Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  24. SARAH.

  Wednesday 28th July 1920. 6 a.m.

  I must have slept solidly through the night because I’d woken to bright sunlight stabbing my eyes from between both bedroom curtains. My watch - a present from Will last Christmas and missed by yesterday’s thieves - showed six o’clock.

  I reached out to what had previously been the empty side of the bed and felt his back. Still in his clothes giving off the distinct smell of pig slurry.

  His body rose and fell in sleep, and every so often, he let out a small grunt then the words, “thank you, thank you…”

  What on earth?

  I continued to listen, which was easier than dwelling on our murdered horse and how between us, we now had barely ten pounds to spend.

  “You’re a good man. A good man…” he murmured.

  “Who is?” I said.

  At that, his eyelids opened. He reared up, jabbing me with his elbow.

  “Where in Hell’s name are we?”

  “It’s alright. You’ve been dreaming. Talking about nine o’clock for some reason.”

  His gaze held such ferocity that I couldn’t continue.

  “I tried six places to find work,” he said at last. “Four threatened to call the police. Another put a shotgun to my head, but the last one - the last one…”

  “Go on.”

  “Said they’d take us.”

  “Where?” I shut my eyes against the strengthening sun. Imagining nothing.

  “Wombwell Farm. Near Hecklers Green. Just down the road. Mr. Bulling said there’s plenty of work.”

  “Starting when?”

  “Today. 9 o’clock.” He sank back against his pillow. “Some luck at last.”

  Nevertheless, breakfast in Rita Myers’ large kitchen was a tense affair resembling a chess board of various human pieces all with their own strategies. Mollie’s doll had fallen off the bed and lost a patch of porcelain from her head. Grumpy Buck who’d been in a world of his own began to pick at it, making the bare patch worse.

  “Well, you can’t have a new one ‘cos thanks to you, we’ve got no money.” He handed it back. His chest still labouring, both his eyes without their sparkle, while Will, with hair neatly combed and a clean shirt given by our hostess, devoured four bacon rashers and two bread rolls. His movements with the knife and fork eager, decisive.

  As for me, I was invisible, yet with a growing anxiety impossible to ignore.

  “We don’t want what happened yesterday mentioned again,” I said. “And with luck, those criminals will be caught and we’ll get our money back.”

  “Who said?” Rita Myers brought a large yellow teapot out of a nearby cupboard.

  “Police Constable Lambert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Wouldn’t bank on that,” She filled the tea pot and stirred its contents with a spoon. “Words are easy.”

  “I thought he was very capable,” said Will, chewing, making his considerable jawbone move in and out. “His friend’s taking care of our dead horse and the trap for the time being.”

  She stopped to stare at first him then me. “Promises are even easier. You’ll see.”

  “What do you know about Wombwell Farm?” I asked to change the subject. “Any information would be very helpful.”

  Mrs. Myers began pouring thick, dark tea into an assortment of mugs. Will looked up at me, frowning as she set down the heavy pot. Her freckled hand slightly trembling.

  “That where you’re going?”

  He nodded. “In an hour’s time. It’s a huge weight off my shoulders, I can tell you. And once some money starts coming in…”

  “They keep pigs,” she interrupted. “More than anyone else round here. Even the Fletchers. Can smell them too, most days.”

  Buck sniffed. “Me too,” while Mollie looked at me, grimacing, suddely looking less like my daughter than ever.

  “There’s also a son called Stanley,” added Will.

  She stopped, leaving my mug half full. That name had obviously unsettled her.

  Buck glanced up, interested.

  “Too old for you and your sister,” Rita Myers said to him, passing me the milk jug with indecent haste. The contents were thick, slightly yellow. “’Sides, he’s…”

  “What?” I said, seeing how the amiable expression on her face had sharpened.

  “Nothing that can’t keep. He had an accident, that’s all. Probably why you’ve been taken on.”

  “Did you see him?” I asked Will who was staring out of the window as if keen to be off.

  “It was just past midnight. Too dark,” he glanced back at me. “But I still can’t believe how Walter Bulling opened the front door to me so late on. I have to say,” he folded his napkin, “he seems like a good man.”

  The room fell silent, save for the kettle’s dying whistle and a fly buzzing around the smear of butter at the bottom of its china dish.

  “Have to take as you find, I suppose,” said the widow, carrying dishes to the sink. “Or else you’ll end up alone like me.”

  I got up to help her, full of foreboding. My clothes smelt stale and clung to me where they shouldn’t. The cuffs of my blue blouse were black, while my hair brush had given up on all the knots and tangles. Mollie’s too. And when I returned to the table, anxiety had turned to shame.

  “Mrs. Myers, I’ve a favour to ask,” I began, keeping an eye on Will, restlessly pushing back his chair. “Do you have any spare clothes - anything myself and the children could borrow until…”

  She looked at me with what was genuine regret.

  “I’m sorry. There are only Robin’s shirts. All that’s left of him.”

  But Will had already got to his feet. “We don’t beg, Sarah,” he snapped. “Never have, never will. Besides, we’ll have earned some decent money by this time next week, paying our way. And if I judged Constable Lambert right, he’ll soon be getting our stolen savings back. And cash for the dead horse.”

  “Our horse,” protested Buck. “And he’s got a name. Silver.”

  I’d noticed a shadow of doubt pass over Rita Myers’ face and once Will had thanked her for breakfast and herded the sullen Mollie and Buck from the kitchen, she turned to me.

  “He’s a proud man, Mrs. Parminter. That’s obvious, but he doesn’t know round here like I do. How can he?”

  That same fly who’d explored the butter dish, suddenly rose into the air accompanied by a deep buzzing sound before it dropped to the table in a dizzy spin and finally lay still. Like us it had been hopeful, full of life. Now just a black smudge against the wood.

  “Woman to woman, you can tell me,” I said, lowering my voice, “what it is we should know about Wombwell Farm?”

  Her reply was on her lips, but before she could answer, the front door knocker banged three times, making us jump in surprise.

  “Best see who it is,” she said, having recovered her composure. And then beyond the window I recognised that same young constable who’d helped us yesterday. This time in uniform with an even more grim expression on his face.

  *

  He was clearly in a hurry and a black police Growler with its engine running, stood ready in the drive as if for a quick getaway. An older policeman sat in the passenger seat studying a sheet of paper.

  “I won’t come in,” said Constable Lambert, barely acknowledging Mrs. Myers behind me. Her smell of mothballs suddenly obvious. “But is your husband around? I need to speak to you both together.”

  Already, sweat glistened on his smooth cheeks and top lip, which he repeatedly licked away. “I’ve some news, but every second counts.”

  “Damn. Where on earth is he? And the children?” I then shouted their names, to no avail.

  “Surely you can tell Mrs. Parminter what’s the matter,” suggested my companion. “The rest of the family will be back soon.”

  He glanced at the car, then at her.

  “This is private, if you don’t mind.”

  She tutted and backed away down the ha
ll, before closing the kitchen door behind her.

  “Your Silver has been dealt with,” he began, and produced a crumpled brown envelope from his jacket pocket. I noticed smears of what might have been blood on its flap, and inside were two shilling coins. “From the Master of the Tidswell Hunt,” he explained. “A good price, considering.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Sorry, but there’s not much other call for a horse carcass these days, and at least the dogs’ll be well fed.”

  I gripped the door frame which was already hot from the sun, while my meagre breakfast travelled north towards my throat.

  “But what I really came to tell you is this.” He gestured at the other policeman who was now looking our way. “Constable Toft who’s been on this patch since 1912 says the couple who stole from you, may have committed another crime.” He paused, and in that pause, I imagined other voices coming from behind the poplars.

  “Please go on,” I said, still feeling queasy, yet also oddly emboldened. Rarely had Will allowed me into his world. Even less so since leaving the Hampshire Regiment

  This was for me. And Constable Lambert’s brown eyes softened; flitted for a moment down my body.

  “Last February in Lowestoft, a young doctor was assaulted outside Lloyd’s bank after withdrawing money to buy a car. He was also shot in the chest, and was fortunate to survive…”

  “And?”

  Those same voices were coming closer. Buck and Mollie, squabbling.

  “We believe this same pair were involved. The man calls himself Albert Brookes, the woman Davina Wilton. They may be connected in some way. All we know at this stage.”

  “Not from down south, then? They’d seen us in Guildford.”

  “Criminals like that, follow the money here, there and everywhere. They make mistakes, get careless, but rest assured, we’ll hunt them down.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped closer, concern in those nice brown eyes. “Mrs. Parminter, something’s bothering you, isn’t it? Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

  I nodded and began to whisper for fear Rita Myers might be close by. “Please keep it to yourself, Constable. At least for now. My husband’s just found work, and nothing must jeopardise that.”

  “What d’you mean, jeopardise?”

  He glanced at his watch. Still in a hurry, and I didn’t keep him long. Just enough to repeat what Matthew Crane, vicious young agister from Swayhurst had done to Will in the name of revenge. However, not a word about that cold afternoon in 1908 in Iwerne Minster before we’d moved on to the New Forest. Not a word.

  “Just be on your guard, Mrs. Parminter,” the policeman said finally. “Though I doubt he’d bother to come all this way, given the cost of travelling.”

  Just be on your guard…

  How easy he made it all sound. And how could he see that Northerner’s growing shadow occupying my heart?

  25. JOHN.

  Monday 14th November 1988. 6.15 p.m.

  By that time in the evening, most rural police stations would either be closed or manned by almost retired sergeants twiddling their thumbs or filling in football pools, so I wasn’t going to waste a journey into some dead hinterland on the off-chance of finding some action. However, on arriving back with Stephen to an empty Wombwell Lodge, I knew the time had come to draw upon greater resources than either I or he possessed.

  Having gone upstairs under the pretext of finding a clean handkerchief, I’d slipped that black box file under my pillow in the attic bedroom to read later and returned to take off my damp mac in the dark, chilly hallway. I did recklessly think of contacting the alluring and talented Alison McConnell, before immediately blanking her from my mind.

  No, not any more…

  She’d wrapped up my past tighter than the string around a plucked chicken. Then a different name took her place.

  “Can I make a quick call?” I ventured. “Won’t take long. I’ll pay, of course.”

  “To whom?”

  The first words Stephen had spoken since we’d left Hecklers Green.

  “Another friend of mine. Or rather, an ex-colleague.”

  He’d moved closer. Even his tension gave off a particular smell.

  “No police, Johnny. Too soon.”

  “What then?”

  Not for the first time was Lea Villa a tempting vision. Especially my new wine rack, now full of St Émilion, Corbières and Pinot Grigios. From somewhere I heard a tap dripping and the house suddenly felt stalked by death. I shivered. Reached up for my mac, just then, despite its dampness, the only warm thing.

  “Catherine’s my wife. It’s my business,” Stephen added. “I don’t need bad publicity.” He stared at me as if I was a stranger. “I might even be considered a suspect in her disappearance. Have you thought of that? The Fuzz always sniff the nearest and dearest first, don’t they?”

  I knew when to back off. This vacillating professor had reeled me into his life and suddenly wanted out. What had changed? Something certainly. But I wasn’t a quitter. I’d spend the evening my way, subterfuge or not. Catherine was still out there somewhere, perhaps in the gravest danger.

  “Do you have anything for yourself to eat?” I asked, checking I still had my car keys.

  A nod, before he pulled out a half-full bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers from the drinks’ cupboard.

  “One for you, unless you’ve other plans?”

  “Look,” I placed my hand on his nearest shoulder. It felt surprisingly bony. “You need some space to decide what you want to do. Just let me know when you need me again, eh?”

  “Thanks.” Stephen poured himself a full tumbler too quickly and the amber droplets immediately stained the table cloth. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. And meanwhile…”

  “What?”

  I paused. He wasn’t some old biddy with a Zimmer frame. He could, I was sure, stand his ground if he had to. “Lock everything up. Don’t open the door to anyone, and I mean, anyone.”

  He glanced my way, a startled expression on his face. “Not even if it’s Catherine?”

  “Especially if it’s Catherine. She may not be alone.”

  “My God, Johnny, you’re mind’s more twisted than a… “

  “I’ve served thirty years in the worst of humanity’s manure heap. My hunches were rarely wrong.”

  With that, I patted that same shoulder and made my way towards the front door. “I’ll be in touch. You stay safe.”

  He didn’t follow me to lock up. Instead, all I could hear was the crack of breaking glass followed by a loud belch.

  I checked my watch under the porch light that had suddenly come on. If I hurried, I could make Snodbury by seven. The time I’d promised my clearly reluctant host.

  .

  6.30 p.m.

  Trying to map read with a dying torch and also decipher almost invisible road signs, made me want to turn back at at a village called Earlsfield, collect my belongings and return home to my unfinished jobs. The life I’d envisaged when shaking the Chief Superintendent’s clammy hand for the last time. My box set of Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavier’ in the other. Only last Friday had these tapes been freed from their cellophane, and just then I slotted the second one into the dashboard’s cassette player. Soon, notes from another age, yet weirdly prescient, filled the car. Their awesome logic helped me focus on why exactly I was making this journey, and what I hoped the unpleasant, ambitious Nicholas Beecham might let slip at the end of it.

  *

  7.00 p.m.

  I’ve never appreciated buildings whose head-on idustrial-strength security lights make you dove and dive to spare your eyes; and The Vicarage was no different. My first question to myself was why had such a man living in a pleasant residential neighbourhood, gone to such lengths and cost to install such stuff? What could he be afraid of?

  Damn.

  CCTV as well, and too late to avoid it now. A discreet, grey funnel angled downwa
rds from the spent wisteria clinging to the front wall, and drizzle sparkled almost malevolently as I sussed out all the curtains on the house’s front elevation.

  No surprises there.

  Pale blinds covered all eight windows, while those either side of the front door, glowed silvery white in the reflected glare.

  Then I spotted the spyhole at my own eye level and wondered if the late Mrs. Beecham had agreed to such security, or if her death might have triggered it. I had to meet this widower in the flesh to determine whether, like his marginally younger brother-in-law, he could physically put up a fight.

  I was soon about to find out.

  But before I could ring the bell, the front door was being opened.

  “Come in, Mr. Lyon, do.” Came that same voice I’d heard twice earlier on the phone. This time, as smooth as liquid honey. Hitchcock’s device to hide poison.

  I hung back, not only waiting for my target to show his face, but because that same rotting smell which had accompanied my recent visit to Dr Lovell’s old house was, for some reason, here too. Without warning. Stronger, thicker, if that were possible. Sticking in my throat.

  “You need a drink of water,” the man who closely resembled his photo in yesterday’s still-missing broadsheet, pulled the door open wider. “You don’t sound terribly well.”

  As if on cue, the security lights went out, and between coughs, I asked him to confirm his name and that I was actually at the correct address.

  “I find those questions insulting, Mr. Lyon. I could ask the same of you, who could be anybody, for all I know. Anyone can steal an identity these days...”

  His voice seemed to fade as the stench intensified, clogging my nose, my lungs.

  I gripped the cold, brass door handle, suddenly unsteady on my feet. “Why’s that stink followed me here? “Can’t you smell it?”

  A perfunctory sniff. A shake of that big, pink head. “Not at all. In fact, my drains were cleared only last week.” He studied me more closely. “Followed you? From where exactly?”

  “Wombwell Lodge.”

  He blinked.