The Haunting of Harriet (5 page)

Liz felt Edward’s kiss land on her cheek. With a long sigh of relief she realized she was back beside him at the lake. The fireworks display was banging away in full force. However much had he spent? After all, they still had only half a kitchen, a nursery and one bathroom. There was a mass of work to do before their home was complete. Liz felt petty-minded. They had all the time in the world to do the house up and anyway she would be content to live here just as it was, or even as it had appeared to her on that first visit. But she was not prepared to let Edward know that. Some things were best kept secret, which was why she had not told him about the Fourth Room. What would have been the point? He would only have laughed and told her she was being silly. Why on earth had she let herself get so het up about what probably was nothing? She recalled how stupid she had felt then when she had finally opened her eyes.

The hall was filled with the light of early evening and the air was warm. With a sigh of relief Liz sat down on the bottom stair and searched in her handbag for her mirror and comb. As she combed the last of the cobwebs from her hair she tried to make sense of that Fourth Room. It was an empty, neglected room like the others. Darker maybe, but then there was no natural light. The electrics were something else, but at least they matched the plumbing. Anyway, what had she been thinking of? The electricity was not even turned on, foolish girl! Liz chastised herself again. She felt normal once more, the intensity of the fear she had been feeling now forgotten. She just remembered a cold, forbidding room, strange as the rest of the house was so welcoming. This room wanted to be left alone. It was a sad room. It did not want her intruding on its private sorrow. She picked herself up and dusted off her coat.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was five past six. The clocks had just gone back and the light seeping in was moonlight. What had happened to the last two hours? She fumbled in her bag for her mobile. The paper the agent had given her was right there, folded and pristine, exactly where she had put it that morning. How annoying. How could she have missed it before? She heard herself laugh, a loud short snort of a laugh. It took her completely by surprise and she followed it with a more characteristic giggle, which echoed through the hall. There was no reply when she rang the agents. They had very wisely gone home.

Before leaving Liz glanced back at the Fourth Room. Walking resolutely over to the door she pulled it shut and turned the key. She returned the key to its hiding place on the ledge in the kitchen, telling herself it was just a room, one among many; it should in no way cloud her judgement. After checking that she had left the house securely locked, she climbed into her car, started the engine, but before driving off she took a long last look at Beckmans. The moon was full and hung in the clear October sky directly above the property. All its defects were washed away, bathed clean in milky moonlight. It was beautiful. Yes, it needed a lot of work, of course it did, but beneath the dust and decay, grime and neglect was a rare building. This house was more than just a house, it was home. As she pulled out of the drive she was whistling a tune, the sort that keeps going round and round in your head. She tried Edward’s mobile and left a message on his voice-mail. “It’s perfect.” By now she was singing, “If happy little bluebirds fly.…” She was still chirruping away when, an hour later, she picked the twins up from Mel.

“You’ll have to shout, Lizard. I can’t hear you above all this racket.” Edward was shouting at her, trying to bring her back to the party, but she was not ready to leave her dream. Harriet kept in the shadows watching and silent. She too was full of memories. She smiled at Liz’s reply:

“I was singing.” The words came from somewhere between two worlds. Liz chose to travel back in time to that second day when she had returned to Beckmans as she knew she would.

She remembered that Mel had agreed to come with her this time. Mel had found her friend’s account fascinating and was keen to feel the vibrations of the house for herself. If Liz’s story was anything to go by there was something intriguing going on in Kent. The peculiar familiarity, the almost prior knowledge Liz had described, convinced Mel that the house had a presence. Of course she had not voiced this suspicion. Well, not in so many words. Liz was pretty much a sceptic when it came to the paranormal. Mel had learned to play things coolly where Liz was concerned and decided not to pass judgement until she had sussed things out for herself. Liz simply wanted her friend to see the house where she knew she would be spending the rest of her life. As luck had it, Mel took to her bed the next day with a streaming cold. A quick phone call secured the services of a reliable baby-sitter and Liz set off bright and early, undaunted and secretly relieved at not having to contend with the terrible twins and an over-inquisitive dachshund. A flask of hot soup was stowed in the boot along with a powerful torch and a spare pair of shoes. The extra footwear just seemed like a good idea.

She arranged to meet Edward and the estate agent at Beckmans at three o’clock, before the light changed. That way she had a chance to explore the grounds alone while still leaving ample time for Edward to see the house at its best. He was not pleased at the prospect of having to leave work early, but Liz was determined and there was a lot of money at stake.

She was met by the same feeling of welcome when she let herself in. If anything, it was stronger, more positive than before. Everything was just as she remembered and she fell in love with the old property all over again. Wrinkling her nose, she had to admit that the house did smell a bit stale and fusty though she saw no signs of serious rot, just dampness where the elements had found their way in, which was only to be expected.

Liz decided to seize the bull by the horns. Lifting the griffin-headed key from its hiding place, she entered the Fourth Room first. This time she met with no resistance. Harriet had felt ashamed of her churlish behaviour and believing fervently that this young woman was “The One” did not wish to test Fate by frightening her off. Keeping a foot in the door in case it slammed shut, as it was prone to do, the old woman remained outside, anxious to see her guest’s reaction. With her torch at the ready Liz was pleasantly surprised to find she did not need it: the room was quite light enough with the hall door left wide. She sighed with relief to enter an empty room that simply needed a good airing.

It was several degrees colder than the rest of the house but this was easily accounted for by its north-facing aspect. She was drawn to the fine oak fireplace, the more remarkable for having survived the avaricious plundering of the salvagers. Harriet remained by the door and waited with uncharacteristic patience while Liz ran her hand down the acanthus carving on the left-hand side of the inglenook. Her fingers rested on a small embossed hook. Close examination revealed it to be shaped like a tiny bird. Black and hardly visible against the darkness of the oak, it was exquisite. Liz wondered what treasure had hung there. Such a charming hook must have been chosen to hold something precious. She began to realize that in another life this room had been a very private place, a room that had witnessed a great deal of love and possibly heartache. But she was getting sentimental and that would never do. She had promised Edward that today she would be rational and objective in her assessment of the house, which was hard; the place was growing on her and detachment was no longer possible. Harriet tossed a loose strand of hair from her eyes and brushed it back behind her left ear. Liz mirrored the action, making Harriet smile. Characteristically Harriet emitted a spontaneous laugh, almost a snort, before leading the young woman on to explore the rest of her property.

It was with a sense of achievement, tinged slightly by a reluctant admission to having played the drama queen the day before, that she climbed the wooden steps out of the room. As she stepped into the hall she sniffed loudly and found she had tears streaming down her face. “Damn,” she thought, “I’ve caught Mel’s cold.” Blowing her nose in one of her mother’s lacy handkerchiefs, she looked straight at Harriet, who averted her own tear-stained eyes.

The fresh air was a welcome relief as Liz emerged from the back door into the garden. There was a lot of undergrowth. The expanse of once-manicured lawn sloped down from the terrace to a fast-flowing beck, which fed into the lake before gurgling on to the River Medway. The grass was long and wet and the fallen leaves stuck to her shoes. Liz stood on the weathered York flagstones, ignoring the multitude of weeds, and breathed in the crisp autumn air.

The garden was large and derelict, yet even at its worst it was stunning. Harriet painted her a picture of it in summer, asking her to imagine the trees lush and full, a mown, groomed lawn of regimented green stripes sweeping down to the lake.

Liz saw herself in a wide-brimmed straw hat, her children playing on the grass, happy and healthy. A large wooden table groaned with jugs of lemonade, sandwiches and cake beneath the spread of the cobnut tree, which she identified by the wealth of nuts littering the ground. Edward lay asleep in a comfortable wicker chair, face buried beneath the gently fluttering
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. It was all so English, so idyllic, and hers for the asking. A movement in the undergrowth startled her and she regretted not having brought The Pote along. She imagined him baying excitedly, his tongue and ears flying out, his long sleek body close to the ground, propelled by short but powerful legs, exulting at being a hound as he rampaged through this perfect world.

By the lake stood a large weeping willow with a reach long enough to dip into the water. Its leaves had mostly dropped and formed a yellow carpet at its base. Stepping-stones led temptingly across the beck, from which the house took its name. The small lake lay to the right of this stream, which flowed eagerly in at the northern side and bubbled out again southwards.

And there it stood; the boathouse. It was on the far side of the lake, the mysterious building she had seen yesterday from the house. Was that really only yesterday? Although always referred to as “the boathouse”, it had not been designed to house boats. It was more of a summerhouse, with its dovecot on the turret and the high-pitched fancy barge boarding on its southern face. A vestige of this was still visible but, sadly, much had vanished over the years. A safety rail, no longer fit for purpose, ran along this side. Another smaller window ran along on the right and it was this eastern aspect that overlooked the adjacent stream. Ivy and woodbine had grown in through the low windows that stood to the left of the door. It was little more than a blackened outline of what must have been. Here it was in full daylight, yet it still took the form of the alluring silhouette that had so captured Liz’s heart when she first saw it through the cold glass of the French windows. At some point it had suffered a serious fire.