The Lavender Lady

by Faith Martin

  ‘And was she as impressed by it as her father?’ Duncan asked curiously. They were in his room at St Bede’s, and the sounds of the ancient college drifted up through his open window: a mixture of city bells, young voices, traffic and, very intermittently, the sound of the choir practising in the seventeenth-century chapel. Although some dons lived in, Duncan, being married, preferred to keep his domestic life private from his workplace, and so had been designated just a single room by the bursar. Here he taught the odd (and according to Duncan, inevitably bemused, lazy or dozy) student and worked on his latest opus behind a large Florentine desk, which had such exquisite inlaid marquetry that his laptop computer looked like an insult sitting on top of it.

  ‘Not quite,’ Effie said, after a moment’s thought. ‘She seemed to accept what the temperature readings showed, but wasn’t anywhere near as excited about it as her mother. Nor was she as quizzical as her father.’

  ‘Sir Jeremy?’ Duncan clarified.

  ‘They don’t use the title,’ Effie corrected him automatically.

  ‘From what you’ve been saying, I take it that you liked him?’

  Effie, sitting in a button-backed leather chair of a lovely deep claret colour, regarded her old friend archly. Surrounded by the college’s idea of art — mostly early and unexceptional seventeenth-century English landscapes with the odd bit of French Post-Impressionism thrown in — he looked very much at ease in his setting of faded, genteel academia.

  Once, Effie had asked him about the eclectic way the college was decorated, and he’d told her that most of the furnishings and artwork came to them via bequests from the wills of past alumni. These ranged from absolute treasures worth hundreds of thousands to downright tat. (Which made sense of the elephant foot that was used as an umbrella stand and took pride of place in the Hall.)

  ‘Yes, I did rather feel as if I could get on with him,’ Effie answered Duncan’s query thoughtfully. ‘He seemed a simple sort of man, and I mean that in a nice way. What you saw was what you got. And he was clearly missing his wife and wishing she’d stop spending so much time at her mother’s house and come back to the farm. And Isabel was clearly happy to have him around. They struck me as one of those close, well-suited couples — not the kind that grow further apart the longer they’re married.’

  ‘Ah,’ Duncan said, eyes twinkling. ‘One of those rare and happy marriages we sometimes hear about.’

  ‘Don’t let Margot catch you talking like that,’ Effie said dryly. ‘Or she’ll probably take a scalpel to you.’

  Duncan laughed. ‘You’re probably right. So, we’re all invited to a family barbecue this weekend, are we?’ he deftly changed the subject.

  ‘Yes, all the C-Fits are invited, as are you. But remember, it’s being held at Rosamund’s place in Aynho — not at the Cadmunds’. From what I could gather from their conversation, Jeremy has a large farmstead up in Northamptonshire somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, I know the Cadmund family slightly,’ Duncan said. ‘Or rather, I knew the father, Jeremy’s old man. He was a big pal of my grandfather.’

  Effie nodded. She knew that Duncan’s grandfather had lived to be nearly a hundred years old, a taciturn but clever man who’d kept mentally alert right up until his death, and also that he’d played a rather big part in Duncan’s life. Duncan had often said that his success in life had been down to his grandfather’s influence, for it had been him who had encouraged his academic ambitions, whereas his father had urged him to go into some kind of business.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Sir Jeremy had to remortgage the family estate a few years ago, when the credit crunch hit,’ Duncan mused. ‘You’d be surprised what you hear on the grapevine, even if you aren’t particularly listening. And in this place,’ he waved a hand at the city beyond his window, ‘back-stabbing and malicious gossip are the order of the day. Mind you, a lot of land-rich but cash-poor families had to do the same. And I don’t imagine there’s the money to be made in farming nowadays that there was thirty years ago. Not after foot and mouth, and the glut of wheat on the open market and whatnot. Apparently dairy farms are going to the wall at an alarming rate.’

  Effie sighed in agreement. Although their client had never said anything, Effie had begun to get the feeling that Isabel’s half of her mother’s inheritance would come not a moment too soon.

  ‘I think Isabel will be glad to get through probate just so that she can get back home — she’s beginning to look really tired and drawn. I think this whole business is getting to her more than she’s willing to let on.’

  ‘Yes. Speaking of which,’ he tapped his pen on top of his notebook, ‘you were going to tell me all about the curious incident of the lavender that ponged in the night-time.’

  Effie smiled, appreciating his attempts at levity in misquoting the title of a well-known novel, which in itself had been cadged from a line in a Sherlock Holmes tale, and took a careful breath.

  It took her nearly an hour and a half to get it done properly. With Duncan exploring her every thought and reaction, taking her back and nitpicking over every little detail, by the time she’d finished her account of her first real ‘experience’ of ghost hunting, her throat was dry and her voice was beginning to get raspy.

  ‘And then the next morning, as I said, Isabel’s husband and daughter came over. And, reading between the lines, I’m beginning to think that Isabel might have soft-pedalled her family’s resistance to us being there. From what Ros let drop, I’m pretty sure that both her uncle and her husband are more or less convinced that our presence in Claudia’s house will end in disaster for some unfathomable reason.’ Effie sighed. ‘But I think that at least Jeremy might be on our side now. He was certainly relieved to find us all so harmless.’ Effie smiled. ‘And by the way, Rosamund was emphatic that the invitation to her barbecue definitely included you — in fact, she made me promise to ask you especially. I think she wants to pick your brains about your book. She’s clearly a little anxious about it, and wants to meet you so that she can see for herself exactly what you’re up to. So please, do come and set her mind at rest, will you? Then at least we’ll have another family member on our side.’

  ‘Ah. She’s scared I’m going to name her mother and blot the family escutcheon, is she?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Effie said cautiously. ‘She assured us that the barbecue-cum-garden-party, or whatever it is, is strictly informal, and that it’s just something that she regularly “throws together” once a month or so for family and friends. But she seemed a little too insistent that the C-Fits and her granny’s story would fascinate everyone.’

  But although Isabel had added her reassurances that they’d all be made very welcome, Effie still felt vaguely discomfited at the thought of attending. Would she fit in? Would she be able to make intelligent conversation without sounding ridiculous? Or worse, would people somehow learn of her recent widowed status and feel sorry for her? She wasn’t quite sure that she could put her finger on why she felt so reluctant. Perhaps, as her friend Penny had more than once intimated, since losing Michael she had become something of a recluse, and needed to get out more and start socializing before she forgot how. And if her ambivalence about attending a probably harmless barbecue was anything to go by, perhaps Penny was right.

  Dismissing her vague but growing sense of unease about the upcoming barbecue, Effie gave herself a mental shake and then glanced across at Duncan. ‘So, will you be coming?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Duncan said at once, and Effie tried not to examine why his answer should bring such a flood of relief sweeping over her. It was not as if she wouldn’t have other friends there as well. Jean, Malc and all the others would be there. And Corwin, naturally.

  ‘Meeting the family of the “ghost” will not only give me some good background on their relationships and family dynamic, but I can also allay their fears about being named and shamed in my next masterpiece,’ Duncan rumbled on. ‘Although if they’d read any of my wo
rk, they’d know that I always change the names and identities of my principles, and in some cases where they live, if it helps them to keep their anonymity.’

  Effie grinned. ‘Sorry as I am to dent your mammoth ego, Duncan, but not everyone reads your books, you know,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Well, they bloody well ought to,’ he grumbled, his Scots accent coming out strongly with his mock ire. But his eyes were twinkling. ‘So, when’s the next vigil then?’

  ‘Not before the weekend. Corwin’s having to travel to Scotland for a few days, so everything’s on hold,’ she said.

  ‘Oh? Checking out another possible case for the C-Fits, is he?’

  ‘No.’ She glanced out of the window, where a couple of students passing by were arguing about the merits of John Donne’s right to be known as the father of metaphysical poetry. ‘His girlfriend has a few days off work, so they’re taking the opportunity for a midweek mini-break.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose,’ Duncan said cheerfully. ‘It’ll give you a bit of a breather from it all, not to mention some time to recover from your lavender-scented ordeal,’ he added, regarding her steadily.

  Effie grimaced briefly. ‘It was hardly an ordeal, Duncan, don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘OK, if you say so. So, apart from cold spots and being wafted with lavender, has anything else been bothering you?’

  Effie glanced at him sharply. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Nothing! Don’t get so defensive.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Effie said firmly.

  ‘Well, all right then,’ Duncan said blandly. ‘But if you ever want to talk about anything . . . Michael, who let’s face it, wasn’t the easiest of men to live with . . . and how you’re coping now he’s gone . . .’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Effie repeated flatly.

  * * *

  Extract from the journal of Corwin Fielding:

  18 April: We are now experiencing real progress on the Claudia Watkins case. Last night, at a little before 9:50 in the evening, Effie James, who was alone in the bedroom of the subject, scented lavender. When the rest of us entered the room, the scent was still very much discernible, being strongest where Effie had been sitting. The scent of lavender dissipated after about five minutes or so, and although three of the other, more experienced team members remained in the room for the rest of the night, the phenomenon did not recur.

  Along with the cold spot, which remains a feature in Claudia’s bathroom, this case is providing us with some interesting data, and I remain hopeful that something even more exciting may occur soon.

  Isabel Cadmund is being very cooperative, and has told us that we can continue our investigations up until the house is sold. Since her brother inherits the house only once it has gone through probate, that might take as long as three or four months in the future — possibly longer, if he has trouble selling such a large and expensive residence in the current economic downturn.

  I am very pleased by Effie’s handling of her first experience of paranormal activity, for although she was very pale when we first joined her in Claudia’s bedroom, she was composed and able to give a clear and coherent account of the sequence of events. I deemed it wise, however, to remove her from the room for the rest of the night, but she has assured me that she feels perfectly able to carry on attending vigils. This further confirms my growing belief that Effie will prove to be an asset to the team.

  Isabel’s daughter, Rosamund, has invited the team, along with Professor Fergusson, to a barbecue at her house this weekend, which will give me a chance to learn more about our subject, and also to allay any fears the family may have about C-Fits’ involvement in their mother’s case.

  I also intend to discuss further with Professor Fergusson the direction his book is likely to take, given these latest developments. And it definitely won’t do to have his work published before mine — even though our readers’ markets are bound to be very different. And not only do I want to reassure myself as to the quality of his finished manuscript, I must ensure that Effie’s input will remain totally anonymous. I don’t believe that Effie has the sort of personality that would flourish were she to gain any sort of notoriety from the professor’s latest project. If I have to, I will reinforce that point with Professor Fergusson and get his promise to guard her privacy.

  Tomorrow, Zoe and I head to the Trossachs and our favourite little inn for some much-needed holiday time, and I look forward to . . .

  * * *

  What on earth did she expect to gain from coming here a second time?

  From his position at her feet, Toad looked up at her, head cocked to one side, as if wondering the same thing.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she told him, her voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement. ‘Don’t tell Duncan I did this,’ she warned him with a smile. ‘He’ll think I’m showing signs of cracking up or something.’

  Her pet gave a little snort — as if he’d ever dream of betraying her — and started to pull on his extendable lead towards the tree where he’d encountered the squirrel before, leaving his mistress to stare down at Claudia’s final resting place in peace.

  Seriously, she asked herself with a hefty sigh, just why was she here?

  Had that night in the old lady’s bedroom, when she’d smelt the lavender so strongly, convinced her that ghosts did in fact exist?

  When she’d described to Duncan how she could find no obvious source of the scent in the bedroom, he’d instantly asked her what she thought that meant. And she knew that she hadn’t been able to give him a satisfactory answer, simply because she honestly didn’t know what she thought.

  On the one hand, she’d grown a little impatient with Duncan when he’d suggested that she might have been imagining it. Or that, nearly twenty-four hours later, she was remembering it wrongly. As she had angrily asserted, she knew what she had smelt! Moreover, she knew her own mind, and she didn’t think it was particularly suggestible. Even so, the implication that she might have smelt lavender only because she’d subconsciously been expecting to left her feeling distinctly resentful. Besides, as she’d pointed out, the others had all smelt it too. And when he’d suggested that she might have experienced her first case of mass hysteria, she’d been frankly dismissive. She hadn’t felt in the least hysterical, and she certainly didn’t believe that Corwin Fielding had, either.

  Even after the psychologist had explained the finer points of the condition, she still didn’t believe that they’d all been the victims of some kind of collective folly, with each one reinforcing the other’s belief that they could smell lavender.

  Besides, Effie thought angrily now, if you couldn’t trust your own nose, what could you trust? And she knew what lavender smelt like, damn it!

  So what then did she think, Duncan had demanded.

  And, sensing her frustration, he had further annoyed her by beginning to scribble madly. No doubt such confusion in his test subject was meat and drink to a psychologist studying the results of his latest experiment.

  To Effie, though, such confusion was irritating. Intolerable too, and insulting. For her own peace of mind, she needed to find some rational explanation for what she’d experienced.

  And it was probably that need which had brought her back to Adderbury. But now, standing in a perfectly pleasant country churchyard, staring down at a dead woman’s grave as if expecting answers from the hereafter (whilst her pet amused himself by searching for squirrels), she felt utterly ridiculous.

  Corwin is probably walking beside some Scottish lake right now, holding hands with Zoe and wondering where to take her for lunch.

  The voice that suddenly piped up in the back of her head was mocking and cool, and made her turn sharply from the mound of turf with a small, irritated grunt.

  This was getting her nowhere.

  Briskly, and feeling angry with herself for being so asinine, she walked back to the churchyard’s wrought iron gate and pushed it open, tugging Toad away from his position beneath the squirrel-free tree and
heading back in the direction of Claudia’s house.

  She knew that Isabel would probably be in, but she just didn’t feel right dropping in without the rest of the group being present as well. Even for something as simple as a chat over a cup of tea and a biscuit. It would have felt . . . sneaky, somehow. As if she was trying to cut them out, or wangle some kind of advantage for herself behind their back.

  No doubt Duncan would have found that logic fascinating, were she ever to tell him about it. Which, of course, she wouldn’t. She might have some obligation to tell him everything when it came to ghost hunting, but baring her soul wasn’t what she’d signed up for.

  And so, for a moment, she stood on the pavement and contemplated the Rollright Inn instead. Attached on one side to Claudia’s house, it was built of the same local ironstone, but was perhaps a third of the size of the Watkins residence. An attractive creeper that would no doubt turn a glorious shade of red in the autumn climbed the walls in a riot of spring-green foliage. An old-fashioned painted sign was suspended from a black iron bracket set more or less square in the middle of the edifice, and depicted a rather crude but charming image of some ancient standing stones that were situated in a nearby village. Hardly on a par with Stonehenge, nevertheless the modest ring of stones still managed to evoke the rather eerie sense one got when looking at such ancient monuments.

  All in all, the inn looked like just the sort of place foreign tourists would love to stay, believing it would provide them with a taste of Merry Olde England. No doubt it would boast a reasonably good kitchen, and day rooms decorated with some genuine, if largely unexceptional antiques. And of course, it was bound to have a well-stocked and expensive bar, furnished with either genuine polished horse brasses or vernacular pottery.

  And it would almost certainly provide the mandatory cream tea in the afternoons.

  For a moment, she contemplated going inside and ordering lunch. Then, realizing that they might not welcome her dog on the premises (especially where food was being served) she turned and moved off instead towards where she had parked her car.