Master of the Scrolls

by Benjamin Ford

  Mary waved her away irritably. ‘Do stop fussing, dear! I’m quite comfortable, thank you.’

  Shamefaced, Rachel dropped the cushions on the sofa between them. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mary patted her daughter’s hand reassuringly. ‘It’s quite all right, dear. You mean well. I suppose I shouldn’t be so ungrateful really. I don’t really deserve all this attention, do I? Not after the way I’ve shut Jeremy out all these years!’

  ‘He loves you, Mother.’

  Mary snorted derisively. ‘He loathes me, and you know it. I guess I deserve it! I should have made more of an effort to visit.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘Maybe it is we who should have made more of an effort to visit! Besides, it’s a moot point really. Believe me, in his own way Jeremy does love you, though he may not show it. He loves the way you are with Gloria, as he loves the way you are with me. What he hates is the house; Ravenscreag Hall really gives him the willies, and I mean big time! To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not overly fond of it myself. I never have been.’

  Mary was a little surprised. ‘You never once showed it!’

  ‘Well it was where I grew up, and until I moved down here with Jeremy it was the only home I had ever known. There was no reason to fear it back then.’

  ‘But there is now?’

  Something about her mother’s tone made Rachel look deep into the old woman’s eyes, but they were as inscrutable as ever. ‘You tell me!’ she said. ‘I’ve always had a feeling that there’s something sinister about Ravenscreag Hall, but back then, somehow I knew it could never harm me. Even so, I was glad to get away from the house!’

  ‘You never said.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I know. I felt foolish about the feelings I had towards my childhood home, and it was those feelings that really kept me from visiting for so long after Jeremy and I were married. Having a hectic schedule was just a handy excuse! And now… well, a Whitsun Bank Holiday trip once a year at most is more than enough!’

  She closed her eyes, clearly picturing the house. ‘There’s an aura about it, like it’s haunted. I can’t explain it any more than that. I sensed it as a child, though back then I had no understanding of what those sensations were. When I moved to London the feelings disappeared, but each time I went back they returned. I kept them under control for Gloria’s sake, and they haven’t disturbed me for some years now. But last week...’

  Her voice trailed off, and Mary picked up her words. ‘Last week the sense of foreboding returned?’ Rachel opened her eyes, nodding as Mary continued. ‘It’s hardly surprising. So many things have happened at the house… bad things.’

  Rachel stared at her mother, appalled. ‘What bad things?’ Apart from Gloria’s nightmares, she had no knowledge of any bad things that happened at Ravenscreag Hall… though it now helped explain the bad vibes.

  Mary stared hard at Rachel, wondering whether now was the right time to tell her everything she knew. She decided it would not hurt to enlighten Rachel to some of the dark family secrets buried deep in the past.

  ‘I shall tell you a few things about the history of our family, Rachel.’ Mary spoke in a hushed tone. Her daughter’s name rolled uncomfortably off her tongue; for so many years, she had called her daughter dear or darling, or any other variety of similarly euphemistic terms. Overcoming her surprise at allowing the name to pass her lips, Mary continued. ‘You know of course that our family has only lived at Ravenscreag Hall since my grandfather moved there around 1860?’ Rachel nodded. ‘He and my grandmother wished only to be left in peace, requiring privacy and solitude. That is why they moved up to the middle of nowhere; they wanted to be away from the prying eyes of the outside world. Unfortunately it was not to be.’

  ‘Something happened to them, didn’t it?’ whispered Rachel, leaning closer to her mother in eagerness. Rarely had her mother spoken of family history, and when pressed for stories of her youth, Mary had seldom said anything of any real interest. Rachel had always believed her ancestors to be dullards. Now it seemed she was about to find out that they were anything but.

  Mary nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it did. But before I tell you that story, Rachel, I should like to make that call to Gloria, if I may?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘I’ll fetch the phone and plug it in here for you.’ She laughed, almost to herself. ‘We have plenty of phone sockets all around the house, but only the one phone!’ She returned a few minutes after departing, placing the telephone on the arm of the sofa before reaching behind to plug it in. Rachel affectionately kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  ‘Tea for me, please.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘As you wish. I’ll brew a nice pot of tea.’

  ‘You don’t have to make a whole pot on my account. Just pop a tea bag in a mug.’

  Rachel grimaced. ‘That’s revolting! I have always brewed tea properly. I’ve never used a tea bag in my life, and I don’t intend to start now!’

  Mary chuckled. ‘I did bring you up well, didn’t I? I thought that after living in London all this time you would have lost some of the traditional niceties.’

  ‘Some of the niceties perhaps, Mother, but not many!’ Rachel paused in the doorway. ‘Mum?’ she said as she turned back to see her mother – the one who had been terrified of telephones all her life – dialling Gloria’s number from memory. Mary glanced up. ‘You were sincere – about Jeremy, I mean?’

  Mary smiled. ‘Naturally. I never say anything I don’t mean!’

  Rachel grinned. ‘Oh good!’ she cried as she disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen.

  Mary frowned when she obtained the engaged tone and hung up. She would have to try again later, but at least it meant Gloria had arrived home safely.

  She almost jumped out of her chair when the phone rang almost the instant she replaced the receiver. She gingerly picked it up again. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Turner, is that you?’

  Mary recognised the Scottish brogue immediately, and she wondered why Phil would be calling her daughter’s number. ‘Yes, Phil, it’s me. May I help you?’

  ‘Actually, it’s Gloria I’m trying to reach. I’ve been dialling her number since eight, but I can’t get an answer.’

  ‘Perhaps I might help you instead?’ suggested Mary, her voice surprisingly waspish. She sensed that there was a continued connection between her hired help and her granddaughter, and the prospect greatly displeased her, though not because she disliked Phil – far from it.

  Her thoughts were with poor Allan. It simply was not fair on him if Gloria was carrying on with Phil. She had met Allan only once, though not even Gloria knew of that clandestine meeting, and she had taken an immediate liking to the young man whom she felt was wholly suitable for Gloria to marry.

  ‘I mean no disrespect, Mrs Turner, but I really need to speak with Gloria. Is she there with you?’

  Mary could sense the deliberate delicate caginess of his reply. ‘No, she’s not. Tell me, why do you need to speak to my grand-daughter so urgently, Phil?’

  ‘I’d rather discuss that with Gloria, if you don’t mind. Do you know where she is, Mrs Turner?’

  Mary sighed. Whatever her feelings for Allan, and no matter how disapprovingly she might view any liaison between Gloria and Phil, she really had no right to interfere. It would not matter for long anyway. ‘She must be at home. I tried calling just a few minutes ago and it was engaged.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Turner,’ Phil replied, relief in his voice. He hung up before Mary had a chance to speak further.

  *

  An unpleasantly loud and incessant ringing was coming from very close to her ear, yet as much as she struggled to get away from it, the sound continued, persistently chasing her. Then it would stop for a short while, but the peace was short lived and it would return.

  Groaning, Gloria struggled desperately to surface from the blackness of sleep. The battle to wrench open her eyes was lost; she closed them again immediately when
the shaft of hideous bright sunlight streaking through the crack in the curtains exploded directly in her eyes.

  Shifting position uncomfortably, not really wanting to leave the enveloping embrace of slumber, Gloria cautiously reopened her eyes, blinking away the fog from her mind, and she sat up sharply. She felt as though she had been dreaming again, though she could recall nothing of it. No wonder she was still exhausted; she had probably been tossing and turning feverishly all night, getting precious little rest.

  Reaching across the bed, she grabbed the telephone as it once again started its infuriating ringing, clutching at her head as she did so. She very rarely awoke with a headache, and this one was quite possibly the worst she had ever experienced.

  ‘Gloria? Gloria, thank God!’ The familiar female voice on the other end of the phone screamed loudly, forcing Gloria to hold the receiver away from her ear with a wince. ‘I was beginning to think that something awful had happened to you!’

  Had her head not hurt so much, Gloria would have shouted her response. As it was she merely mumbled irritably, ‘Jesus, Lou, I’m not deaf. There’s no need to shout, I was just asleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gloria. Do you have any idea what time it is?’

  Gloria yawned. ‘Can’t even be eight o’clock. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet.’

  ‘Guess again, Gloria. It’s gone eleven!’

  It could not possibly be that late! Gloria turned to the other side of the bed and looked at her alarm clock. Sure enough, the digital display proudly proclaimed the time to be 11:16. The red dot that denoted the alarm was switched on was indeed illuminated, which could only mean she had not heard the piercing squeal of the alarm.

  ‘Guess I must have slept through it,’ she said, more to herself than to Louise.

  ‘That’s not like you, Gloria. Are you sure you are all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ sighed Gloria. ‘I expect I’ve been overdoing things a bit. What do you want, anyway? Where are you?’

  ‘I called round your house about half an hour ago, and I clearly couldn’t rouse you.’

  ‘So, you’re back in Old Blighty, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Such was her concern for Gloria’s well being that Louise had quite forgotten her own predicament, though it all seemed rather trivial now. ‘I could do with a shoulder to cry on,’ she said, anyway.

  Her head still throbbed, but Gloria frowned as she noticed a slight note of distress in Louise’s voice. She vaguely recalled the anxious tone of her friend’s voice on the answer machine the previous night, and cursed herself for being so witless as to have forgotten about it. ‘Okay. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at George’s house.’

  ‘George?’ queried Gloria, her furrowed brow deepening. ‘George Palmer? My gardener?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you can’t stand the man!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s really rather endearing when you take the time to listen to him.’

  In spite of her discomfort, Gloria laughed. ‘Are you feeling all right, Lou?’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you. Is it all right to call round again?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll unlock the back door for you.’

  Gloria hung up, slipped into her dressing gown and carpet slippers, and made her way down stairs. She unlocked the back door and poured a glass of water to wash down a couple of aspirin, then collected the morning mail and newspaper before settling herself at the breakfast bar.

  It really was a mystery to her how she could have slept so late, through the alarm, not to mention – she imagined – Louise hammering on the front door and shouting out to her. Moreover, how many times had the phone been ringing? She did not feel as though she had slept particularly restful the previous night, and she knew she had dreamt again of Isabella, and of Samuel Wylams, but the details of the dream were hazily enshrouded in mists within her muddled mind.

  A dull aching throb in her left arm permeated the fog of her headache. Upon investigation she discovered a neatly tied bandage which, when dislodged, turned out to be covering a rather nasty looking gash. She recalled the tussle at Ravenscreag with Wilma; however, something else very nearly connected within the deep recesses of her memory, but the stray thought evaporated before it could fully reveal itself.

  I really must stop frowning, she thought idly to herself as once again she felt a furrow of consternation crease her brow.

  But she could not help it. She felt that something was not quite right, like a piece of some mental jigsaw was missing. It was as though she had forgotten something of vital importance, without ever realising its significance when she had known it.

  She could vividly remember her visit to Ravenscreag Hall, how Wilma pretended to be Samuel Wylams. On the other hand, had she been pretending? Gloria still could not decide the truth about that. If Peter and Isabella’s spirits had taken over both Phil and her, then it was equally possible that Sawyl Gwilym’s spirit had taken over the body of poor demented Samantha Wilma McFadyen.

  Sawyl Gwilym!

  Sawyl Gwilym?

  From where had that name sprung? It meant nothing to her, yet it somehow seemed oddly familiar. Someone was playing tricks on her mind, robbing her of her memories, and that thought unnerved her immensely.

  She was deep in meditative contemplation, staring blankly into space, when Louise arrived a few minutes later.

  Having opened the door rather noisily and noticing Gloria seated at the breakfast bar, Louise stood silently in the doorway, wondering whether she should say anything to break Gloria’s near trance-like state. She jumped as the telephone started ringing.

  Clearly unaware that her friend had arrived, Gloria reached for the telephone automatically without even glancing in its direction the instant it started ringing. She listened to the voice on the other end, smiling serenely. When she spoke, it was not her own voice. ‘Peter, my darling.’

  The shock of hearing a strangely seductive husky voice come from Gloria’s mouth jolted Louise backwards. However, the voice did not shock her the most; Gloria’s words appalled her more.

  ‘Yes, I miss you too. The time is almost upon us. Mayhap a few days more, and I shall be freed from my prison. You must learn patience, Peter Neville, as I have. I shall let you know when the time is right.’ She paused to listen to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, I should like that too. No, not today. On the morrow? Then when?’

  Tears trickled down Louise’s face. She wanted to know exactly what her oldest friend thought she was playing at. One thing was clear – Gloria was arranging some secret assignation, with some rogue named Peter Neville.

  She’s being unfaithful to my brother! I can’t stand here and listen to this!

  Tears still streaming down her face, Louise backed silently out of her friend’s house, not even trusting herself to speak, and ran all the way back to George’s cottage.

  ‘Fine,’ Gloria continued, blissfully unaware that Louise had observed her. ‘I shall see you in two days. Farewell, my darling.’

  She replaced the receiver and shook her head as though to clear it. She stared at the telephone in confusion. She could have sworn it had started to ring, yet it was silent. Obviously, she had been mistaken.

  I must be losing my mind, she thought, once again completely unaware that Isabella’s spirit had manifested its hold over her body. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly half past eleven. ‘Where on Earth is Lou?’ she muttered. Well, she can let herself in if she arrives while I’m getting dressed.

  Gloria paused as she stood up, intending to return to her bedroom. Hope the wind doesn’t change, her subconscious mind thought sardonically, as yet another frown appeared. The back door was wide open. Though she had unlocked it, she knew she had not opened it. She walked over and peered outside, but there was no one there. Very odd, she thought as she closed the door, checking to see that the latch was functioning properly. It was another little mystery to add to her growing list.

 
Without giving the matter further thought, she went upstairs.

  *

  Since it was clear that Louise had a lot on her mind, George had decided to allow her a while alone with Gloria before he went to collect the bags of grass clippings, and so he pottered about his own garden.

  He looked up sharply; his finely attuned ears picked up the sounds of running feet and female sobs long before the woman came into view. When he saw it was Louise, her eyes streaming as she bolted down the lane, stumbling on the uneven cobbles, he dropped his hoe and rushed from his garden, and the distraught woman collapsed into his arms.

  ‘Hey now, Little Lady,’ he whispered comfortingly as her tears soaked the shoulder of his white tee shirt, ‘what’s the matter?’ He was surprised that she was clinging so tightly to him, and her entire body trembled uncontrollably as the tears flowed amid her incoherent mumblings. ‘What you needs,’ he added, propelling her into his cottage, ‘is a stiff drink!’

  Louise made no protestations as he manhandled her with grubby hands. She sank into one his astonishingly comfortable easy chairs in his cramped living room, taking the brandy he offered her without question, draining the glass in a single gulp, which then elicited much coughing and spluttering from her. When she recovered a degree of decorum, she handed the glass back to George with a weak smile. ‘Thank you.’ She dried her eyes and blew her nose on the surprisingly clean handkerchief he handed her in exchange for the empty glass.’

  ‘So, you gonna tell me why you’re so upset?’

  ‘It seems like you were right after all. While Allan’s been away, Gloria’s been cheating on him with some guy called Peter Neville.’

  George looked suddenly thoughtful, and then shook his head, as though trying to clear his thoughts. ‘I jested afore. I have seen no one else around her place whilst I have tended her gardens, and I recognise not that name. I have seen Miss Schofield and Master Barncroft together, and they clearly are in love. I am assured she would not cuckold him!’

  ‘That’s what I believed too, but I heard her on the phone, arranging to meet him… this Peter Neville, that is!’ Louise felt fresh tears welling up in her eyes and fought to compose herself. ‘Had I not heard the call, I wouldn’t have believed it!’