Virginia burst out laughing. “Same as always. Pinched her bottom and then when she shrieked and turned round to see who’d done it, he snatched the spoon out of her hand. She was stirring porridge at the time.”
Surely not. “Couldn’t she have dropped it? The spoon, I mean.”
Virginia shook her head. “No. Believe me, you know it’s being snatched. He really tugs at it until you have no alternative but to let go. She said the tighter she gripped the spoon, the more something tugged it away. When she let go, it was covered in porridge, but by the time it hit the floor, it had been licked clean.”
A sudden cold wave spread over me and I shivered.
Virginia frowned. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. We take it all in our stride here. It was a bit spooky at first, but we’re so used to them now, they’re like part of the family. I think I’d miss them if they decided to move house. And Christmas really isn’t Christmas without a little visit from Tiny Tim.”
“Oh. You mean as in Dickens? Christmas Carol?”
“He’s partial to mince pies. Well, put it this way: when he’s around, they have a habit of disappearing. Fancy a cup of tea?”
I reckoned life with Virginia would be anything but dull. “That would be great, thanks.”
“I’ll show you the guests’ lounge and then you can put your feet up and chill out for a bit.”
I followed Virginia back through the hall and into a cozy room built for comfort, with large chairs and settees to sink into and yet more old photographs on the walls.
Virginia pointed to a door on the far side of the room, marked “Private”. “We’re through there, but if you ever need anything, just knock. The other key on your key ring is for the front door. If you could make sure it’s locked when you go out, I’d be grateful. We don’t get many stray people wandering about, but best to be on the safe side.”
“No problem.”
“Right, I’ll get that tea for you.”
I wandered over to a display of leaflets and found a guest handbook, where Virginia and someone called Jerry had written a few notes on places they found interesting. I’d just found the section on local places to eat when Virginia returned.
“Where would you say I’d be best going on a Saturday night?”
She set down the tea tray. “Indian, Chinese, Italian or steak and chips?”
“Steak and chips tonight, I think.”
“Believe it or not, the local pub a hundred yards away does some of the best steak and chips for miles around. The Feathers, it’s called. Shall I call them for you? Best to book at weekends.”
“That would be great. Thanks. Around seven?”
“I’ll call them now.” She left me alone.
As I relaxed, I thought over what Virginia had said about the resident ghosts. She had sounded so matter-of-fact about it. As if nothing could be more normal than having a collection of spirits around the place.
Virginia returned within a couple of minutes. “You’re all sorted. Seven o’clock in your name.”
“Thanks. Where would you suggest I start my tour tomorrow? I think I need a few pointers.”
Virginia sat on one of the armchairs and crossed her legs.
“It’s a bit tricky really. In four hundred years, quite a lot of the buildings have disappeared. When you read your book, you’ll learn about Malkin Tower, where the old witch, Demdike, lived. No one’s sure what happened to that, but it’s long gone and its location is up to a lot of speculation. They discovered the ruins of one building and said it might be Malkin Tower, but pretty much everyone has dismissed that. Carre Hall, where one of the alleged victims lived, was pulled down in 1954, I think. Read Hall exists but it’s not the same building. That’s where the magistrate who first arrested them lived. Alice Nutter, one of the convicted witches, lived at Roughlee Hall. That’s still there, in the village of the same name, but it’s been turned into private flats, so you can only see it from the outside.”
“So there’s really nothing left then?”
“There are some places where the lesser characters lived. They’re argued over too, but you can get a real feel of the environment they lived in just by driving and walking around. Not much of the landscape has changed, and when you look up at Pendle Hill with the gray clouds swirling and the rain and wind lashing at you, you’ll get plenty of authentic atmosphere. And believe me, there are more days like that than not. I know you haven’t come prepared for long hikes, but have you got something waterproof and boots of some kind?”
“I do actually have a pair of strong boots in the car, warm socks and a waterproof jacket. My late husband and I had a couple of holidays in Ireland.”
Virginia smiled. “Sounds like you’ve come prepared.”
“Any more ghosts I should know about?”
“None have ever been reported in your room. There’s one in here. Tends to move stuff about. Magazines turn up on top of there.” Virginia pointed to the top of a wall-mounted bookcase.
“Good grief! How do they get up there? It must be twelve feet high.”
“Just over ten actually, but if ever one goes missing, it’s usually there. Almost always one of the celebrity ones too. The National Enquirer or something similar. Martin reckons he’s just got good taste.”
I laughed. I liked the sound of Martin. “Does your husband help you run this place?” When I saw Virginia’s expression darken, I wished I hadn’t asked. After all, what this woman’s husband did for a living was none of my business.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I…” Clumsy. Now I’d only made it worse.
The half frown left Virginia’s face and the smile returned. “Jerry’s away, so you probably won’t meet him. My brother Martin helps me run things in his absence. You’ll see him at breakfast.”
From nowhere, a sudden thrill coursed through me, although I had no idea why.
It didn’t seem as if I’d upset Virginia by my blunder, and I felt glad. She was probably the only person I had held a friendly conversation with, apart from Dawn, since the day of Rich’s funeral. Yet I hadn’t even missed it until that moment. Now I felt glad I had someone to talk to while I was here.
Am I making progress, Rich?
But my thoughts went unanswered.
A couple of hours later, I sauntered down the hill to the pub for my evening meal. I opened the door on a half-timbered room where clusters of customers were sitting at tables, chatting and drinking. Smiles, laughs, people enjoying themselves. I felt comfortable right away.
The friendly barman spoke with an unmistakably Lancashire accent. “What can I get you?”
“A large white wine, please. I’m Laura Phillips. I have a table reservation for seven o’clock.”
“That’s fine. Shall I put this on your tab?”
“Yes, please.”
“If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll bring your wine over to you, and a menu.”
“Thanks.”
I decided on a table by the window, where I could sit and watch the world go by. The menu and glass of wine appeared almost immediately.
“You here on a visit?” the barman asked.
“Yes. I’m interested in the history of the area.”
“Oh, you’re here for the witches then.” He smiled. “Where are you staying, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Just up the road. Barrowbrooke Farm.”
The barman’s face clouded over. “What brought you there then?”
“It had twenty five-star reviews on TripAdvisor.”
His eyes opened wider. “Really? That does surprise me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When I went up past there not a month since, the place was falling down. I wasn’t surprised they weren’t getting any paying guests. Until you arrived of course. And last time I looked on TripAdvisor, which was a couple
of weeks ago, they weren’t even listed. On one of the other review sites, two customers had given them one star, saying they would never go there again. They said the place was filthy, decayed and should be condemned.”
“They must have been talking about somewhere else. It’s lovely. And Virginia Davies is such a welcoming person.”
“Is she now? Well, you could be right. Or maybe those two reviewers had scores to settle with her, or that brother of hers. You want to watch him. Not to be trusted, that one. If I were you, I’d keep my distance from him.”
The barman left me to it while I studied the menu, but the words danced around the page. How strange. Either he had been talking about another guesthouse entirely, or else Virginia and Martin had renovated with supersonic speed. As there had been no smell of fresh paint around—and surely there would have been after only a couple of weeks—there had to be another explanation. And what about the warning to steer clear of Martin? Again I felt that inexplicable thrill of excitement at the thought of this man I’d never even met. Swiftly followed by a pang of guilt.
I don’t know why I felt like that, Rich. Hormones, I expect. I could never be unfaithful to you.
So why did I feel the need to transmit that mental message then?
There was no reply.
I pushed my uncomfortable thoughts aside and concentrated on the guesthouse. How could Barrowbrooke Farm have received all the great reviews I’d seen on TripAdvisor in the two weeks since the barman had checked? And anyway, surely some of them were at least a year old, maybe older. Something about the barman’s tone had jarred with me. It had been barbed. He didn’t like Martin and seemed ambivalent about Virginia too. He hadn’t mentioned Jerry, so when he returned with my meal, I decided to find out what he knew.
“Do you know Virginia’s husband?”
He hesitated before replying. “Never met the chap. I believe he works away. Only ever seen her—and that brother of hers of course.”
“Have you lived here a long time then?”
“All my life. My father had this pub before me.”
“Oh, so you’re the landlord?”
“I am, yes.” He put my plate of rump steak and chips down in front of me and held out his right hand, the smile now back on his face. “George Nowell. Nice to meet you.”
I smiled and shook his hand. I glanced behind him at the bar. A middle-aged barmaid didn’t seem under any pressure, so I felt I could detain him a little longer. “I’m curious about what you said earlier. I got the impression you didn’t like Barrowbrooke Farm or its owners very much.”
He gave a light laugh. “You could say that. They just appeared one day, announced they’d bought the place and were turning it into a guesthouse. Days later that’s exactly what they did, and in the four years since, they’ve made no effort whatsoever to fit in with the rest of us. We’re a friendly bunch around here and everyone gets on with everyone else. We may be in competition, but we believe there’s room for all of us, so we share information, and if any of us are full up and get another inquiry, we recommend one of the others. But those two… They’re not interested. I can’t remember them even sending any of their guests here for dinner, until she rang to book you in today. She was downright rude to my wife when Jean suggested she and her brother come down to the pub for a welcome drink and a chance to meet her neighbors. They’d only been here a couple of weeks. You’d think they’d have made an effort to be pleasant, if nothing else. But oh no. Not Virginia Davies. And as for that brother…” His lip curled, and to my astonishment, he clenched his fist. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off that fist. White-knuckled. “And in all the time they’ve been here, you’ve never met her husband?”
“Never even clapped eyes on him. If he came in here, I wouldn’t know him.”
“Has anyone else seen him?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But I can’t say it’s a major topic of conversation at the bar, so I couldn’t be sure. But people don’t like them. There’s something…” He hesitated, seeming lost for the right word. “Different. That’s it. There’s something different about them, and none of us can fathom out what it is. Be careful. That’s my advice, for what it’s worth.”
I tried to ignore the cold, trickling feeling that traveled up my spine, thanked him and ordered another glass of white wine.
As I ate my steak, I watched people go past outside. Across the narrow road, a tall, slim man, probably around my age, strolled down the hill. His long, unruly black hair lay on the shoulders of his black leather jacket, and I realized I was taking in his appearance in some detail. Maybe he sensed me watching him as his eyes met mine through the window. Dark, searching eyes. A faint smile. Then he had gone past, out of sight.
I felt a little flutter in my stomach. That sudden thrill was back again. But I couldn’t allow feelings like that.
The climb up the hill, on a full stomach, proved rather more challenging than the stroll down. As I turned in to the drive, my breath came a little hard. Too little exercise in recent months. Still, I could soon sort that out with some good, long country walks.
The lights were on in a number of the guesthouse windows and still the same three cars were parked next to mine.
I made for the guest lounge. Empty. I switched on the TV and flicked through the channels. A film looked promising, so I settled down to watch it but couldn’t concentrate. Comedy it might have been, but it failed to raise even a giggle with me.
Half an hour into it, I gave up and switched off, just as I heard the front door open and close. Footsteps sounded along the stone-flagged hall. By the sound of them, male footsteps. The door handle turned and then I recognized the man I’d watched through the window of the pub. Of course it was. The thrill teased me again.
He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth against his tanned complexion. Tanning booth or outdoor living? It didn’t look as if this man, in tight, black leather pants and matching jacket, would get his hands dirty on the land.
“I’m Martin Davies. Virginia’s brother.”
Davies? But surely that was her married name?
“Laura Phillips. I’m staying here for a few days.”
“Yes, I know. Virginia told me.” He reached out to shake my hand.
Our hands met. A sudden flashing image, gone almost before it arrived. Fog descending over Pendle Hill. Someone sobbing and a feeling of utter despair. Then it vanished and I wondered if I’d imagined it.
I dropped Martin’s hand and he looked at me curiously.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t know what happened. I suddenly had this blinding headache. It’s gone now, thank goodness.”
Martin came closer. “Maybe you’re tired. Did you enjoy your meal at the Feathers?”
“Yes. Very nice.” How lame that sounded.
“Landlord doesn’t like me much. I went out with his daughter for a few weeks. He accused me of breaking her heart.” He laughed.
I smiled. “And did you?”
“Not intentionally. It was only a bit of fun.”
“Maybe she thought it meant more than that.” What on earth was I saying? I’d only just met this man and I’d already offered him thinly veiled criticisms of his love life.
It didn’t seem to faze him. “Fancy a brandy? I’m having one.”
“Thanks. That would be…” I’d nearly said “very nice” again. What was the matter with me tonight? I settled for, “Yes, please.”
He nodded and left the room. Martin’s dark good looks reminded me of a long-dead rock star whose name I couldn’t remember. He’d been enigmatic and a little dangerous—adjectives surely anyone would apply to Martin Davies.
He returned in a couple of minutes, two brandy glasses in his hands, containing generous measures of cognac. He handed me one.
I took a deep swig a
nd felt the liquid warming me as only a good cognac could.
He answered my unasked question. “Rémy Martin.”
I savored the aftertaste and then asked a question that puzzled me. “I’m curious. Your surname is Davies and so is your sister’s, but I understood she was married. To Jerry?”
“That’s right. Jerry Majewski. She hated the name, so she stuck with Davies.”
Martin sat back on the comfortable armchair opposite me and crossed his legs.
With another pang of guilt, I realized part of me savored every move of that long, lithe body. The rest of our conversation for the next twenty minutes or so concerned local restaurants, cafes and nearby villages.
“You must go to Newchurch,” Martin said. “You’ll find a shop called Witches Galore. Very amusing.”
“I’m going there tomorrow. Virginia’s little guide book mentions it.”
He nodded. “As you’re interested in the witches, have a look in the churchyard while you’re there. You’ll find a gravestone of one of the Nutter family. Some say it’s Alice, who died at the end of a hangman’s rope in Lancaster. But of course that’s impossible.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because she was buried elsewhere. At least, her earthbound body was.”
An odd turn of phrase, but too late to explore it now, especially as I could barely keep my eyes open. It had been an eventful day for me. And, for once, a full one; even if I did feel confused about my reaction to Martin. I drained my glass and stood up. “I think I’d better go to bed now. I’m really sleepy. Thank you for the cognac.”
Martin immediately stood too, only a few feet away from me. Now, for the first time, I got the full benefit of his eyes. Dark brown—almost black—and penetrating deep inside me, as if he was searching for something. I had to look away.
“Goodnight, Laura.”
“Goodnight.” I could feel my heart fluttering, like it had when I first met Rich and he smiled at me. Yet more guilt kicked in; this time laced with confusion. As I reached the door, I became aware of something out of place. I looked up and gave a start. A magazine. Perched on top of the bookcase, as if deliberately thrown up there. Weird. I stared at it for a moment. What did I expect it to do? Come fluttering down, using its pages for wings? Ridiculous.
The Pendle Curse Page 8