Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  Will bristled. “You ask for a bloody piece of paper after everything that’s happened to us?”

  “One step at a time sir.” His glance of despair in my direction didn’t last long. Will obliged with a dog-eared card signed by Matthew Crane of the Court Eyrie, and just to see that large, spiky signature, brought back memories I’d rather forget. In return, the constable showed him a slim leather wallet containing his own identification.

  “Thank God you’ve come along,” I said. “We’ve two children, a murdered horse and you can see the rest…”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Walking back to the wreckage, we relayed to him what had happened, giving precise times and descriptions of that criminal pair. In turn, he explained how he’d not long moved to Tidswell from Ealing with his new wife, keen to make his mark on what he saw as a rising post-war lawlessness concealed by the area’s seeming tranquillity. A man who promised then and there to help bring our merciless attackers to justice. *

  Having persuaded a bemused, middle-aged coal merchant to stand guard with us until he’d been able to make a telephone call to Diss, Constable Lambert returned.

  “Once the bullet’s been removed from your horse for examination, I’ll see that Harry Dickins, a friend of mine over in Hecklers Green, will take care of him and store the trap in one of his barns till you can get it repaired,” he said, while driving us and our remaining belongings along to a village called Longstanton. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour. He’s very reliable.”

  Will frowned. “We won’t be able to pay… “

  “Not everyone’s on the make, Mr. Parminter. And I’ll pass on to you any payment for the carcass once I know whe’re you’ll be living. Meanwhile, get yourselves some rest.”

  Carcass.

  How that word chilled my heart.

  He turned off at a sign for Wombwell House and followed the short driveway to a compact stone-built villa set amongst a gloomy cluster of dying poplars. Beyond these, the tallest church spire I’d ever seen, loomed up into the sky.

  I didn’t like the name, nor the setting, but how could beggars be choosers?

  I forced a smile as I helped the children out of the car, in case the owner was watching us from a window.

  “My wife and I both stayed here until we’d found our cottage,” the constable went on. “Mrs. Myers seems to like company…”

  But I hardly heard him, thinking instead of Silver lying dead eight miles away. How already, Mollie’s betrayal had caused a rift between her and her brother. Between Will and me. Just when we had to be strong together.

  “Come in, come in,” said the sprightly white-haired woman once introductions had been made and PC Lambert had given Will the address and telephone number of his base in Diss. She scrutinised us all with almost childlike eyes, before leading the way into a large, cool kitchen. The kind I’d dreamt of for years, with its smooth, flagstone floor, a generous-sized oak table and ten chairs complete with matching cushions.

  “While I get you something to eat and drink, you can tell me all about yourselves and why it is you’re here in this part of the world.”

  “Drink first, please!” said Buck making for the sink and its one big tap, where, without further ado, he turned it on and placed his open mouth under the intermittent, silvery trickle.

  *

  An hour later, having mopped up bowls of chicken soup with slices of thick, brown bread, he and Mollie slumped in sleep at the table, elbows touching. Their breathing deep, noisy. I’d not the heart to disturb them, but the ever-helpful Mrs. Myers suggested an upstairs bedroom once belonging to her son Robin who, aged thirty-nine as a volunteer in ‘Kitchener’s Mob,’ had never returned from the mud, gassings and carnage in the Battle of Loos. Only then, while mentioning him, did those wide, clear eyes close, blinking back a tear.

  “These poor mites of yours have had a bad time,” she said five minutes later, drawing this bedroom’s lined velvet curtains against the sun, immediately turning a photograph of a good-looking young man in army uniform, a darker brown. “But at least your little boy’s breathing’s better.” She then faced me. “When you’ve lost a child, it’s as though you never leave the tunnel of grief. That the promised daylight at the end, is nothing more than that. A promise.”

  “I can understand that,” I said, closing the door, already hearing two sets of snores behind us, and suddenly needing someone sympathetic with whom to share my fears. And by the time myself and the widowed, childless Rita Myers had reached the hallway, I’d confided everything about the robbery save for Mollie’s contribution.

  “What Constable Lambert said was right, mind,” she lowered her voice. “There’s more wrong-doing now than ever there was, and it’s Midlanders or Londoners responsible. Easy pickings here, out in the sticks. Why I keep a rifle over there.” She pointed to a line of coats and jackets near the front door from where a polished wooden butt protruded below the hem of an old mackintosh. “Just in case.”

  “But to shoot our beautiful cob…” I added, also wondering if she’d feel quite the same about Will’s own gun being on her premises.

  “Cowards, Mrs. Parminter. And the gallows’ll be too for them. But stay on guard, until both are caught because there’s always danger.”

  I shivered, even though the hallway was more than warm. Thinking too, of Matthew Crane.

  “One more thing.” I said before re-joining a weary Will in the kitchen. “We’ll be looking around for work. I can do book-keeping, even laundry and cleaning if I had to.”

  She shook her head before I’d even finished. “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

  “Told us what?”

  “Shhh…” She glanced at the kitchen door as if aware of Will still in his place at the table. “Just between you and me and these four walls.”

  “Please continue.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “There is no work. Not with the drought and water shortage and all. Not with so many farms going under. I was lucky to have been employed by Lord Helvin for so long, but everything’s changed for the worst since then.”

  It was then that Will pulled open the door, angry, aggrieved. “I heard you,” he accused her with a venom not heard since we’d been out on that fateful stretch of road. “How dare you? There’s plenty of work. Do you think I’d have brought my family all this way from the New Forest for nothing? There are hardly any men of working age, yet acres of land to harvest and plough. Livestock to look after. I was a verderer, you know. It was a responsible job, a…”

  “And you spoilt it,” I reminded him, strengthened by the widow standing at my shoulder. “How can you possibly know this area better than Mrs. Myers? She’s lived here since she was born.”

  Suddenly, he turned away to slam his fist down on the table, causing the empty soup bowls and cups to wobble. “I’ll make you a promise, wife.” He looked at me with a mixture of pride and hurt. “By this time next week, I’ll be in work. Whatever and wherever it is. So, help me God.”

  “We stared at him. Mrs. Myers’ older hand gripping my arm till it hurt. “Well, I hope God’s listening. Because round here is like a desert. Most of my neighbours have given up, sold at a loss, and gone to Australia or New Zealand. The only reason I’m staying is that I’m old, and this house holds too many memories. But it can be lonely…”

  At this Will strode from the kitchen, along the hall lined with framed posters of various kinds, and out of the front door.

  “Let him go,” said Mrs. Myers. “He’ll be back. He’s a man.”

  A man, yes, but also my husband.

  I followed him, calling after his ever-shrinking form. Almost invisible in summer’s shimmering mirage. But not once did he look back and, as I re-traced my steps towards Wombwell House, a sudden stomach cramp made me double up and almost fall. For a moment, I clung to the nearest tree, praying for the pain to subside. Praying too, that from now on, we weren’t doomed to be a fatherless family.<
br />
  And then from somewhere came bells, chiming out midday, and once the twelve

  bleak notes had finished, my cramp had been replaced by the faintest sensation of movement deep inside me, shifting then settling. The most likely cause was having had soup and too much of that robust bread after so little on the journey. Certainly, the other cause was impossible. Will and I hadn’t lain together since the New Year, and even then, as so often before, he’d rolled away from me before his climax.

  “Mrs. Parminter? I’ve been worried about you. Are you alright?”

  Our rescuer’s shadow accompanied her sprightly walk. But how could I answer? I was grieving, just as she still did, but not for a lost child but a lost life, gone for ever in Swayhurst. And what awaited us here, who on earth could possibly tell?

  21. JOHN.

  Monday 14th November 1988. 3.45 p.m.

  “Greg’s got it wrong,” Stephen said, hauling his anorak over his stooped shoulders and snapping his briefcase shut. “And there’s a reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “His job’s been on the line for the past two years. Will they, won’t they? Kind of thing. Ever since ‘King George’ arrived. A new broom sweeping clean with top-notch research profiles heading his bloody list of requirements.”

  “He seemed stressed,” I said. “Especially after seeing that box file. Where does this Chisholm live?”

  “Near Braythorne somewhere. Just inside the Suffolk county boundary. A manor house, apparently, plus a nice fat pension to look forward to. Why? Are you planning a trip?” His tone oddly casual, given how adamant he’d been for me not to contact either Greg Lake or Nicholas Beecham.

  “No,” I lied. That was my secret. I’d seen similar tensions up in Nottingham when a new Chief Superintendant had arrived from the Met, Hell-bent on making his mark. I’d also try and speak to the agitated Greg Lake again. But for now, Catherine was priority.

  Drop it or your dead. A warning…

  That threat was burning a hole in my pocket, urging me to find the nearest cop shop, and as for the Reverend’s small red hatchback, it had to be found and examined. Pronto.

  “I’m handing in my notice on Friday,” Stephen announced suddenly, plucking other keys from a line of hooks near the front door. “This is a road leading bloody nowhere. I’d be saving them money - I’m not top of the salary scale yet till next year - and the pressure would be off.”

  His emphasis on ‘off,’ made me blink. So, academic life in an enviable part of the world had been the death knell to an already bloodless marriage. And Professor Stephen Vickers, Dean of History didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to revive it.

  “That’s a bit knee-jerk,” I said, aware of the mist outside beginning to thicken. “And when Catherine’s back, you two need to thrash things out. Perhaps take some leave and go off like you used to in the old days. I remember when…”

  “I don’t want your memories, thanks. I want out.”

  “And this?” I said, pointing to the black box file he’d forgotten to lock away.

  A shrug.

  “Past history, old chum. Not my problem.”

  He said it too quickly, which is why I surreptitiously picked it up to tuck under my coat.

  *

  We hardly spoke during the drive back to Longstanton, through a deepening dusk and fog which seemed to cling to the Volvo and made oncoming car lights almost invisible.

  Only near Hecklers Green did this hazard thin and lift to merge with the grey winter sky.

  “Where’s Bakery Lane?” I asked. “Doctor Lovell’s address?”

  “Why? I thought I’d made myself clear.” If anything, Stephen was speeding up. Deliberately.

  “It won’t take more than a few minutes, but I’d like to look. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Peace? That’s a joke. Mind you,” he shot me half a glance, “humour wasn’t exactly top of your CV.”

  I let it go, because the Volvo was slowing down before turning left past a row of what looked like ruined cottages. A Bakery Lane sign hung sadly from a single nail. Its letters almost gone.

  “Here you are.”

  “Cheers.”

  We stopped by a modest, now decrepit house standing in its own overgrown plot. Myrtle Villa, whose walls once white, were almost smothered in ivy, while from its gaping upper windows and the one chimney, sprouted dark brown reeds.

  Clearly abandoned for a long time, but not irredeemable, I thought, wondering also why, in such a pleasant area both this and the cottages hadn’t been snapped up for renovation. Was this place still blighted by history, even after nearly seventy years?

  “This it?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  I got out, leaving Stephen sitting at the wheel staring trance-like beyond the windscreen. The word ‘breakdown’ came to mind. My own Granny Lyon had suffered the worst kind after her daughter and son-in-law’s’terrible and sudden deaths near Wenhaston. I knew the signs…

  Having silently slipped that black box file in the car’s boot beneath a moth-holed rug, I made my way towards Myrtle Villa.

  “Yes?” Came a woman’s voice behind me. I turned to see someone in her late seventies or early eighties with good skin that wouldn’t have been out of place on someone half her age. Thick grey hair made her head seem over-large even for that sturdy body, while her blue eyes bore that often furtive look of those living on their own. In my experience, the most unreliable witnesses…

  “Is there something you’re wanting?” she challenged me. “No-one’s been this way for years.”

  Her wrinkled stockings, muddy boots and a rough, brown coat that had clearly fed an army of moths, reinforced my first impression.

  “Yes. No, I mean…” I had to pull myself together. I couldn’t afford to miss any possible useful information. “Did a Dr. Vincent Lovell once live here?”

  A pause. A puckering of the lips. Why the hesitation? I waited, aware of Stephen still trance-like behind the wheel.

  “Yes, but I’d hardly call it living.” She fixed those still-vivid blue eyes on me. “So, who are you? And him in that car?”

  “A friend of mine. As for me, I’m John Lyon, a researcher interested in the effects of the Great War on this part of Norfolk…”

  “Can’t think why. Everywhere suffered.”

  “Because of its rurality. Its…”

  “I’m from number six. End of the terrace. Born and raised here, though God knows why I’m still hanging on in such a Godforsaken place. Rosemary Harding. Miss, it is. So, what exactly is your interest in Dr Lovell?”

  She was quick…

  “His name came up in a recent conversation with some colleagues. Bit of a mystery surrounding him, apparently.” I was imagining myself back in ‘The Box’ again, trying a more confidential tone. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”

  Another long pause which could have seen Stephen suddenly revving up and driving off.

  “He should never have got involved with that farm,” she said finally. Stupid man.

  Heart in the right place, though. That was his trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Well, he went out one day and never came back. So the gossips say.” She snapped her strong, bare fingers. Ringless, I noticed.

  “Which farm did you mean?”

  “She then pointed north-east. Over that way, somewhere. They kept anything on four legs.”

  I was just about to draw her back to the doctor himself when a sudden blast of the Volvo’s horn made us start.

  “I’ve seen that nutter somewhere before,” she said, referring to Stephen manoeuvring to face the way we’d come. And, as I’d guessed, revving the engine.

  “Was it Wombwell Farm by any chance?” I persevered. The name mentioned in Doctor Lovell’s final begging letter.

  That too seemed to catch her unawares. For a split-second, her eyes narrowed.

  “Everything was Wombwell then. Could have been…”

  Everythin
g was Wombwell…

  I shivered. Why so evasive? And why, if she’d been born and bred locally, did her accent not reflect that? Something told me I was looking at and talking to a shell.

  The Volvo’s handbrake was being pulled up sharply.

  “I’d like to come over again some time,” I ventured. “Would you mind?”

  “You could try, but my memory’s not what it was.” She cocked her head and for the seond time, those vivid blue eyes looked me up and down. “Come to think of it, you’ve got the same look about you as the doctor, though you don’t wear glasses. He was too nosy for his own good.”

  “Was he your doctor?”

  “I was never ill.”

  Stephen was gesticulating for me to hurry up. I took a punt while she was still at least standing next to me. “Have you heard of a Catherine Vickers? Lives down Wombwell Lane by the church? Grey-blonde hair, slim, pale-skinned?”

  Those eyes seemd suddenly energised.

  “So that was her…”

  “What do you mean?” I fished my card out of my wallet and handed it over. Seconds ticking away. Time to come clean.

  Rosemary Harding studied each word before secreting it in her coat pocket. That I was an ex-cop, caused only the smallest frown.

  “Yesterday morning around nine thirty after the bread van left,” she replied. “Hanging around she was, till this small red car picked her up. Just along the road there.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “Only that he was young and had the same colour hair I used to have.”

  “Which was? Forgive me asking.”

  A pause. She’d not expected that question.

  “Blonde.”

  Stephen sounded the horn again and called out through his open window. “I don’t have all bloody day.”

  “There was something else,” added the neighbour, while the doctor’s house and its shabby annexe had become almost invisible in the growing dusk, and a pair of crows flapped overhead towards its chimney. “I could swear she’d been into Myrtle Villa because I heard its front door being shut and footsteps hurrying down the steps. By the time I took a look, she was running towards the car.”