She was just changing her damp blouse when the phone rang.
‘Kelly speaking,’ she answered as she flipped the small device open.
‘Hi there, Kelly, Graham Zatz returning your call. What can I do for you?’
‘Oh Graham, thanks so much for getting back to me.’ She sat at the desk, careful to keep her back to the mirror and buttoned her shirt as she spoke. ‘I need to pick your brain for an assignment I’m working on here in England.’
‘Fire away, be glad to help in whatever way I can.’
Kelly detected a slight smile in his voice and couldn’t help responding in kind. ‘I need to know what to be looking for if I think a place is bugged. I have a situation where I know there is surveillance, but I cannot find anything at all. The place has apparently been professionally swept, but I don’t trust it. Can you help?’
‘Sure. Give me your email address and I’ll send you some pics of the latest in spy gadgetry. They can be incredibly small, but equally expensive so if you are being watched, someone is paying big money to do it. Any idea why?’
Kelly had been afraid he’d ask that question. ‘It’s a very long story so I won’t bore you with it now since you’re paying trans-Atlantic phone charges.’
That brought a laugh down the line. ‘Not this bunny. One of the perks to this job is to be able to communicate around the world at no cost.’
‘Still, at this stage I can’t reveal too much. Perhaps after I’ve finished the assignment I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Over dinner?’
She pursed her lips. He was pleasant enough though not in the least her type, but dinner she could do. ‘Sounds nice.’
‘It’s a date then.
‘Check out the images I send, and make sure you pay particular attention to the dimensions. Some are incredibly small. If you still can’t find the items let me know and I’ll get the name of the best expert there in London. Actually, I’ll track him down and include his contact details in the email. Give me a couple of hours to load all the images. I hope you’ve got high speed cable or satellite. The file might be slow in coming otherwise.’
‘It’ll be fine. Thanks, Graham, you’re a life saver.’
‘The problem that serious?’
She chuckled. ‘Not at all – just a figure of speech. I’ll wait for that email and if your information solves the problem, I’ll buy that dinner when I get back to LA.’
‘We can argue about it when you get here. I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Me too.’
As she rung off she chewed her inner lip hoping she hadn’t just led the poor man on. Her divorce had made the headlines back home so he’d know she was now a free agent and she recalled he’d once made a pass at her, a few years ago, just before she met Frank.
Turning to the mirror, she wondered whether she should find some spare sheets and cover the thing so she could sleep without fear of being watched. But then, there was no way of knowing how she was being watched, or from where. She didn’t dare ask Nancy for another room – that would be impossible to explain without revealing that she’d made contact with their ghost.
The four-poster had fancy bed curtains, she’d simply close them on all sides and pray that the camera wasn’t hidden within the headboard somewhere.
The rest of her evening passed without any appearance from the phantom, adding more weight to her suspicion that the poor actor was taking a break from his performance. Graham’s email, when it arrived, was quite large and unfortunately she didn’t have a printer available so she saved the images to disk and promised herself she’d find somewhere in London, on Wednesday morning, to print them up.
Still a little tired from the flight and the change in her body clock, she begged off dinner and took herself to bed for an early night.
So, she thinks to hide behind the curtains, does she? John Tarrant mused. While he couldn’t see her, he could hear the slow even breaths that signalled a deep and sound sleep. He’d watched her earlier, as she conversed with her little handbox, but made certain not to reveal himself. After the revelations he’d bestowed upon her about Elizabeth and his predicament, he felt it prudent to allow her a little time to digest his tale. Already he had placed his cause in jeopardy by behaving rashly. No matter how eager he was to garner her help, he knew that a steady onslaught would be the only way to successfully breach Kelly’s wall of disbelief.
He wanted to laugh whenever she mentioned the possibility that he was an actor – an imposter. Never in all his days would he have lowered himself to such an occupation. From the moment of his birth he had been bound for the life of a titled gentleman, and in time would have inherited the earldom in his sire’s place; master of a number of estates situated in various English counties, had he not succumbed to this dreaded torment.
He remembered seeing the fragility in his mother’s face when she arrived from London and Edward announced John’s fate so callously. Even then Edward’s madness had begun.
At first, Edward lied to her … saying that his death had been an unfortunate accident. But he knew she never really believed the tale that he had fallen into the deepest well on the estate.
As the weeks passed, and the madness set in, Edward couldn’t resist slipping hints – snatches of information – that suggested John had firstly raped then murdered Elizabeth, before taking his own life.
John had railed against the mirrors, again and again, wanting desperately to tell her it wasn’t all true. Yes he had caused Elizabeth’s death, and yes he should remain in hell forever for his sin – but he did not rape her! He’d loved Elizabeth like a sister and would never have touched her in that way. And he did not take his own life. But Edward was the only one who could see him, and his cousin relished the anguish that he caused both mother and son.
After Edward’s demise, his mother remained in her rooms, steeped in her grief that her son was a murderer and worse. Over time she grew paler and more reclusive, refusing all but the most basic necessities of life.
He would have traded anything to make her smile once more.
John’s greatest regret was that his mother had gone to her Maker still believing that he had done all the things Edward implied. If and when he ever escaped this hell, John vowed to seek out his mother’s spirit and set the record to rights.
With a defeated sigh, he again listened for the shallow breaths of the woman who was destined to either save him, or condemn him to another twenty years of waiting.
Kelly’s earlier conversation had awakened in him the yearning to see London once more. How different it must be now if the marvels he had seen, just within this house, were indications of the happenings in the world beyond. The people who had frequented these halls in the hundred and forty years that had since passed not only dressed differently, but they spoke differently. Gentlemen had ceased to be polite with their ladies … and the women – for they could no longer be considered ladies in the true sense of the word – were loosely spoken and far less mindful of their husbands’ wishes. A man like him would doubtless be ill-fitted to survive in the world as it had become. But – just once before his own death, if that were ever to occur – he would dearly love to walk about in this new world and learn what had become of the society he knew and understood.
Journal of Edward James Ditchley,
Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England.
November 16, 1861
My Elizabeth, I again must beg your forgiveness. If you were watching, please believe that I did what I did to avenge you. I have no tender feeling for Anne. She is merely a tool to torment your foul murderer. I wish you had seen his face when I waylaid her upon the stairs. It was obvious he had never so much as touched her as the passion of my kiss left her quite pliable in my arms, despite her initial protests of mourning. She even allowed me to caress her breast before she regained her wits. I assure you, my love, that her body does not hold any attraction but I am determined to have her accept my proposal of marriage. It will make you
r murderer writhe with anguish. He stole you from me, and I shall return the compliment.
3
Day Two
‘I should be back in time for dinner,’ Kelly assured her friend as she climbed into the taxi.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to borrow the car?’ Nancy asked. ‘Cabs are going to be awfully expensive.’
‘I still have to arrange for an international licence. Besides, I wouldn’t dare try to drive on the other side of the road after being here little more than a day. I’d much rather take in the countryside and enjoy the trip. And according to my map Abingdon isn’t very far.’
Nancy pushed the door closed and stepped back to wave her off. ‘If you get lost, or need anything, just call. Tom could probably drive over to pick you up after the new stable doors have been fitted.’
‘Don’t be silly. I promise not to get lost and I now have a good idea of the quickest route to Abingdon. Barnsley lives off Ock Street, just outside the town centre.’ The last was said loudly enough for the driver to hear. Cost mightn’t be an issue but she wasn’t going to be fooled a second time.
The driver didn’t appear to react but Nancy grinned with comprehension before again reciting the names of the main road they should follow. She leaned into the cab and kissed Kelly’s cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself. Do a bit of sightseeing as well. Don’t just work. Abingdon is full of history.’
‘I will, and if I don’t get to see much today, I’ll make sure I go back before I return home to LA.’
Nancy nodded then retreated as the driver revved the engine.
‘Bye!’ Kelly called as the car began to move.
The township of Abingdon was indeed steeped in history, claiming the title of England’s oldest town. Kelly was disappointed that she’d missed the Monday Market by only a day, a tradition that had apparently endured since medieval times.
Thomas Barnsley lived in a small, white cottage at the edge of the town surrounded by a low, wooden fence in need of some repair and a pretty garden filled with tiny, pink flowers that Kelly didn’t recognise. The man himself was tall and thin with a skeletal look about him, but his smile seemed welcoming and his handshake firm. His clothing reminded her of a character from an old black and white movie she’d recently seen, however, it took Kelly less than five minutes to decide she genuinely liked the man. He projected an underlying sense of dignity that held his back rigid and his head high as he led her to his parlour, yet beneath that dignity she perceived a sense of humour that would have made the devil proud.
His house was a dimly-lit, nondescript concoction of browns and beiges, occasionally punctuated by splashes of gold and red that beamed out from the Turner prints scattered about the walls. Barnsley directed her to a heavy, sculpted dining table littered with dusty books and scraps of paper and bade her to sit.
A diminutive, grey-haired woman, who might or might not have been Barnsley’s wife since he continually referred to her simply as ‘woman’, served the obligatory cup of tea, along with buttery cakes and shortbreads.
Barnsley sat opposite Kelly in a straight-backed chair and studied her through steepled fingers, the skin transparent with age. ‘So you are interested in Stanthorpe House down the vale a bit.’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Looking for the ghost like all the others, I expect.’
‘Well, not really,’ she said with a slight hesitancy. ‘I’m a journalist. Stanthorpe is about to be opened as a hotel so I’m interested in anything you can tell me about the house itself and of course the stories of the ghost are a part of that.’
‘Happens every twenty years or so,’ he commented after a pause. ‘Someone always comes looking about the ghost. The legend being what it is, I’ve come to expect it. Don’t worry young woman, I don’t think you’re crazy.
‘M’grandfather told me the story. He was a lad when his grandfather first spoke of it. Now,’ he leaned forward in his chair and caught her gaze in his hazel stare, ‘I cannot say whether it be true or not, because it is one of those tales that’s been handed on and handed on – and the telling always changes the story somewhat, but rumour had it that a young viscount, John Tarrant, had committed murder and was killed in revenge. Another story said he committed suicide in remorse but the laws being what they were, the land and titles would have gone to the Crown so the cousin needed to fabricate another tale or lose his inheritance.
‘The papers don’t say which, of course.’ He leaned back in his chair and resumed his steeple-fingered pose. ‘Officially, John Tarrant is said to have drowned, but you’ll find that detail in any of the surviving documents.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Kelly urged.
‘I’m not sure of anything, mind you, but greed being what it is – I’m fairly convinced that the young viscount died at another’s evil hand. Whose hand, is the question. The records mention an account by the valet, and the cousin Ditchley, who inherited. But as far as I could find there was no burial and the body was never found. Some say he escaped to the colonies after the murder. Whatever did happen, the ghost hasn’t revealed it to anyone thus far.’
Kelly shifted in her chair, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Does that mean you believe the ghost really exists?’
To this he gave a short and throaty laugh. ‘Young woman, no man can live in a town like Abingdon all his life and not believe in ghosts. I once, in my teens, ventured to Stanthorpe to take a look for myself, but alas I timed my visit wrongly and missed the appearance by some weeks. April of ’41, as I recall.’
‘Have you ever spoken to anyone who did see the ghost?’
Barnsley’s eyes seemed to cloud over.
‘There was a boy about seventeen or eighteen – a distant relation of the owner … ’81 the year. After two nights in the master suite he ran off in terror. The father said he’d been smoking those “maryana” drugs we always hear about, so proclaimed the boy’d been hallucinating. Put him into a sanitorium, I believe … don’t know what happened to him after that.
‘If you’ve a mind to speak to him,’ Barnsley began sifting through some of his papers on the desk, ‘I think I noted his name here some place or another.’
‘Thank you, it might be helpful.’ She glanced down at her list of questions. ‘While you’re searching, is there anything you can tell me about the current viscount?’
Barnsley’s eyes darted up. ‘Don’t know that there’s anything of interest there. From what I hear he is the kind that gives the peerage a bad name – always carousing and womanising. I dare say he hasn’t worked a day in his short life and had some pretty big debts before those hoteliers stepped in with their offer. Nice pair. Will probably do a sight more for the place than the Ditchleys ever did. Aha!’ he dragged a slip of paper from the pile and held it up before her. ‘Knew I wrote the lad’s name down somewhere. Here we go …’ he squinted at the scratchings on the page. ‘Michael Babcock. Must be late thirties by now. The father’s name was Eric Babcock … a cousin of young Ditchley’s mother, Laurel. Family lived near Northampton. Not titled, but fairly well-to-do, shouldn’t be too difficult to track them down.’
‘Do you know what happened to Tarrant’s cousin Edward?’ Kelly’s curiosity couldn’t let her leave before she knew.
‘Strange tale, that one,’ he rubbed a temple with a bony finger. ‘After inheriting Stanthorpe, he married Tarrant’s intended and she bore him a son. Rumour had it that Ditchley beat his wife mercilessly throughout the short marriage. Not long after the birth, she apparently lost her mind and in a murderous rage, killed Ditchley. Her family stepped in and had her placed in the madhouse. Can’t say as how long she lived after that. In those days an asylum was usually a death sentence.’
‘And the son?’
‘The wife’s family took up residence and cared for both the son and Tarrant’s aging mother until the son, William, reached his majority. Some say that he was tainted by his mother’s madness. Served in the second Boer war, I believe. Not sure if he died then, or j
ust after, but his wife and two children never saw him again.’
For the next hour Kelly asked Barnsley further questions about the building itself and its various stages of development, although the conversation invariably circled back to the stories about the ghost.
‘Well, that’s certainly a lot of information for me to proceed with, Mr Barnsley.’ She slid back her chair. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for your time.’
Barnsley stood. ‘My pleasure, young woman, I’ll escort you to the door.’
He came around the table to take the lead, his gait slow but proud and erect.
At the door she shook his hand. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Not at all – call on me anytime. If I learn anything else, should I telephone you?’
‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. Here’s my card. I’m not sure of the number at the manor, but I’ll ring and let you know when I get back.’ She turned to leave then a thought struck her. ‘I’m told that Edward kept a journal. You wouldn’t know where it can be found, I don’t suppose?’
Barnsley grinned, showing a row of even, slightly yellowed teeth. ‘Ah, the perennial mystery. Unfortunately, no one knows. People have searched … supposedly at the ghost’s request. But to this day the journal has never come to light, sorry to say.’
Kelly nodded her understanding. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘I hope you call in again, young woman. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.’
Returning his smile, Kelly headed down the walk and turned onto the lane that would lead her back to the main road into Abingdon.
When she’d gone only a few yards down the road, she stopped, spun about and retraced her steps. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed, ‘of all the stupid things – and I call myself a journalist,’ she continued in disgust as she headed back up the cottage steps.
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