“Well, we're off!” says Bill.
Rachel slides down the window, risking a lungful of coal smoke so that she can bid farewell to haunted London. As the platform seems to slide past with increasing speed, she sees a bright red government poster urging people to save fuel by asking, IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY? Oh yeah, you bet!
“So, you find out anything about Madam Castanos' baffling scrawls?” she asks Bill, while closing the window.
“Oh,” he says dismissively, “it seems to be mostly just that. Impressive to look at, but incomprehensible. There's a distinct whiff of the Voynich Manuscript about it.”
“What's that?” asks Charlotte, lounging on her bottom bunk and lighting a cigarette.
“An obscure book with lots of illustrations that's written in no known language. A lot of people think it's just nonsense.”
“So you believe our large medium is, in fact, a fraud? Despite everything we've told you, everything we've seen?” asks Tony, clearly irritated that anyone should doubt Rachel's word after she confides in them.
“No, I didn't say that. I don't doubt that strange things happen,” says Bill, in a comforting tone. “I just mean that, with mediums, you can't easily separate real supernatural occurrences with self-deception and showmanship.”
“Well, if you can't make anything of it, maybe I can have my notebook back?”
Bill looks slightly embarrassed.
“You know, I'm not sure if I brought it.”
Rachel feels a slight flash of anger at his carelessness, but then reflects that they're all going to be spending some time together, starting with a night in the cramped carriage.
“Well, okay, no big deal. Besides, it's work, and that's what I'm trying to get away from.”
They get their baggage stowed and then settle down on their respective bunks. Rachel kicks off her shoes and lets the rhythmic sound of the train lull her into a doze.
***
Ted Marlow begins his rounds of Furniss Manor just after his evening meal, while it's still twilight. He tells himself this is because he's an old man now, and can't face the plummeting temperatures after dark. And after all, why not lock up and have an early night? The new master and his guests will be arriving tomorrow morning. But the real reason he's roaming the corridors of Furniss at dusk is that strange things happen in and around this old house, especially at night, and Marlow is keen to shut himself up in his little bedroom with Martha until first light.
If we didn't really need the money I'd quit this damn job tomorrow.
The old chorus runs round Marlow's head as he checks doors and window shutters from the inside. He puts on his old army greatcoat, picks up a flashlight, and goes out to circle the building once. He moves as fast as his arthritic legs can carry him. He notices the chapel, barely visible in the half-light. He checked it earlier, before sunset. Nothing could make him go near it now.
When Marlow reaches the halfway mark in his patrol, it starts to snow, and soon, visibility is near zero. He sticks close to the house, within reach of the wall. Silence is somehow more intense in falling snow, his crunching footsteps the only sound. He pauses for a moment, listens.
Did I hear another footprint just a split-second after I stopped? Or was it just an echo?
He sets off again, and this time he is sure that someone else is walking in the snow, not far behind, matching his steps almost perfectly, stride for stride. Almost, but not quite. He speeds up and the other walker copies him. He begins to run despite his shaky knees, and as he stumbles through the ever-growing drifts of snow, he's sure someone is keeping pace with him.
Gasping for breath Marlow rounds the corner of the house and stops, aghast, at the sight of a towering figure in the torchlight, a giant seemingly about to pounce on him.
No, it's just one of them bloody statues!
He runs around the pedestal and reaches the steps to the front door, which he accidentally left unlocked. He's inside in a flash and slams the heavy door shut, secures it with heavy bolts, then locks it for good measure.
Marlow presses an ear to the door, straining to make out any sound from outside. There's nothing, of course.
As if you could hear anything through two inches of solid oak.
He laughs nervously to himself and sets off towards the servants' quarters at the back, eager to share his little scare with his missus. The old girl will have a mug of hot milk waiting for him. She'll be sitting by the fire stitching socks. He anticipates a good scolding for treading wet snow into the house with his boots, as well.
He stops to wipe his eyeglasses, which have misted up. He replaces them and only then sees clearly enough to notice something odd. He stares at the damp trail on the black and white tiles of the grand entrance hall. There are patches of water and slush behind him, leading to the door. But there also damp footprints ahead of him, leading across the hall, along the route he takes every evening?
“Martha?” he calls, tentatively. No reason why she should be within earshot, of course. No reason why she should have gone out and come back in with wet feet, either. But someone trod melting snow across the hall just a few minutes ago.
“Stop!”
The words is barely audible, a hoarse whisper from somewhere behind him. He turns and catches a glimpse of something standing in front of a dusty full-length mirror, a gray transparent figure that's gone as soon as he sees it. Marlow wonders if his eyes are playing tricks on him.
One thing Marlow is sure of, he's not going to stay in the hall a moment longer. His heart pounding, the old man rushes to the door that leads to his quarters and flings it open. The wet trail leads along a dimly-lit passage to the half-open door of the Marlows' bedroom. He sees that a light is on and hears the thin sound of an orchestra playing a jitterbug.
The radio's on. So Martha's all right, then. Maybe she did just pop outside, perhaps to look for him? After all, she does worry about me.
Reassured, he walks quickly along the passage and into the room.
“Martha, love, have you been ...” he begins.
Then he sees in the dim glow of the bedside light a substantial form under the bed-covers.
Poor old girl, she's had a long day, and she's worn herself out worrying about that poor lass that's gone missing. Best let her sleep.
On a small table, a tin mug of warm milk stands next to the radio. Marlow goes over, turns off the music, and carefully pulls back the covers from his side of the bed. Then he strips down to his long underwear, climbs into bed, and picks up the mug, cupping his hands round it for warmth. It's only then that he notices something odd. There's a dank, rancid odor, as if a small animal has crawled behind the wardrobe and died.
“God, that's foul!” he exclaims aloud.
The shape at his side stirs under thick layers of blankets.
“Sorry old girl, did I wake you?” asks Marlow. “It's just that there's this terrible stench.”
If anything, the smell is getting worse.
“I'm just going to check and see if it's a dead rat or something,” he says, and starts to get out of bed. As he does so, his foot comes into contact with something cold and moist. It should be the flesh of his plump wife, but instead it yields like a damp sponge. He jerks his foot back, gaping in horror as the thing in bed with him starts to move. It heaves itself heavily upright as Marlow tries to escape and, tangled in bed-sheets, falls heavily to the floor.
“Oh don't go! We're just getting acquainted!”
The thing whispers at him, with a ghastly smile. The stink it exudes is, now, almost stifling.
“Get away from me!” screams the old man as the massive intruder climbs off the bed and straddles him, its enormous belly almost obscuring a repulsive, grinning face.
“Ted, poor old Ted, it's time for your bed-time! Time for you to have your well-earned rest, old man! Don't you worry, Ted, I'll see you safely into the Land of Nod. Just let me give you a goodnight kiss!”
Marlow is trying frantically to push himse
lf away across the floor with hands and feet but he's still tangled in the sheets. The huge glistening bulk descends on him, almost crushing the air out as flabby fingers fasten onto his skull. He gasps for breath as a shining, near-human face descends upon his and cold blubbery lips cover his mouth. He feels the life being sucked out of him as the foulest odor imaginable fills his tortured lungs.
***
Rachel wakes from a bad dream that fades almost as soon as she opens her eyes. She shudders, remembering only the unpleasant feel of the nightmare. There was a sense of something vile crushing or sucking the life out of her. For a second, she thinks she's at home in London, then hears the mechanical refrain of a train at top speed.
“You awake, love?”
Tony whispers down to her from the top bunk.
“Yeah, was I making a noise?”
“You sounded as if you were fighting for your life, just then,” says Charlotte.
Rachel turns her head and sees the red glow of a cigarette.
“Do you never stop smoking?”
“Keeps me thin and alert, darling! What was troubling your sleep?”
“Can't remember.”
Suddenly, there's a terrible sound, which to Rachel sounds somewhere between a motorbike engine starting up and a pig rooting after truffles.
“Is that Bill snoring?” asks Rachel.
“Why do you think the rest of us are awake?” says Tony, ruefully. “I wonder how he can sleep through his own racket. One of life's mysteries, I suppose.”
“How do you stand it, Charlotte?” asks Rachel.
“Oh, we don't sleep together after we . . . erm–”
“Sleep together?” finishes Rachel, to general amusement.
“Look, I'm sure Bill didn't mean to leave your notebook behind,” Charlotte whispers. “He's a gentle soul, despite appearances, and he always means well. I think he just has a lot on his mind; you know, war work. He never talks about it, but I can tell it's a burden.”
“It's okay,” says Rachel. “I really don't need the notebook. I just fancied having another try at deciphering Madame's spirit messages.”
“Well, we've left her a long way behind,” says Charlotte, firmly. “We are heading for the North country, under the open sky, and all that healthy outdoors nonsense.”
“Quite,” adds Tony. “So long as you don't mind roughing it. There's just an old couple, a caretaker and housekeeper.”
“Oh, we'll be fine,” says Rachel. “It'll be a big adventure, like camping out indoors.”
“Oh, God,” says Charlotte. “I'll be dead in a week.”
***
“I'm sorry, Madame, but they've gone away,” says Ruby, bracing herself for a scolding. She holds out the lavender-scented envelope that she was supposed to deliver to Rachel's flat.
“Where did they go?” asks the medium, anxiously.
“Well, the woman in the flat downstairs, said they'd gone on an 'oliday up North. But it seems a funny time of year to be doin' that, don't it, Madame?” Ruby, surprised at not being rebuked, blurts out.
Her employer snatches back the note without another word and strides to her writing desk. She takes a chain from around her neck and uses the key on it to open a drawer that Ruby has often wondered about.
“Come here, Ruby.”
Madam Castanos hands the maid a sheaf of impressive-looking documents.
“My last will and testament is in the care of the legal gentleman whose address is on those letters. If I do not return, go to him. He will see you are provided for. Take these other papers, they are stocks and far better than mere cash. They are yours, all of them. You have been my only family for a while now, and deserve much more.”
Ruby is astonished. The mistress has never shown her the slightest sign of affection or taken any interest in her life. And now this.
“But, Madame, why–”
The medium holds up her hand for silence.
“No time to explain! Pack my bags for a long journey, lay out my best Russian furs and walking boots. Then arrange for a taxi to take me to whichever railway station provides trains to the north of this godforsaken country. I will also need a map of the Scottish border region and some other items.”
As Madam Castanos rattles off her instructions, Ruby notices something else she's never seen before. She has seen the great medium angry, stern, miserable, but until now, she has never seen her show fear.
When Ruby leaves with a long list of demands ringing in her head, Madam Castanos retires to her couch again. She is shaking with emotion, knowing that she is about to break a promise to herself that she made many years ago; she is going to do something brave.
Chapter 5: The Living and the Dead
The Flying Scotsman arrives at Newcastle on a cold, dark February morning. The train crosses a river and Rachel sees a smoke-blackened industrial city, lit by weak streetlamps.
“Last outpost of civilization before Scotland!” says Tony. “England's northernmost city.”
“Why is it called Newcastle?” she asks.
“Because a new castle was built here around 1100 AD,” says Bill.
And that, she thinks, is this country in a nutshell. They're up to their necks in history.
As she steps onto the platform, Rachel sees a policeman in a cloak and pointed helmet emerge from smoke and steam in the pre-dawn gloom. Her mind still dwelling on history, she thinks of Victorian Gothic novels, and the horrors of Jack the Ripper. The officer speaks to the conductor, who points at Tony.
“Major Beaumont?” asks the policeman.
“Yes? What can I do for you, officer?” replies Tony.
“Would you mind coming with me to the Stationmaster's office, sir? Detective Inspector Croft would like to talk with you.”
“Can't you tell me what it's about?” asks Tony, exchanging a puzzled look with Rachel.
“I'm sorry, sir, it's a confidential matter.”
They cross a black iron bridge spanning the platforms of the steam and smoke-filled station and reach the main office, where a balding, paunchy man in an overcoat introduces himself as Croft.
“Perhaps we could go inside for a private word, sir?” he asks Tony.
“We'll just wait outside, if that's okay?” replies Rachel. After her initial confusion, she is annoyed, now.
“It'll be fine, darling,” says Tony. “Why not go and have breakfast? I won't be long.”
The prospect of British railway food does not appeal much to Rachel. But it's freezing out on the platform, so Rachel and Charlotte grab a table in the cramped, dimly-lit restaurant while Bill gets their orders.
“I'm sure it's nothing,” says Charlotte.
“It's definitely something,” Rachel points out. “Cops don't hang around on station platforms for their health.”
“Probably to do with the war, a lot of things are. Maybe Tony stole some paper-clips when he left his last job? If so, he'll only be sent to the Tower for treason, no worries!”
Despite herself, Rachel laughs. She can always rely on Charlotte for jokes, scandalous gossip, and general support in a crisis.
“Still, it's not a great start to our little vacation, is it?” she muses.
Bill returns balancing a couple of trays.
“Amazing how they can make rationed food portions seem even smaller, isn't it?” he asks, before setting the breakfasts down and going back to the counter for drinks.
“So how did you two, you know, get together?” asks Rachel.
“Oh, we met when I started writing a series of articles about psychics. He rang me up and said he was interested in helping, which is why we ended up visiting Madam Castanos.”
“You put the word out you wanted to talk to experts on the paranormal?”
“Oh, no,” replies Charlotte. “He said he just heard about me from someone at a party. I forget the name. But it was a bit of luck, wasn't it? I think I've struck gold with this one.”
Rachel makes a neutral noise, unwilling to jump into the m
inefield that is Charlotte's love life.
Sensing Rachel's doubts, Charlotte says, “Oh, I know, I always say that. But this time, there's no wife in the picture, no dubious business connections, and no bizarre preferences in the bedroom. Just a regular guy who loves me for myself!”
“I'll believe that when I see you walking down the aisle!”
The conversation is cut short when Bill returns with yet another tray.
“What looks like really horrible tea for us two, and something resembling coffee for you, Rachel.”
They pay attention to their unappetizing food for a while before Rachel asks, “Do you think they'll keep him for long?”
“No.” says Bill. “Chances are someone at the Ministry just wants to talk to him. Stationmaster's office has a phone, remember.”
“I hope that's it.”
“Or it might be something to do with the house,” Bill goes on. “You know, a burglary or something. A lot of these remote old stately homes are tempting targets for thieves.”
“That would be just awful for Tony, finding his new inheritance ransacked!” says Rachel.
“I doubt it's that, anyway,” adds Bill. “There's a caretaker, after all.”
Tony finally arrives, and sits down next to Rachel.
“Well,” he says, “Seems they found a body on the grounds of the house and are obliged to tell me. Very considerate of them.”
“The phantom strikes again!” jokes Charlotte. “Sorry, a bit tasteless.”
“After the Blitz on London, we're all a bit casual about death and destruction, I suppose,” put in Bill, patting Charlotte's hand.
“So we're still okay to go to Furniss Manor?” asks Rachel. “I mean, is it safe?”
“Oh yes, there's no problem with the house itself,” he says. “What's more, the Inspector offered us a police escort up there, which should save some time.”
***
Ted Marlow roams the big house, plaintively calling out for his Martha. He has no idea where she can be. In fact, he can barely recall anything now. His mind is muddled, except that his wife of thirty-odd years is gone and he misses her so much that it hurts.
The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Page 5