It wasn’t long before she returned with a number of books. There was also a microfiche, and even a video recording. ‘Here you are.’ With a triumphant smile, she dropped the pile of books before him. ‘These should tell you what you want to know.’ With that she returned to her counter and the long line of impatient people. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said coolly. Her smile put them at ease and soon she was too busy even to glance at him.
Bent over the books, Dave flipped through musty old pages, frowning when they revealed nothing. Laboriously he studied one book, laid it down and opened another. An hour passed, then two hours, and still the frown remained. When the last book was closed, he sat up in the chair and stretched his aching back, astonished to see he’d actually been there for two and a half hours.
‘Have you found anything helpful?’ The librarian was enjoying a quiet ten minutes.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ Taking a deep breath, he held it for a while, then let it out with a weary smile. ‘Maybe I’ll have better luck with the microfiche and video.’
‘I’ll set it up for you if you like.’ Against her better judgement, she was drawn to him. ‘If you don’t know your way about them, the machines can play havoc with you.’
The smile turned to a friendly grin. ‘You’d better do it for me then,’ he conceded. ‘I’m not in the mood to be played havoc with.’
As it turned out, the machine behaved impeccably, though it yielded nothing about the young woman or the lane where he had first seen her. ‘This material refers to other roads, other counties,’ he informed the librarian. ‘I had no idea there were so many Bluebell Hills. Are you sure you haven’t got any more information relating to Bluebell Hill in Bedfordshire?’
‘This is all we have.’ Rewinding the tape, she explained, ‘I asked the computer to highlight everything on Bluebell Hill. It would have searched for every piece of information available.’ She paused. ‘But maybe it’s under another heading.’ Collecting the pile of books, she led him to the counter. ‘What exactly is it you want to know?’
By this time he was desperate. ‘I simply want to know if it’s haunted.’
She took a moment to think about that. ‘We’ll try under “Haunted”,’ she said, going over the keyboard with lightning fingers. There was a pause while she waited for the machine to answer. When eventually it came up, she quickly ran her eyes over the screen. ‘Nothing.’ She sounded as disappointed as he was.
Dave had an idea. ‘Try “Strange Happenings”.’
‘I doubt there’ll be anything under that,’ she said, but entered it all the same. ‘Well, I never!’ Her smile was like the dawn of a new day. ‘Here it is. Bluebell Hill, Bedfordshire. Reference B/64397.’ Clicking the button to ‘Hold’, she wrote the number down. ‘Come with me.’
She went across the floor like a mother hen leading her chick. ‘Shelf B,’ she muttered, tapping the pencil against her teeth. ‘Here we are.’ Running a long finger along the shelf, she came to the slot where the documents should have been. ‘That’s funny.’ The triumphant smile slid from her face. ‘There’s nothing here.’
Another voice intervened. ‘They’ve gone missing.’ It was the senior librarian. ‘They disappeared off the shelves about a week ago. I know that because they were there when I did the stocktaking ten days ago, and they weren’t there when I had a request for them yesterday.’
In his frustration, Dave asked who had requested them only yesterday.
‘I’m sorry,’ the senior librarian replied. ‘I can’t divulge confidential information. We have entered them as being stolen and we’re taking the usual steps, but I’m afraid there are no guarantees that they’ll be returned. Thousands of books go missing each year and less than half are recovered.’ To her mind, it was the worst crime.
Not knowing what to say or do, Dave thanked them. ‘I’ll leave my name,’ he said. ‘If they turn up, please let me know.’
All three walked back to the desk, but it was the senior librarian who dealt with him. ‘What was it you wanted to know?’ she asked casually, while writing his name.
He shook his head. What was the point? ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered dejectedly.
She peered up through her spectacles. ‘We’ll need your address, please.’
He gave her his address and phone number, intently watching while she keyed it into the computer. After all this, he was leaving nothing to chance.
‘Strange,’ she mused, looking up to study his face, ‘we’ve had no requests on this particular reference for a long time, and suddenly, in a matter of weeks, you’re the third person asking after Bluebell Hill near Ampthill. Mind you, I’m not surprised there’s a lot of interest,’ she went on. ‘People do love a mystery, don’t they?’
He stared at her. ‘What mystery?’ He hardly dared hope.
Her grey eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed you were like the others, interested in the paranormal – apparitions, that kind of thing.’
‘Are you telling me the lane is haunted?’ Excitement rose in him. Maybe it hadn’t been a wasted morning after all.
Flustered for a moment, she collected her thoughts. ‘Well, yes, or so they say. A young woman has been seen wandering the lanes, though of course there’s no real reason to suppose she’s a ghost.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe in such things, but then it’s just as well we’re not all the same, don’t you think?’
Dave was thrilled. ‘This young woman, what else do they say about her?’
‘That she wanders the lanes. That she seems to be searching… waiting.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s all I’ve ever heard, I think. I never take too much notice of such talk. Some people have over-active imaginations. Sorry I can’t be more help, but if the missing material turns up, we’ll be in touch.’
Dave drove away jubilant. ‘I know for sure now, that young woman is real – or something. Whatever she is, I’m not the only one to have seen her, so at least I know I’m not going crazy.’ It was remarkable how the knowledge lifted his spirit.
Suddenly, like a lead weight, his spirit fell. ‘It still doesn’t change the fact that she’s attached herself to me. And for what reason? Who is she? Somebody must know.’ He only had to tap beneath the surface of his mind to find the answer. ‘The old lady… the painting. Of course!’ Anger took hold of him. ‘She knows something. I’m certain she does.’
He swung the car away from the roundabout. There was only one way to find out and that was to ask her, face to face.
Twenty minutes later he manoeuvred the car along the winding track. As he straightened up to approach the house, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The house was a blackened shell!
‘God Almighty!’ Slamming on the brakes, he sat there, unable to comprehend what he saw in front of him. That beautiful old house was reduced to rubble, window frames charred and crumbling, its roof open to the skies. He leaped out of the car and ran towards the house. The acrid smell of burning lingered all around. For one awful minute he wondered if the old lady was still inside. And where was Cliona Martin?
Peering through the remains of what had been a window, his horrified gaze took in the extent of the damage. Every stick of furniture had burned to cinders, the walls were black and scarred and the carpet was like a layer of ash on the ground. But as his eyes turned towards the spot where the piano had stood, he gasped with amazement.
The piano was undamaged.
Intrigued, he climbed in. Going to the piano, he touched it, feeling it sound and hard beneath his fingers. ‘How could that be?’ he wondered aloud. ‘It isn’t even scorched.’ Something urged him to glance up, and when he did he was shaken to his roots. Staring down at him was the face of the young woman. Like the piano, the painting had been spared.
He stood for a time, just staring at the face, thinking how very beautiful she was. His every instinct told him to leave that place but his feet wouldn’t do what his br
ain asked of him. She held him there, and he was powerless to move away.
After a while the inexplicable force that rooted him to the spot seemed to ease. Unsure of himself, he lowered his gaze, afraid to look on her face again, and made his way out, through the hallway to the front door which was now loose on its hinges. The house had a cold, hostile feeling, clinging to him, like many clawing fingers. And yet he could feel heat beneath his feet, burning through his shoes.
He heard her then. She was calling his name, over and over. Like an echo it bounced off the walls, ringing in his ears, deafening in its softness.
When, eager to get away, he tripped and stumbled, he put out his hand to save himself, flattening it against the door. Pain seared through him. ‘Jesus! The door’s still burning!’
Outside, he stood staring at the ruined house. ‘How did this happen? When?’ He saw now that there were flames rising from the back of the house. Surely the fire brigade would have stayed to make sure the fire was properly out.
As he continued to stare, he felt cut off from everything he knew and loved. It was a chilling sensation.
Familiar sounds from the woods began to take on a different nature, playing on his mind and filling him with fear. The wind rose up in anguish from the tree-tops; the skies above grew black, and as flocks of birds blotted out the sun, the valley resounded with their plaintive cries. In the distance, soft at first, came a strange buzz. Even while he listened, fascinated, wanting to leave, not wanting to leave, the sound began to swell, crushing his eardrums, heavy and rhythmic, like the many feet of a marching army. And her voice, rising above it all, calling his name. Driving him to madness.
Suddenly he was running, a great weight pressing down on his back, as though in some strange way he was being pursued. He knew then. If he didn’t make good his escape now, he never would.
In that moment before he climbed into the car, he looked back, and was so shocked he felt his knees go from under him.
Where only a moment ago he had seen a house reduced to a burnt shell, it now stood as it had always stood. Proud and lovely, it was bathed in bright sunshine, more reminiscent of a summer’s day than a day in January. And there were people on the lawn. They were laughing, enjoying a picnic. Suddenly the child turned and opened her arms, and his heart turned over.
‘Daisy!’ He heard his voice call and yet it didn’t sound like him. Filled with a terrible dread, he ran forward, arms outstretched, calling her name. There was a glance, a smile as she realised who it was, and then, before he could take her in his arms, she was gone.
For a long time he pounded on the door where only minutes before he had walked through the charred doorway, burning his hand as he fell. He looked at it. There was no blister. No pain. It was as though he had imagined it all.
Fired by rage, or madness, he broke down the back door and ran through the house. There was no sign of life. No sign of Daisy.
Some time later, when he was far enough away from the house to breathe easy, he went over the experience in his mind. ‘What’s happening to me?’ he whispered. But he had no answers. All he knew was that he must find his family and make sure they were safe.
The rage was still on him, a rage he had never felt before, destructive, vengeful. ‘It started that night at the restaurant,’ he told himself. ‘They knew.’ He was growing more convinced of it. ‘He’s gone now, but she’s still there.’ His mind was made up. ‘It’s time I paid a visit.’
He thought of Libby and the kids, how Libby had suspected he was having an affair, and he knew that whatever he said, she would not be easily convinced otherwise. Before he had taken her to that restaurant, everything was wonderful. Since that night there had been a sense of unease between them. And lately there had been arguments. It had been that way once before and had left his life in ruins. It must not be allowed to happen again. His family was all he had, and he would do whatever it took to keep and protect them.
He drove into town and found a space in the multistorey car park. He ran through the shopping mall, peering in every window and round every corner. Anxious, he stood under the clock, his troubled eyes searching every passing face. After a time, he looked up at the clock, realising with a shock that it was already three thirty. ‘Maybe she’s on her way home,’ he muttered, hoping he was wrong. But the mall was open until eight p.m. and with May along, Libby might not get home until soon after that.
Deciding to check the car park to see if her car was there, he made his way back through the crowds of people. Suddenly he heard a child’s laughter. ‘Daisy!’
He swung round and there they were, Libby and May, chatting together, and the children, teasing each other as usual. ‘Thank God.’ He didn’t approach them or make his presence known. ‘I’ve got things to do,’ he muttered. ‘See you all later.’ He ran back to the car park. When he saw there was a queue for the lift, he went up the stairs at a run. There was no time to waste.
Collecting the car, he strapped in and was quickly away, relieved to have seen them. ‘At least they’re safe,’ he muttered, following the spiral that would lead him to the exit. ‘But for how long?’ A cold hand squeezed his heart.
The rage still bubbled beneath the surface. It had not left him. Nor had the knowledge that until he was free, his family would remain in danger.
‘Larry Fellowes knew, and so does his widow.’ That was where he must go. That was his destination.
As he drove on, the rage grew cold and hard inside him.
The old man was asleep. ‘Wake up, you!’ Digging her bony fingers into his shoulder, Ida screeched in his ear, ‘I’ve got something important to show you.’
Opening his eyes as though the lids weighed heavy, the old man turned his gaze on her. From the look on his aged face, he recognised who she was. Unblinking, he continued to stare at her, tasting her hatred yet not understanding it.
Taken aback by the brightness in those wise, searching eyes, she was momentarily mesmerised, unable to look away, yet finding it wounding to look on him. ‘You bastard! Don’t look at me like that.’ Clenching her fist, she brought it down on his face again and again, stopping only when she had drawn blood.
The red, meandering rivulet wept down his cheeks and on to the bed, staining the sheet. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you bad old man,’ she said sweetly, her manner mellowing. ‘I’ll have to change the bed all over again. What a nuisance, and only because you can’t do as you’re told.’
He looked away, igniting her anger again.
‘Look what I’ve got here.’ Reaching down, she drew a tattered old suitcase on to the bed. ‘It isn’t really mine,’ she confided. ‘It belonged to someone I loved and I have to keep it safe. You see, there is no one else.’ Tears blurred her vision. Impatient, she blinked them away. ‘I expect you recognise it. Look.’ She held it closer. ‘It’s very old, like you.’ Affection trembled in her voice. ‘In all these years I’ve never let it out of my sight. Even your son didn’t know about it. He didn’t know anything.’
Closing her eyes as though in pain, she hugged the suitcase to her breast, stroking her hands over its cracked leather surface. ‘He didn’t even know I was his own sister,’ she whispered hoarsely.
She watched him then, wondering how he might react. But he lay there, like he had lain there these many years. ‘You didn’t know either, did you?’ she goaded. ‘Oh, there were times when I was sorely tempted to tell you. Then I thought, no! Why should I? I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready. When I know the time is right.’ Cackling now, she ran her fingernails down his neck. ‘I can do whatever I like to you,’ she whispered, ‘and you can’t do a thing to stop me.’
Again, he turned his gaze on her. Pained, stricken eyes stripped her soul. He had seen all there was to see in this world and now he longed for the next.
Her manner changed abruptly. ‘You can’t hurt me, but you hurt her, didn’t you, eh? You hurt her until she screamed for mercy!’ Words became sobs and she was so choked with emotion she found it h
ard to go on. Dropping her head to the suitcase, she hid her face, taking a while to recover.
When next she looked at him, it was with a smile. ‘I’ll show you what’s inside, shall I?’ Excited now, she opened the lid of the case, her finger pointing to the wording there. ‘Do you see that?’ Grabbing him by the hair she jerked his head round, making him look. ‘Do you see the name?’ Running her finger along the letters, she said the name slowly, making certain there was no way he could mistake it: ‘Julianne.’ Releasing him, she went on, ‘That’s who it belonged to, Julianne. You haven’t forgotten her, have you? Oh, dear me, no. We can’t allow that, can we now?’
She lovingly caressed the suitcase. ‘She gave this into my keeping, and I’ve guarded it ever since. It’s all here. Things that have never seen the light of day since it came into my keeping.’ Dipping into the suitcase, she took out a silver-backed hairbrush. ‘Look at this.’ She held it close to his face. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Oh, but she had such good taste.’ She sniffed it, then pressed it to the old man’s nose. ‘You can still smell her perfume. Julianne always wore the same, wonderful perfume. She was such a beautiful, sensitive woman. Feel it.’ Taking his hand in hers, she wrapped his fingers tightly round the handle. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it,’ she whispered, making him brush his own wispy hair, and pressing it so hard into his scalp that the skin was soon red.
Feebly he tried to struggle free. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, old man, does it hurt? I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be hurt, however bad you’ve been. She was too kind. But I’m not, you see. I’m a little bit wicked, like you.’
He gasped, as if fighting for breath.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Pushing the suitcase to the bottom of the bed, she hooked her hands beneath his armpits and sat him up as best she could. But she was older now, and her bones ached more these days. Slapping him gently on the back, she was relieved when his breathing eased. ‘Don’t you dare die on me,’ she said crossly. ‘We have so much more to talk about.’
Seeker, The Page 18