The Ghosts of Sleath (18 page)

With that he left his daughter and the investigator alone on the terrace, anger lending a briskness to his step.

They walked along a wide track that once, Ash imagined, must have been a finely marked road leading to the Lockwood manor house, which was situated a mile or so inside the estate itself. Now its edges were obscured by wild grass and shrubbery spilling over onto the pitted and stone-strewn surface. He had asked to see the fire-ruined mansion that had once been Lockwood Hall and Grace, although surprised by the request, had willingly agreed to take him there.

They could have driven to the gutted house, but it had been Grace’s idea that they walk; the roadway was too damaged to travel comfortably by car. In truth, she wanted to spend more time with this enigmatic man, to find out more about him, perhaps even discover how his young sister had drowned and why he looked so disturbed at the mention of her name.

A bee busied itself among the wild flowers beside the old disused road, its drone a testament to the normality of the day. Ahead of them greenfinches cavorted in the clear blue sky and the distant wooded hills were softened by the sun’s unhindered blaze. How, Grace reflected, could the day take no note of the violence that had been perpetrated; how could those vicious acts fail to taint the very air itself? And the dreams of last night - daylight somehow diminished their power so they became even more vague and of uncertain significance. David Ash, himself, appeared less stressed than before, as though sunshine and open air had, if not swept away, then subjugated the night fears.

The bee rose from the flowers and flew across the rough road,
its flight-path hindered momentarily by the human obstruction. Grace and Ash paused while the insect manoeuvred around them.

‘Why was your father so against my looking into your family history?’ Ash asked as they resumed walking.

‘I think he’s worried about the well-hidden skeletons you might drag out from various cupboards. You know he was furious with me for contacting the Psychical Research Institute in the first place. Then he seemed resigned to your investigation until he realized this morning you’d be digging into the past.’

‘I still don’t understand why that should bother him.’

‘It was unexpected. He thought you’d set up your monitors or whatever you use to detect the presence of ghosts, make out a report, advise us what we should do, and then be on your way.’

‘It’s not always that simple.’

‘So it seems. His main consideration, though, is for the people of Sleath. I’m afraid the Lockwood family has a bad track record as far as they’re concerned and, as he said, he doesn’t want past grudges revived.’ She noted his interest and went on: ‘We’ve had some unfortunate lords of the manor for ancestors, some of them quite infamous, from what I’ve gathered. Frankly, I’ve never been that interested in Sleath’s history, or in Sleath itself for that matter. I was packed off to boarding school when I was seven and even at holiday time Mother took me away, usually abroad, while Father stayed because of his duties, so I’ve never really felt part of the community. University and work in other countries took care of the later years.’

‘I’d still like to know about these skeletons in the Lockwood cupboard.’

She smiled and he felt her warmth. ‘I told you, I don’t know much about them. And I don’t particularly care.’

‘Not even curious?’

‘Well, at the risk of whetting your appetite I did learn that one of my ancestors, Sebastian Lockwood, was a great friend
and acolyte of Sir Francis Dashwood. I suppose that held my interest for all of ten minutes.’

‘Dashwood?’

‘Surely you’ve heard of him?’ Her smile had become mischievous. ‘I’d have thought the Institute would have a filing cabinet full of information on that notorious character.’

‘Ah, yeah. Sir Francis Dashwood, rake and occultist, and founder of the Hellfire Club, his own secret society for devil worship. Nice company your relatives kept.’

‘His family seat was not too many miles from here. He held many of his orgies and performed satanic rites in chalk caves he’d had hollowed out himself. Sebastian Lockwood was a member of his secret brotherhood and they scandalized the area in the mid-eighteenth century, by all accounts.’

‘Now that’s some skeleton. Was he - what was it you called it - a squarson?’

‘Yes. It was my mother who told me about him and I remember she was angry at the time. I don’t know why it upset her so - I found it hilarious.’

‘No wonder your father won’t allow me access to the church chest, especially if you’ve got other ancestors of the same ilk. Those records might make interesting reading.’

‘Hopefully he was the blackest of the sheep. If not, then the reformation of the Lockwoods must have come along with my father’s generation. I can’t imagine him being involved in such activities, can you?’

He smiled back at her, though the smile never reached his eyes. ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’

‘Even on a beautiful day like this you don’t care about polluting the air, not to mention your own lungs?’

‘It helps me think.’

‘You only think it does.’

‘Well okay, it helps me think that it helps me think.’

‘Your funeral.’

‘Your chance to feel superior.’ He reached into his pocket, then withdrew his empty hand. ‘Ahh, I don’t feel like it now.’

‘Good. You’ll live longer.’

‘Yeah, by about two minutes.’

‘You might appreciate those two minutes when the time comes.’

‘It’ll give me time for one last smoke.’

She laughed, pleased that their banter had lightened the mood between them. Unfortunately Ash spoiled it with his next question.

‘How long has your father been ill, Grace?’ he said.

‘That’s the third time you’ve asked me about my father’s health. I don’t understand why it’s important to you.’

‘I didn’t say it was. I’m curious, that’s all.’

‘There’s nothing mysterious about it. Father’s health began to deteriorate shortly after my mother’s death, although he’s had problems with arthritis in his hands for a few years now. It’s only lately that he’s become more debilitated.’

‘Has he had a recent check-up?’

‘Some months ago, when he couldn’t put up with my nagging any longer. Exhaustion, mental and physical, with slightly above normal blood pressure was our doctor’s verdict. The arthritis doesn’t help.’

‘He didn’t look too good today.’

‘I’ll get Dr Stapley to drop by and see him before the week is out. I won’t even warn Father he’s coming until the last moment.’

‘Dr Stapley is the village GP?’

She nodded. ‘He’s looked after my family for as long as I can remember. I should think he’s due for retirement any day now, but like my father, he’s a stubborn man. He’ll probably go on until he drops on his rounds.’

A jet, so high in the sky it was merely a glint of light, was leaving a slender, and almost spectral, vapour trail in its wake. The trail swelled, then dissolved in the thin air.

‘That’s what’s left of Lockwood Hall up ahead.’

Ash followed Grace’s pointing finger and saw the grey ruins in the distance. The muted greens of the hills beyond highlighted the starkness of the scarred walls.

He shrugged off his jacket and carried it over his arm. ‘The house must have been magnificent in the old days,’ he remarked as they continued to walk towards it.

‘In many ways it was.’

He glanced at her. ‘You don’t sound so convinced.’

‘We still have a painting of the Hall as it was in the eighteenth century and yes, I suppose it was an imposing building. I’ve never liked it, though. For me there was always something cold in its architecture; perhaps it’s just a bad painting.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

‘Fine. It’s in the study of the Lodge House. Others have admired the building as well as the painting itself, so you’ll probably think I’m being silly.’

‘It’s common enough for people to get negative feelings about places.’

‘For my own ancestral home? I should be proud of its history, as well as its grandeur.’

‘Maybe you’re influenced by how much the Lockwoods have lost over the years.’

‘I don’t give a damn about what we had.’

There was no harshness to her response, merely a firmness of conviction, and Ash decided he liked that. No whingeing
nouveau
poor, this woman.

She seemed embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Did I sound peevish?’

He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No, just indignant, maybe.’

Her good humour was back. ‘Oh, I’m a master of indignation. You should hear me when Father talks religion at me. We can both sulk for days afterwards.’

‘How come you aren’t religious? You, a vicar’s daughter?’

‘In a way it’s like living in a sweetshop. You can lose your appetite when it’s all around you. In the end Mother felt the same way. In fact, worse - I think eventually she grew sick of religion. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in a Supreme Being, or life after death. I suppose it’s the dogma and ritual that gets me down. Besides, there are other mysteries to
be solved before we worry ourselves about the meaning of Creation, things like the ghosts that have been seen in Sleath, for instance, and why you and I can sometimes see into each other’s mind.’

Her last comment brought him up short, as it was meant to. She swung round at him.

‘How could I be part of your dream last night, David? How could I see your poor dead sister Juliet when I didn’t know you or anything about you before yesterday? And one thing I didn’t mention earlier: you seemed terribly afraid of her.’

She saw her words had affected him deeply. There was an odd mixture of fear and bitterness in his eyes, but when he spoke it was with cold anger.

‘I was afraid of her games, her nasty, petty little games.’

He walked on, leaving Grace standing there staring after him.

‘You can’t still blame her for that, David,’ she called after him. ‘Not now that she’s gone. You have to forgive her.’

He stopped and turned, the cold anger still in him. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘She played the games after she was dead.’

G
RASS AND WEEDS
grew between the broad steps leading up to Lockwood Hall’s large but empty entrance, and rust concealed the iron rail’s true colour. Blackened colonnades rose high on either side of the doorway and tall, gaping windows revealed the emptiness within.

As Ash mounted the steps he could see the broken walls inside, a half-collapsed double staircase leading to upper floors that were no longer there, and rafters that were dark and jagged; the sky showed bright and clear through the open roof. Grace stood on the lowest step behind him, her face impassive.

He turned and waited for her, but she hesitated. ‘Grace?’ he said, wondering why she was reluctant to join him.

She looked from the open doorway to him before shaking off whatever emotion held her there. She began to climb the steps.

Ash returned his attention to the house, craning his neck to examine the upper levels and the remains of the ornate stone balustrade that ran along the length of the rooftop.

‘You can almost imagine how it must have been,’ he said distractedly, feeling her presence next to him.

‘I don’t want to think of it, David. I don’t like this place. When I come here I always have the impression that it’s brooding, resentful of its destruction. It’s strange, but I get the same feeling when I look at the painting back at the house.’

‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ he admonished her mildly. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘You don’t feel anything?’

He peered into the opening, his gaze sweeping the stained walls, the ruined staircase. ‘It’s just an empty shell.’

She hugged herself as if suddenly cold. ‘I wish I could believe that. Even as a little girl I hated the place. I’d never come here alone and fortunately my mother didn’t seem to like it here either. Only Father used to visit and sometimes he insisted that I came along. I remember him walking through the ground floor, moving from room to room, and often, if it was safe, his eyes would be half-closed as if he were imagining how it used to be. He’d even hum a tune, one of those old waltzes, and describe to me the social occasions that generations of Lockwoods enjoyed in this house. Holding his hand, I’d imagine them myself, the long gowns, the powdered wigs, music played on a harpsichord. I’d almost hear the laughter, the conversations, the tap of shoes on the marble floor of the ballroom as the guests danced. Romantic, I know, a young girl’s idea of how it must have been; but I could almost see them …’

She stopped as if surprised by her own recollection, and Ash moved closer to her. Her voice faltered as she went on. ‘I could imagine other … occasions here, too. Dark things happening … things I couldn’t possibly understand as a child … things I don’t even understand now …’

He put his arms around her and she stiffened before relaxing into him.

‘How did you imagine them, Grace?’ he probed gently. ‘Do you recall if you actually heard music and voices? Were they that real to you?’

‘I don’t know - it was so many years ago. But I couldn’t have, could I? It must have all been in my mind, just childish fantasies.’

‘But you remember them quite vividly.’

‘Today I seem to.’ She left him to go to the high doorway.

Ash followed and when he stood alongside her he saw that her eyes were closed and her head was tilted slightly upwards as if she were still recalling those childhood memories. He didn’t disturb her; instead he surveyed the gutted building’s interior. It was easy to imagine Lockwood Hall’s past grandeur, even though the walls and half-walls now were grimed black, with moss and lichen abundant in the shadier corners. The floors were littered with fallen debris, charred beams scattered here and there, masonry dust thick and clogged like mud from years of rainfall through the open roof. There were large holes in the flooring whose darkness the bright sunshine seemed unable to penetrate. He peered up at the remnants of the upper floors and was surprised to detect no birds or nests settled in the broken timbers or wall crevices, for such abandoned places usually provided ideal sanctuaries. He searched and listened for sounds, but could find no trace of wildlife at all. There was only silence and the swirl of dust motes inside this huge, empty shell.

He took a step forward so that he was just inside the doorway.

‘Don’t, David.’ Grace had felt him move past her and had opened her eyes immediately. ‘It isn’t safe in there.’ When she saw his uncertainty, she added: ‘The floor - it isn’t safe anymore. And some of the ceiling rafters are quite loose.’

He nodded, glad of the warning. ‘When were you here last?’ he asked, moving back to her.

‘I’m not sure. A year ago, perhaps, when I returned home because of my mother’s illness. After the funeral I just wanted to get away from the Lodge House, so I took a walk along the old road and found myself back here. I remember Father was angry when he learned where I’d been.’

Ash raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Nothing sinister, David. He was concerned that the whole place might decide to collapse in on itself one day and he didn’t want anyone to be near when it happened.’

‘Why not have it demolished if he’s so anxious?’

‘It would be too costly. Besides, it’s on private land - no one’s allowed to come close.’

‘I didn’t see any warning signs.’

‘They’ve never been necessary. Nobody seems interested enough to visit the place.’

‘Not even the person who bought the rest of the estate?’

‘Carl Beardsmore? He knows it’s off limits. It was my grandfather, Neville Lockwood, who sold off all the lands to pay off his debts and he stipulated that the Hall was always to remain as family property, despite its condition. I suppose he wanted us to retain some kind of tradition no matter how our wealth had been diminished. The new estate owner built his own property on the southern side of the land and it was Beardsmore - I’m told he used to own a collection of engineering magazines and sold them on for millions - who took it over twenty-odd years ago. He approached my father at the time, and several times since, with offers to buy up the rest of the estate, but Father turned him down. I think Beardsmore has given up the idea of being total lord of the manor by now.’

Ash could understand the millionaire’s past ambition for, rebuilt, Lockwood Hall would have made a superb residence in a fine setting, and no doubt he would have paid a very healthy price for the property. Still, in a way it was refreshing to see family tradition take pride over market forces. The Lockwoods were a dying breed.

A sudden flutter of wings startled them both and Grace quickly stepped back from the doorway as if expecting a fall of loose debris. Only dust, a million glittering specks in the sunlight, drifted down from the open roof.

Ash looked up and saw the bird that had just alighted on one of the beams high above in the cavernous interior. So I was wrong, he thought, there is life here, and as if to answer him the black crow released a sharp, jagged cry, a sound made harsher by the emptiness inside those damaged walls.

‘David.’ Grace had moved even further away: she was almost by the top step. ‘Let’s leave.’

He glanced back at the crow. It was silent now and seemed to be staring down at him. Ash shivered and suddenly realized that, despite the sun’s unhindered entry, Lockwood Hall - or what was left of it - was as cold as a mausoleum.