by Beverley Lee
Carver ran a more traditional business certification alongside the other classes intended to help students hone their craft. But his students never had to fall back on the business idea. It was a smokescreen, a failsafe meant for the day someone came to him and failed. But Carver knew that no one failed. If they stayed, it was because they were all gifted, sent to him as the product of an educational system which believed that anyone could fit into neatly defined compartments. Over the years, many had passed through the doors, and many had gone on to other private ‘institutions’, well versed and confident in their talents.
Olivia watched silently, the glow from the flames reflected in her pale face.
‘There’s no one in there,’ she said, and Noah wondered how she could be so sure. He wiped his mouth with his now grimy handkerchief. Carver said that she could see the dead, the ones who hadn’t yet crossed fully over. Noah had no reason to disbelieve, but it still shook him to the core if he dwelt on it too much.
Olivia suddenly turned and went back to her car with no farewell greeting. The crunch of tyres sounded against the gravel as she reversed, and the engine roared as she put her foot down on the accelerator of her blue Mini.
‘That girl needs a strong man to leash some of that attitude,’ said Tom, spitting on the road.
Noah thought it would take someone with the patience of a saint to put up with her outbursts, and saints were in short supply in the twenty-first century. ‘She’s young and hot-headed, Tom. Give her a few years, she might settle down.’
A short, terse laugh erupted from the old farmer. ‘If I was a betting man, Reverend, I’d hold you to a wager.’
‘I’m heading back to the station. There’s nothing more I can do here. I’ve got paperwork to start,’ said Linton, sighing.
‘I think we’re done too. You want a lift back?’ said Tom, already walking to his Land Rover.
Noah followed, really wishing he had a little bit of Olivia’s pushiness. He was too much of a soft touch.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia Taverner pulled up outside the pointed arch doorway of The Manor. Two coach lanterns on either side of the stonework welcomed her home.
The house slumbered under a sky slightly fogged from the grey smoke drifting over the fields. She climbed out of her car and eased her shoulders back. The drive home from Somerset had been one continuous stop-and-start with road works and minor accidents.
The phantom Roman legion had proved to be a dud. After exhaustive tests and interviews with the old man, she had dismissed the case. He had not been pleased by her attitude. Had she called him a time-waster? No, not to his face. But that’s what he was. Conveniently, his claims of soldiers marching through his barn had come about the same time as he’d finished converting an old stable block into two holiday cottages. No doubt he thought a ghost army would appeal to any tourists who passed by. The area was a popular ghost-hunting track, and close to Glastonbury. Though Olivia was getting quite a reputation in the area as the girl who didn’t take any bullshit, that didn’t stop people from trying.
She hadn’t wanted to take on the case to begin with, but Carver had insisted she go, telling her every claim must be taken on its merit. He said it might widen her skills. She’d insisted that her dead were very fresh, hardly cold in fact, and she doubted a Roman army came under that heading.
Physically, she was exhausted but her brain refused to accept that as an excuse. She had lied to Noah about just getting back. She had arrived a little after nine and parked out of the way on the other side of the village by the local infant school. Using the bridleways as a cut through, she made her way across the newly harvested fields, vaulting over the wooden stile, which led to the lane. Beth’s old farmhouse roof was soon in view. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her. She often walked this way, preferring the quiet to the bustle in the village. Her idea of hell was being caught up in small talk from people she didn’t even know.
The quaint farm cottage stood back from the road. Its present owners had fitted a new door and painted the woodwork Farrow and Ball pale blue. Lavender pots framed the entrance. Pretty and compact and quintessentially English.
But it had always had an air of malevolence to Olivia, like a beautiful girl who kept butterflies in a jar.
She knew its history, of course. Who couldn’t, living under the same roof as Beth and Gabe? And she liked Gabe, even though he could be annoying in a little brother kind of way. But she tried to keep out of Beth’s way. Sometimes she felt as if there was far more going on inside Beth’s head than the others realized.
It had been an incredibly long day. Olivia slid her key into the lock and pushed open the door. A soft glow from the lamp on the console table upstairs interrupted the darkness, but all was silent—that special type of night quiet that never happens in daylight. She counted the steps as she went up, avoiding number six and number thirteen because they creaked like old bones. Pausing outside her brother’s door, she rested her knuckles on the wood then thought better of it. It would be best to keep the secret to herself.
Her room was at the end of the corridor. She tossed her bag onto the bed and pulled down the window blind. She couldn’t shift the smell of smoke; it was clung to her hair. But time enough for a shower in the morning. A dull throb had started above her right eye and all that would fix that was sleep. Without taking off her clothes, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes.
Her dreams were fitful, filled with fire.
Chapter Twenty-One
Carver told Gabe the news about his old home over breakfast. Noah had rung first thing.
It was rare for the boy to be up and about much before 10 a.m. He was, like most of the house, a night owl. But there was a certain determination about him that made Carver glance sideways more than once as Gabe spread an unhealthy amount of jam on a slice of toast. A slight furrow appeared between his brows before answering. He’s choosing his words carefully, Carver thought.
‘I’m fine about it, honestly,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘It’s not as if I remember living there.’
Carver folded his newspaper on the table and cradled a mug of tea in his hands.
‘I realise that but it’s where—’
‘Where I was before everything got fucked up.’ Gabe’s interruption startled the older man a little but he continued to sip his tea. The boy might say he was fine, but underneath it was all still raw, if poked.
‘Can I write up my findings on the poltergeist study this morning? Ollie said he had to go into town, but I want to do it whilst it’s fresh in my mind.’
Carver couldn’t find fault with that statement even though an irrational part of his brain pitched a hissy fit about Gabe having access by himself. But really, what harm could he do? All the classified files were on lock-down.
‘Okay, do that. Can you bring me a copy when you’re finished? I’d like to see what you came up with.’
‘Best get on with it then.’ Gabe gulped down half a glass of orange juice and took his toast with him as he left.
Carver sat for a few minutes, his hands clasped on the table. He stared at the pattern in the tablecloth without registering what it was. Gabe had taken it all too well.
But he had other worries to deal with. Beth should hear it from him about the house. He didn’t want her finding out accidentally and risk upsetting her. But did she even remember her old place? Some days she hardly seemed to be awake inside her own skin.
Her door was closed, as always. He rapped gently. ‘Beth, it’s Carver. Can I come in and have a few words?’ Usually at this point, there would be movement from within and occasionally, she would open it herself and peek out like a startled bunny. Silence. He tried again, this time knocking a little harder. ‘Beth?’
A door opened, but it was behind him. Olivia stood in the corridor with her hair damp from the shower.
‘Beth!’ This time, there was a note of alarm in his voice.
He grasped the doorknob and pushed
, his eyes sweeping the room.
‘Is she okay?’ asked Olivia, close behind him.
He turned and thought he could physically feel the blood draining from his face.
‘She’s not here.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beth Davenport stood in front of what was once her old home.
A surprise late-summer drizzle fell from a cloud-scudded sky, and the air was filled with the after smell of stale smoke. Beth didn’t like that smell. Charred timbers poked forlornly through what had once been the roof, stretching blackened fingers to the sky. Flakes of grey powder, stirred by the breeze, floated over the debris. Blistered paint peeled from the woodwork. She touched a bubble with her finger and it disintegrated beneath her touch.
She didn’t know how she had got here. It had all started last night as dusk fell. The swallows were performing for her, a special dance only she could delight in. She remembered pressing her palms against the glass, wanting to join in, wanting to fly. Something bright had caught her eye on the lawn below. A parade of orange lions. They were marching with their tails held high, circling the ornamental fountain at the far end of the garden.
That’s when she heard the baby cry. She had tried to forget about it. She had curled up in the corner by her bed with her hands over her ears, but she could still hear it. She had fallen asleep but the plaintive distressing sound seemed to slice through her like a shard of glass. Why did no one else go and comfort it? Finally, just before dawn, she could bear it no longer.
She didn’t want to leave her room, but she had to find the baby. It didn’t occur to her to ask for help. Her mind locked down on one task. She followed the sound of the cries. They seemed to be from a room downstairs. She crept down with her back to the wall, sliding her open palms against the painted surface to steady herself.
Now the cries came from outside. Alongside the baby’s cries, her own heartbeat thudded in her ears.
For the first time in fifteen years, she had opened the door and stepped outside.
She stared at her feet. Her blue suede slippers were wet. A buttercup glowed bright yellow against the stark, ash-strewn ground. She dropped to her knees, fingering the satin petals. They felt like...like...baby skin. That’s how she had got here—following the baby cries. But now those cries had stopped, and she didn’t know what to do.
She shivered, a thin woman with dark blue eyes too big for her pale face. A single tear fell from her right eye, leaving a pathway on her dusty cheek.
***
Two miles away, Carver sat beside Olivia, both of them grim faced. Her white-knuckled fingers clutched the steering wheel. The Mini clung to the sharp bends, its tyres squealing in protest. Carver prayed they wouldn’t meet anything coming the other way. They had both left the house at a run, jumping into Olivia’s car. They were through the gate before he had a chance to think about Gabe. Maybe it was better he didn’t know, not yet anyway.
There was only one place he could think of that Beth might have gone. He tried not to think about the narrow lanes and speeding cars that didn’t expect to see anyone walking on the roads. Olivia turned left onto the lane, barely glancing in the other direction. Even after four years, Carver had never quite managed to scale the wall she hid behind, and no onslaught by him had been able to bring it down.
‘If she’s here, she won’t go inside, will she?’ Olivia’s voice remained level as they rounded the last bend before the farmhouse.
Carver didn’t answer. He searched for the gap between the hawthorn hedges where the gate stood.
He was out of the car before Olivia had come to a halt. His feet skidded on the gravel-strewn road. The fire engines had chewed up great swathes of verge and scattered stones across the surface.
‘There! There she is!’ His legs turned to jelly. ‘Beth!’
She turned and lifted her hand in a small wave. He pushed open the gate, flakes of charred wood smearing his hands.
‘Beth, thank God.’ He wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders and hugged her fragile body but she didn’t respond. Her gaze lingered on the burnt out cottage.
‘Do you hear the baby crying?’ she asked as her brow creased. It was speckled in ash. ‘I don’t hear it anymore.’
Olivia stood at the gate, her eyes gliding over the fire-ruined building. For a few seconds, Carver thought he saw a strangeness in her, a vulnerability poking its way through her barbed surface.
Beth turned to Olivia and smiled, before returning her gaze to the remains of the house.
‘Can we go see him? He’s been waiting a long time.’ She lifted her face to look at Carver and tugged at his arm. Her eyes shone. For the first time in fifteen years, she seemed alive.
Carver stared into the depths of the farmhouse, afraid of what he might see, but there was nothing but a broken wooden skeleton and burnt offerings. He took Beth’s arm gently, wanting to lead her away, not quite sure if being here was good for her or not.
Her face fell but she let him walk her to the gate.
‘You see him too, don’t you?’ Beth asked, turning to Olivia.
Olivia’s eyes widened, her answer a whisper.
He spun round as his heart leapt into his throat.
‘Do you know him, Beth?’
‘Of course I do. It’s Stu.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gabe found himself in an empty house. He couldn’t believe his luck.
He knew Carver hadn’t wanted to agree to him being in the research study without Ollie, but Gabe had phrased it in such a way that it would have been difficult for him to refuse. An edge of guilt prodded Gabe in the ribs. He loved Carver like you would love a pet dragon—with great affection, but carefully.
Even though he knew he was alone, he couldn’t settle until he had toured the house— opening doors and calling out hellos that sounded strange in an empty place. Olivia’s car had disappeared, so maybe she and Carver had gone on an assignment. It was a bit weird nobody had said goodbye though.
The remains of his toast and jam and the hurriedly swallowed juice churned in Gabe’s stomach. Now that his plan could finally be put in motion, part of him wondered if it was such a good idea. He was going to rock his little life raft and there might be sharks just waiting. He pushed the mental image aside. But he knew why. What had happened to Beth couldn’t have been a random event. He had a gut feeling the answer lay not too far away, in the vault under the old wing, the one place he wasn’t allowed to go. Carver kept hard copies of all his cases down there, preferring the security of a steel-clad room to anything Cloud-based.
Finding the password to Ollie’s computer had seemed the only way. There must be files, probably hidden, where he could find some crumbs of information to help him slot together the pieces. But he never dreamed he would have the opportunity to visit the vault. There was always someone in the house with him.
The oldest and original wing of the house dated back to Tudor times. There were even rumours Henry VIII had kept one of his mistresses here. Where the vault now stood was probably a cold store then, although when Gabe was small, he was sure it was a dungeon—even the thought of it brought goosebumps up on his arms. Now those same goosebumps crawled across his skin.
He crossed the main hall, skirting the kitchen and utility areas and leaving the parlour at his back. Down a stone set of stairs and through a small door where he had to duck to avoid smashing his head on the top, then down another longer flight of stairs. The lower he went, the damper and colder it got. Water dripped through the earth ceiling and the course of the river rumbled as it flowed past the west side of the grounds. Gabe had wondered why Carver chose to build his vault where he did, but Ollie had told him that it didn’t matter what the temperature was like underground because the vault was thermostatically controlled.
A noise rose out of the dark. It was a faint skittering.
The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. He paused, his breath caught tight in his throat, like a fox in a trap. The light switch
was at the bottom of the stairs. He cursed. Why the hell didn’t he bring a torch? Cautiously, he forced his feet ahead into the blackness, his ears tuned to every single sound. Somewhere close, water dripped. A cold draught touched his face and he reached out, fingers sliding down the slick stone walls until he found the toggle for the light. He flicked it on.
A fluorescent bar hummed to life on the ceiling, closely followed by another at the end where the wall curved round to the now defunct coal cellar.
The vault door stood between them, a great imposing steel box designed to be a storm shelter in tornado alley. Carver had had it imported from the US. On the right hand side, an electronic swipe pad glowed pale green in the dim light.
Gabe’s heart plummeted. What had he expected, a normal door with a handle? Disappointment unfurled in his gut like a venomous snake.
‘Gabe?’ A voice split the silence from above. ‘What are you doing down here?’
Gabe spun round, a rush of heat rising to his face.
Ollie stood at the top of the stairs and he didn’t look happy.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Noah Isaacs arrived at The Manor a little after 11 a.m. He had been outside, talking to a parishioner about the arrangements for a funeral, and had missed Carver’s phone call. A text message followed, simply stating: Can you come over? Noah hadn’t wasted any time. Edward Carver didn’t do texts; he called them a lazy abomination, for him to send one could only mean trouble.