by Amy Cross
I wait for him to finish, but to be honest I'm feeling a little creeped out.
“Is there not once instance,” he adds finally, “where you think maybe you saw one? Nothing you remember being... odd?”
I open my mouth to tell him he's nuts, but then I hesitate. For a few seconds, I consider giving his question some genuine thought, but then I feel a rush of anger in my chest at the fact that this guy's wasting my time. He's just some lunatic who apparently gets off on talking nonsense to strangers.
“Sorry,” I mutter, “I have to get going.”
“Have a nice evening!” he calls after me. “Remember what I said, though, and give it some thought! We've all seen them! We just have to admit it to ourselves!”
As I walk away, I fight the urge to turn back and tell him he's nuts. I guess there's no point, though. If he wants to be wrong, let him be wrong, that's his business. I know the truth. I've never, ever seen a ghost, and I never will. Because ghosts aren't real.
Chapter Twenty
Muriel Hyde
1910...
“There!” Jack says, stepping back from the shelves that he has fixed in the shed. “I told you I can be useful around the place.”
“I never doubted it,” I tell him.
“They should be able to take double the weight they took before,” he continues, “so now you've got no excuses for running low on items.”
“Indeed.”
He turns to me, and it's clear that my attempts at jollity have not been entirely convincing.
“Thank you,” I add.
“You're worried.”
“No, I -”
“How many customers do you have this evening?”
“Harry Tanner is -”
“Is that all? Drunk Harry?” He sighs. “You'd normally have more than that, especially with that fire going. And harry usually drags a few of his friends along. He's your most regular customer, but if even he's having trouble supporting you, then we both know there's trouble coming.”
“Quiet nights happen now and again,” I point out.
I wait, but he seems entirely unconvinced.
“Why does the brewery have to be so heavily involved in smuggling?” I ask, giving voice to a question that ha been troubling me for some time. “Other breweries get by just fine, without resorting to illegal activities.”
“Other breweries aren't headed by Randolph Hayes,” he replies. “The Hayes family have always been powerful, but Randolph has set his sights on the top. He married his wife purely so that he could take control her the Storford family brewery and fold it into his own company, and he's not finished yet. For him, smuggling is a way to leap straight past his competitors. He's clever, too. He knows who to pay off, so there's almost no chance of his men ever getting caught.”
“There have been murders on that beach.”
“Exactly. And they've been quietly forgotten already.”
“They were smugglers, though, weren't they?”
He nods.
“I don't want you to be involved in this anymore,” I tell him. “Jack, you can't keep putting yourself in danger.”
“I just need to do it for a little while longer,” he replies. “I need the money if I'm to have any hope of...”
His voice trails off.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Of making an honest woman of you,” he adds finally. “Of taking you away from here and giving you everything that you deserve.”
“I think it's a little late for me to become an honest woman,” I tell him, “and as for leaving this pub, I am not sure that I can do that.”
“You know what I mean.” He puts a hand on my arm, and I feel a shiver pass through my soul. “Now is not the time to panic, Muriel. One day, this little town and this little pub will be nothing more than memories. I just need you to trust me for a little while longer, and I promise that soon we'll be able to leave. You will come with me, Muriel, will you not? Tell me that you will.”
“Let me think about it,” I reply, even though I know deep down that leaving The King's Head is never going to be an option. “You know I trust you, Jack. I would trust you with my life!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Charley Lucas
Today...
“Ready?”
I pause for a moment, staring at the door, and then I turn to Dad. I feel strangely apprehensive, but I also know that we can't exactly change our minds now. A big banner on the wall declares this to be our grand opening, and we've put posters all over town. It's now or never.
“Ready,” I say firmly.
He nods, and then we both turn to Jennifer as she waits behind the bar.
“Ready?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, sure,” she replies, seemingly a little bemused by our pre-opening ritual. “Let's get 'em in, guys.”
I turn to Dad, and he steps forward and unbolts the door. Then he hesitates for just a fraction of a second before pulling the door open to reveal a couple of elderly men standing on the step.
“You're one minute late,” one of them grumbles.
“Am I?” Dad checks his watch. “Sorry, maybe mine's running a little slow. Anyway, please, come in and make yourselves at home.”
The two men shuffle slowly into the pub, and I can't help but feel that they seem a little unimpressed already. They're glancing around and, no doubt, making mental notes about all the changes Dad's made. I guess they were probably regulars here before, when the previous landlord ran things, and maybe they don't like the fact that Dad's taking things in a new direction. Still, at least they don't simply turn around and walk out, and I feel a sigh of relief as they both stop at the bar and order pints of beer.
Dad heads out and look out at the square, and I can tell that he's a little disappointed by the low turnout.
“More people'll come,” I tell him. “I'm certain of it. It's only 6pm, and no-one wants to be first to a party. I bet by eight this place is gonna be totally buzzing.”
“I'm sure it will,” he says as he turns to me, although it's obvious that the wind has been taken out of his sails just a tad. “And it's not just about ramming people into the place, is it? It's also about making sure that people have a good time, and that they come back. Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Totally,” I reply with a smile, hoping to keep him excited and motivated. “I've got a feeling this is going to be the start of something really big.”
***
By 10pm, my confidence is finally starting to look well-placed. We have maybe thirty people in the pub, which isn't too shabby considering our maximum capacity is supposed to be eighty. Everyone seems happy, and I've seen lots of people returning to the bar for seconds and third rounds. The cash register has been ringing non-stop, and the card machine's been struggling a little with so many orders. I think maybe, just maybe, this evening is turning out to be a success after all.
Of course, as well as thirtyish human customers, we also have five dogs who've come along with their owners. I made sure to have a water bowl ready, and my suggestion of having a dog treat jar is also paying off. Plenty of people have been buying treats for their canine companions, putting 10p in one of the charity boxes as payment, and so far all the dogs have been getting on handsomely.
I might even be tempted to say that tonight is going better than I ever imagined.
“This is amazing!” Dad says when I finally get a moment with him. “Charley, am I imagining things, or are people actually having a good time?”
“I think people are having a good time,” I tell him, as the door opens and some more people come in. “It's weird. It's almost as if you're doing a good job!”
He smiles and heads over to serve someone, as I turn to see that four women have come over to the bar. To my surprise, I recognize one of them from the cemetery the other day, and sure enough I step a little closer and see that she's brought her dog Bonnie along. I don't want to intrude or cause any embarrassment, but I wander over and pat Bonnie on the b
ack, and then I see that the woman has noticed me.
“Hi,” I say. “I'm glad you could make it.”
She looks past me, and to be honest she seems a little nervous, as if she'd rather be anywhere else.
“Gin and tonic, Judith?” one of her friends asks, nudging her arm.
“The usual, please,” she replies, before turning to me again. “I must admit, I didn't think I'd see so much life in the place. You and your father should be very proud of yourselves. You're working something of a miracle.”
“It's early days,” I point out, trying to hide the fact that I'm really pleased about her comments. “Dad's been doing so much to try to get the pub into shape. We're having a quiz night next week, if you're interested.”
I wait for her to respond, but instead it's almost as if she didn't hear me at all. She's looking past me, and after a moment I realize that she seems to be looking at one spot in particular. I turn and follow her gaze, which seems to be directed at the spot directly in front of the fireplace. Looking back at her, I feel as if she's almost in some kind of trance, as if she's barely aware of anything else around her. Even when a drink is placed on the bar next to her elbow, she seems entirely oblivious.
I want to ask if she's alright, but I also don't want to disturb her. This is actually getting a little awkward.
“Judith?”
One of her friends nudges her arm, causing her to spin around in shock.
“Sorry, old thing,” the friend says, “I didn't mean to give you a heart attack. Are you sure you're alright. You've been acting funny ever since we picked you up earlier.”
“I'm fine,” Judith replies, tying Bonnie to a nearby table before stepping past me. “I'm going to the bathroom.”
I watch as she walks away, and then I turn to the dog and see that she's panting at me.
“Oh, you've got Judith's book,” one of the women says, leaning past me and picking up the copy of Pubs of Malmeston: An Illustrated History by J. Sinclair that I left out for anyone who might be interested. “Maybe that's why she felt self-conscious.”
“I'm sorry?” I reply, not quite understanding.
The woman holds the book up for me to see.
“Judith's book,” she says. “They sell it in a few of the local shops. It's very good, although Judith tends to get a little embarrassed whenever it gets mentioned. Sometimes I think she actually regrets writing it.”
“I had no idea it was her book,” I reply, as I think back to our encounter the other day in the cemetery. I'm certain that Judith never even hinted that she had a personal connection to the book when she saw my copy. If anything, she was pretty disparaging about its merits.
“We keep telling her to write an updated version,” one of the other women says, “since this one's about ten years old now. I'm certain she's uncovered all sorts of other information, and it'd definitely sell, but she never seems to commit. I think perhaps she doesn't like sticking her neck out and acting like the local historian, even though everyone knows she's an expert. Her father was the same, he knew everything there was to know about Malmeston. When he retired, Judith took up the reins with gusto.”
“Pity she's so uptight about it these days,” one of the others adds. “I don't think she gets much joy from any of it.”
Surprised by the revelation that Judith Sinclair never thought to identify herself as the author of the book I was holding the other day, I look around and try to spot her. At first there's no sign, but then I see her emerge from the bathroom. I figure I should introduce myself again and maybe ask her some questions, but then I watch as she slips between some of the tables and heads through to the hallway that leads into the back garden. I guess it's possible that she's going to smoke, although after a moment I remember her comments the other day about smoking being absolutely disgusting. She also happened to mention that she's never smoke in her life.
I look over to check that Dad and Jennifer don't need any help, and then I go to see what Judith's looking for. As it turns out, I don't have to go as far as the beer garden at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Muriel Hyde
1910...
I can hear him in the next room, and I want so much to go and be with him.
As I stare up at the bedroom ceiling, I can hear Jack pacing about in the next room. I know that he is dreadfully worried, and all I can think about is that I should rush through and let him take me in his arms. That would be terribly wrong of me, of course, yet I cannot deny that my heart yearns for him. I know I am probably being foolish, but I want so much to be his wife. I want us to be respectable.
For that to happen, we must leave Malmeston, and we must do so before Randolph Hayes ruins us. Then we must go far away from here, and from my old hometown of York as well, for I know the past has a habit of catching up with everyone eventually. Indeed, even after we escape the clutches of Hayes and his brewery, there will still be the shadow of my old life. If Jack were ever to find out about what happened to me before I came to Malmeston, about how I gained the money I used to take over this pub fifteen years ago, I fear he would spit in my face and never dare look at me again.
Yet, I cannot leave here. Leaving this pub would be like leaving my soul behind, and I am not sure that Jack would ever understand why. I would have to explain everything to him, and he would have so many questions. I am not sure that I would ever be able to persuade him that I have done nothing wrong.
He coughs, and I turn to look at the bare, cold wall that divides us.
There are tears in my eyes now. Why can Jack and I not live as man and wife already? Why can we not take to the same bed? I know the answer, of course, and I know that none of Jack's sins come anywhere close to matching the terrible things that I have done in my life. I have tried, in my head, to separate my Malmeston life from everything that came before, yet I know that in truth this is not possible. The Lord knows all, He sees all, and he will never not see the black mark on my heart.
“I love you,” I whisper as I hear Jack coughing again. “With all my heart. Never forget that. I love you, Jack Farnham, and I will always stand by your side. I love you more than you can ever know.”
I can only hope that, one day, I will be able to say those words to his face. And then, that we will be able to let the whole world know of our love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charley Lucas
Today...
“Can I help you?”
Judith Sinclair turns to me, having been standing in the hallway and looking up the stairs. She seems momentarily startled, and then she clears her throat and comes over to join me by the door.
“I'm terribly sorry,” she says, “I was looking for the bathroom. I see to have taken a wrong turn.”
“I'd be happy to show you around, if you want,” I reply, stepping out of the way so she can get past. “Do you want to see upstairs?”
She stops and turns to me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.
“We don't have much furniture yet,” I explain, hoping to break the ice a little. “Dad hasn't even managed to get us beds yet, so we're both sleeping on the floor. Actually, I was reading a little of your book last night before I went to sleep. I hope you don't mind that I left it out in the bar, I just thought it was really interesting and that lots of people might want to take a look.”
“Everyone who wants to read that book,” she replies curtly, “has most assuredly done so already.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling as if this conversation is already going a little sour. “It's really interesting, though. I didn't know Malmeston had such a rich history.” I pause, worried that I might be sounding a tad obsequious. “Have you written any other books?”
“Not that you'd have heard of,” she replies.
I wait for her to elaborate, but instead she turns and looks up the stairs again. I'm getting a really strange vibe from her now, and to be honest I'm starting to think that she might be a little strange. After all, I'm half-convinced that s
he was going to sneak upstairs before I came through, and it's pretty clear that she has a lot of interest in the pub and its history. Then again, if that's the case, why did her book omit the whole story about Muriel Hyde's corpse being dug up and put on trial?
“Have you seen anything since you moved in?” she asks suddenly. “Or heard anything?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“You'd know already, if you had,” she replies, turning to me as if she's studying me somehow, as if she's looking for the truth in my expression. “You know, the brewery wanted to turn this place into flats. There was a plan at one point to knock it down entirely and build a whole new building on the site. I saw the plans, they were very modern-looking, but of course the local conservation groups made sure that the whole idea was scuppered.”
“That's good,” I reply. “It would have been awful if a nice old building like this had been demolished.”
“Would it?” she asks skeptically. “Perhaps that's what was needed. If they'd knocked it down and dug out the foundations, if they'd started afresh, perhaps nothing of the pub would have survived at all. I'm all for conservation, especially in Malmeston, but sometimes the past should be allowed to die.” She pauses. “Even if it tries desperately to survive.”
“What exactly do you mean?” I ask, surprised by her seeming eagerness for The King's Head to be razed to the ground. “This pub is hundreds of years old, like most of the buildings in this part of town. You don't really think it should be destroyed, do you? I mean, you're a historian!”
I wait for her to reply, but after a moment she takes a step back, almost as if she's scared.
“I wish you and your father all the luck in the world,” she says finally. “You seem like good people. There's sadness in this building, you know. Terrible sadness. Sorrow, even. I hope this place doesn't...”