the closed bedroom door, her curiosity piqued, and chided herself for her lack of courage.

The owner of the footfalls retraced their steps, and a few moments later she heard the front door open and slam shut.

The slamming of the closing door was a full stop, an end to the conflict as well as an end to the noises. It was as if a heavy blanket had been thrown over the house; all sounds cut off. Even her breathing sounded muffled.

She counted to one hundred, and then opened the bedroom door and moved outside, back to the staircase. She stared up at the stairs, and cocked her head, listening. There were no longer voices coming from the floor above, but it was more than that. The house now
felt
empty. She didn't understand it, any of it, and more than ever she felt the frustration of her condition. She wanted to climb the stairs, to see the emptiness for herself. And she wanted to know what the hell the angry exchange was all about, convinced that in some way it was related to Jessica Franklin's untimely death.

She accepted that if she had any sense she would call James, and hand in her notice on the house; move out and let the next tenant worry about the noises, the scratches on the door, the broken china in empty rooms. But that wouldn't satisfy her desire to know what really happened there.

Her instincts told her that there was more to the story than a freak accident in a placid, almost stagnant lake. She also believed that the curtain was gradually being pulled back, allowing her tantalizing glimpses of the truth. So she would stick with it; live with the strange noises and any other phenomena the house threw at her, and try to uncover the secrets of Stillwater.

Midway through the morning she had completed yet another chapter. The book seemed to be writing itself. She was applying very little conscious thought to it, yet the words were pouring out of her, the story unfolding in a labyrinthine way, making her wonder where it was going next. She really had no clue. This was coming from her subconscious. The events in the house were somehow bringing out the best in her.

She had experienced it before, the book writing itself at least.
Mirror Ball
came about like that. Of course she researched it. Since it was a period drama—albeit only stretching back to the 1970s—there were pages and pages of research—books to read, music to listen to, movies to watch. She wondered how she had managed without Google, YouTube and various websites. Everything was available out there now. The days of sitting in chilly libraries were long gone. In a way she missed those times, but it was only a pang of nostalgia. The reality was that she wouldn't go back to them. The Internet was king, and she embraced it totally.

Just before midday she was another chapter up, and ready to give her subconscious a rest.

It was a fine day out today, and there was very little traffic on the road. The trip to Peck's Cottage took longer this time, but only because she stopped off at a local garden center and bought a bunch of flowers. It was just after one as she pulled up outside the cottage.

Arthur Latham was out in the front garden, deadheading his abundant collection of roses. He sauntered across to her as she got herself out of the car, pulling off his thick leather gardening gloves, and wiping his sweaty hands down the legs of his corduroy trousers.

“I'm afraid Gwen's not here, Beth. She had a hospital appointment this morning and I'm not due to pick her up until three.” He checked his watch, which told him there was still ninety minutes before he had to leave to collect her.

Beth settled her feet onto the footrests of the chair. “That's okay, Arthur, but those are for her.” She indicated the bunch of flowers on the passenger seat. “A small thank you for her lovely meal the other evening. Actually I came to see you.”

“Me?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes,” she said.

“You'd better come inside then. I'll put the kettle on.”

The cup of tea he made her was what her father would have called “builders' tea”—strong and sweet, not to her taste, but she sipped it with a smile rather than cause offense.

“Now,” Latham said, as he settled himself at the kitchen table. “What have you come to see me about?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

A guarded look appeared on the old man's face. “Concerning?”

“The Franklins,” Beth said.

She heard him suck in his breath. “Oh dear,” he said. “I was afraid you were going to say that. At least, Gwen was afraid you might raise the subject again.”

“Is that a problem?” Beth asked.

Latham took a swig of tea. “I'm not sure I'll be able to add to what I've already told you,” he said.

“And that's bullshit. You know a whole lot more than you're saying. Why you're holding back I couldn't say, but I know there's more to the story. Gwen seems like a levelheaded, rational person, but the way she speaks about Jessica Franklin is anything but that.”

“Ah, I'm afraid Gwen has blind spots in certain areas, where reason and common sense take a backseat to something altogether more hysterical.”

“And the Franklins fall into one of those areas?”

“Hmm. I'm afraid so.”

Beth took another mouthful of tea and gave an involuntary shudder. Latham noticed.

“You're not enjoying that, are you?”

“It's a bit sweet for me,” she said.

“And too strong, I expect. I'm so used to making tea like that for Gwen, I sometimes forget that not everyone has her sweet tooth. Here, let me make you another.”

As he refilled the kettle Beth said, “There's something odd about Stillwater.”

She watched his back stiffen.

“You knew, didn't you?”

“I've heard stories,” he said, without looking round.

“Care to share?”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I should.”