The Lavender Lady

by Faith Martin

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Celia said, with a laugh so false it was almost painful to hear. Clearly she’d had second thoughts about arguing in front of the hired help, as it were. ‘I’m off to find a drink. Monty, do you want another Pimm’s?’ she offered aggressively.

  ‘Yes, thanks, old girl,’ Monty said, more, Effie thought, to get rid of her than because he wanted a top up.

  When she was gone, he smiled at them both a shade uneasily. ‘Don’t mind Celia. She’s had a lot to put up with over the years, you know. Mother was never an easy sort to get along with.’

  Effie wasn’t at all convinced that Celia had had a particularly hard life, but wasn’t about to say so. ‘Her relationship with your mother was a bit strained, I take it,’ she contented herself with saying diplomatically instead.

  ‘Like I said, Mother had her little ways, you know. And the older people get, the more, er, difficult, they can become, don’t you find? And she could be . . . insensitive at times,’ Monty admitted stiffly. ‘But look, I really do want to know how much longer you people are going to be . . . well, doing whatever it is that you’re doing.’

  ‘Why?’ Jean asked bluntly. ‘Is there a problem we should know about?’

  Such a frontal and blunt attack clearly took the other man by surprise, because for a moment, he just boggled at Jean like a goldfish. Finally he managed to gulp and pull himself together.

  ‘What? No, not really. Of course not — I mean, why should there be?’ he blustered. ‘Everything’s all above board and all that.’

  And Effie felt her heart skip a little beat at that. Why had he put it like that? That everything was above board? When someone said that, it immediately made you wonder why it wouldn’t be. And also served to put the suspicion in your mind that the person saying it didn’t actually believe it, either. So just what was it that Monty Watkins had in the back of his mind? What did he think might be wrong?

  An old lady with a known heart condition dies. Alone, at night.

  A very wealthy woman, a sardonic voice piped up in the back of her mind.

  And one member of the family goes against everyone’s wishes and calls in a paranormal research team, because she’s been having dreams where her dead mother is trying to tell her something. And odd, inexplicable things have started to happen.

  So was there more than just greed behind Monty and Celia Watkins’s desire to have the house sold and the inheritances dished out as soon as possible? Were they in fact scared that the C-Fits might stumble on something else, some other truth about the Watkins family that didn’t involve ghosts?

  Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Effie told herself, seeing all too well where her wild conjecturing was taking her. It was just too silly even to contemplate. She was beginning to let her imagination run riot. She was not, for pity’s sake, in some grown-up version of an episode of Scooby-Doo, where villains masquerading as ghosts went about, using a haunting as a cover for some other nefarious business!

  But if you were, you’d rather like to be Daphne! The impish, childish voice in the back of her mind almost made her laugh out loud. Then, the desire to giggle abruptly passed as another thought followed quickly on.

  If anyone in the C-Fits was qualified to be the beautiful, glamorous Daphne it would be Zoe. Not her.

  ‘We just want to get the place shipshape as soon as possible so that we can sell it,’ Monty continued stoutly, his harsh voice mercifully breaking into her increasingly out of control thoughts. ‘And we don’t want any silly rumours about it being haunted getting around. Such things can affect property prices, you know,’ he said huffily. ‘People can be so silly about that sort of thing.’

  And to be fair, Effie supposed he might have a point there. ‘You haven’t considered living in the house yourself then?’ she asked him, genuinely curious now. ‘It’s such a fine place, after all. And your wife struck me as the kind of lady who would appreciate quality,’ she added, a shade mischievously.

  Beside her, she heard Jean muffle a snort.

  ‘Celia would rather . . . Er, neither Celia nor I would feel quite right about living in Mother’s old house,’ Monty began stiffly. ‘Too many memories, and that sort of thing,’ he added gruffly. ‘No, give us a modern build any day. Energy-efficient and whatnot. Got to be green in this day and age, haven’t you?’

  At this, even Effie’s eyes widened a little in disbelief. If this man gave a hoot about saving the environment, she was the sugar plum fairy.

  So again — why didn’t he want to live in his mother’s house? Was he, in spite of all his bluster, scared of ghosts after all? Had he or his awful wife done something that would make his mother want to come back and haunt him?

  ‘Well, you really need to speak to Corwin about how long we’ll be running our investigations,’ Jean said, pointing towards where Corwin and Zoe were now standing in the middle of the lawn, chatting to a couple around their own age. ‘He’s the head of our organization.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Monty said, and with barely a grunt goodbye, he began to march purposefully towards them.

  ‘Now don’t you feel a bit guilty, passing him on to Corwin?’ Effie asked Jean, her voice rich with suppressed laughter.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Jean said crisply. ‘Corwin will soon sort the old windbag out. And if he doesn’t, Zoe will quickly wrap him around her little finger. What a ghastly person he is! And that wife of his is no better. You ask me, they’re well matched, those two.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Effie said, ever the peacemaker. ‘Oh, look, there’s Isabel and Jeremy. Let’s go and say hello.’

  * * *

  ‘So, I think that all went very well,’ Duncan said now contentedly. ‘They’re a very nice couple. Isabel and Jeremy, I mean,’ he clarified.

  ‘We didn’t think you meant Monty and Celia,’ Zoe said waspishly, and everyone laughed.

  ‘At least we were able to put most of their minds at ease,’ Corwin said, sipping from a half pint of cider. He was leaning back in his chair, his face tipped up to catch the last rays of the evening sun, and he looked as boneless and indolent as a cat. They had all gathered at a local beer garden on their way back from the barbecue, so that they could chat freely about their impressions of the family.

  ‘I think Clive Carteret was convinced that we were a bunch of con artists out to fleece the family coffers,’ Corwin continued. ‘I had to tell him a number of times, and in front of witnesses, that we C-Fits don’t charge for our services.’

  ‘That one,’ Gisela said darkly, ‘is only interested in one thing. Money. His aura is . . . ugh!’ She shuddered theatrically.

  ‘Well, his company builds houses,’ Debbie said mockingly, reaching across and taking her lover’s hand in a teasing grip. ‘Throw ’em up fast and cheap, then sell ’em for a mini-fortune. That’s his mantra. And everyone knows that houses in Oxford and the surrounding area are now as expensive as property in London. Which means there’s a fortune to be made in real estate right now. So what else did you expect him to be interested in?’

  ‘I’m just saying — he’s got a really dark aura,’ Gisela said pertly. ‘I tried to warn him that he needed to start thinking about karma and all that, but I don’t think he could have cared less.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ said Malc, and something in his tone made everyone turn and look at him curiously. Noticing, he gave a self-effacing smile and a shrug. ‘Sorry, but in our trade you get to hear things.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re a builder too, aren’t you?’ Duncan said. ‘Ever work for Clive’s company?’

  ‘No, I’m glad to say,’ Malc said shortly. ‘Luckily the construction industry’s picking up — everyone wants new, affordable housing — so us tradesmen can now pick and choose who we work for.’

  ‘And you don’t want to work for Mr Carteret?’ Jean put in curiously.

  Malc shook his head firmly. ‘No, I heard on the grapevine that he’s a bit of a sod to work for. Doesn’t give a toss for health and safety, and he isn’t exactly cla
mouring to pay good wages, either. But most of all, I just don’t like the rumours that are going around about him.’

  ‘Now you can’t say something as good and juicy as that and then leave it there,’ Lonny teased him. ‘Just what sort of rumours?’

  Malc held up his hand, and rubbed his fingers together in a gesture that was instantly recognizable. ‘His business runs on backhanders, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t they all?’ Corwin put in, a shade cynically.

  ‘Sure, a bit of that sometimes goes on,’ Malc said. ‘Not surprising really. Councils have to build a certain amount of houses to meet government quotas but local residents don’t want them in their back yard — typical Nimbyism. It stands to reason, something’s gotta give. But our Mr Carteret is a master of it — and some say he doesn’t just stoop to bribes, either, but is willing to do whatever it takes. Blackmail, a bit of intimidation even, or so I’ve heard.’ He paused to take a gulp of his beer as everyone looked at him in dismay. ‘Mind you, nothing’s ever been proved or gone to court, anyway. So it could be that it’s just his rivals bad-mouthing him. Let’s just say that he always manages to find a way of gaining planning permission that other contractors don’t, if you know what I mean. Take this latest proposal of his, to build that small estate a couple of miles from Adderbury. Practically on green belt. If there wasn’t something very dodgy going on there, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

  Effie frowned. ‘Didn’t someone say that Claudia was very angry about that?’

  ‘She probably was,’ Jean said. ‘From what we know about her, it was the sort of thing that would probably rile her. Old people don’t like change, and the idea of having so many new houses built within sight of her lovely old house would have been bound to upset her.’

  ‘And it couldn’t help that it was her own grandson-in-law who was shovelling council members and planning officers into his back pocket,’ Lonny mused.

  For a moment everyone was silent, and then Gisela sighed. ‘See. I told you he had a dark aura.’

  ‘Another round?’ Duncan asked mildly, adroitly drawing a line under the subject. ‘Effie, let me get you something a bit stronger than bitter lemon. You’re not driving, after all.’

  Effie shot her old friend a knowing look. Was he really trying that oldest of old chestnuts on her, and trying to get her squiffy? If so, what on earth did he think was going to happen? That he would drive her home, and she’d be so intoxicated that the poor lonely widow would turn to him for comfort and a little physical intimacy?

  As if!

  ‘No, thanks, Duncan,’ she said, giving him a gimlet glance.

  Duncan’s lips twitched and he sighed softly, silently acknowledging his culpability. And, typical of Duncan, he looked both hangdog and contrite, yet fully confident that his charm would let him get away with it.

  And it was only then that Effie, looking away, realized that Corwin was watching them closely. And that he’d clearly understood the silent by-play between them.

  Or had he misunderstood it?

  The thought that he might have, made her feel slightly sick.

  For a startled second, as her eyes met his, she felt herself go pale. Then, before she had time to register any contempt or amusement that might be on his face, she turned quickly to Jean, her heart thumping uneasily in her chest.

  ‘Jean was telling me earlier just why she joined the C-Fits,’ she heard herself burble. ‘But what about the rest of you? Gisela, I understand why you would be interested, but what’s everyone else’s story?’ she asked, a shade desperately.

  Hopefully, with someone else doing all the talking, she could start piecing back together what remained of her equilibrium.

  ‘Corwin, why don’t you tell her why you formed the C-Fits?’ Jean said, unknowingly coming to her aid. ‘And explain to the professor just why you got into the paranormal field in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, you got a good literary degree, didn’t you?’ Duncan rejoined the conversation, as he returned with drinks. ‘Presumably you could have done any number of things. Journalism, for instance?’

  Corwin took a sip from his glass, then shrugged. ‘Sure, why not? It’s no big secret. But I should warn you, I have no blinding revelations to offer. Nearly everyone who works in this field has a similar story.’

  But as he spoke, Effie could sense the others stirring with interest, even though they must have heard it all before. Duncan was watching them avidly, clearly having put his psychologist’s hat on.

  ‘When I was a schoolkid, we always attended Harvest Festival. I was in church, collecting all the hymnals after a service,’ Corwin began. ‘I’d just picked up a book when something moved over by the font. Naturally it caught my eye, and I looked up and saw this old man standing there, watching me. I could see him clearly — just like I can see any one of you now. He was wearing a black cassock and had a dog collar, so I just smiled vaguely at him and went on gathering more hymnals. The only thing that struck me at the time was that he wasn’t the same vicar who’d given the service. But I didn’t really think much of it. It wasn’t as if I was in church often, and for all I knew, there was always a backup vicar around, just in case.’

  Effie smiled at the childish logic, and she heard Jean sigh heavily, making everyone else smile.

  ‘So anyway,’ Corwin said, giving Jean a wide grin, ‘I took the books back to the vicar who was up at the front helping my friend Brian bag the food up, deposited the pile on the front pew and went back for more. And the other vicar was gone — presumably out the door and off to wherever it was vicars went, whenever they weren’t vicaring.’

  Jean shook her head. ‘You do that on purpose — don’t think I don’t know! Make up words, willy-nilly. It’s a good job you don’t do that in your books. Your publishers would soon haul you over the coals for it.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Corwin said meekly.

  ‘Please, go on with your story,’ Effie said quietly. ‘That can’t be all there is to it, obviously.’

  ‘No,’ Corwin said quietly. ‘Well, after we’d finished in the church, Brian and I were invited back by the vicar’s wife for some squash and cake — all very Enid Blyton. Naturally, we didn’t say no, since it was chocolate cake. So we all traipsed back to the vicarage, and when we went into this little parlour, I noticed all these photographs of past vicars that were hung up on the walls. And one of them was so old it was one of those sepia ones. And the man depicted in it was . . . Guess who?’

  Zoe laughed softly. ‘We hardly deserve a medal for guessing that, Corwin! Who else could it be?’

  Corwin shrugged elaborately. ‘Exactly. Well, I went over for a closer look, thinking I’d maybe got it wrong, but it was definitely him. I asked the vicar’s wife who he was, and she pointed to the dates on the bottom of the photograph — and told me he’d been the vicar there during the First World War and had died in 1920. Of influenza.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. Millions died of the flu epidemic that swept through Europe after the Great War,’ Jean put in, ever the teacher. ‘In fact, more people died of the flu than in the war itself.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have seen a photograph of him somewhere before you went into the church?’ Duncan asked, clearly determined to play devil’s advocate. ‘Not necessarily recently, but perhaps some time before, in a history lesson perhaps? And you’d forgotten about it until then, when your subconscious made the connection. Or you might even have come across a likeness of him in an old newspaper article, which you barely registered at the time. You’d be surprised how some things, especially images of people for instance, can stick in the memory and then suddenly resurface, seemingly out of the blue.’

  Corwin looked at Duncan levelly and again shrugged. ‘Of course it’s possible,’ he admitted readily enough. ‘Though very unlikely. I wasn’t much into history until well into my teens. When I was older, I researched him, naturally, and the reverend gentleman concerned hadn’t ever done anything noteworthy, so I can’t see why he shou
ld have made any mark on local history. Or do anything to get his photograph taken by the local press. In fact, when I googled him, very little came up. And I can assure you, I wasn’t the kind of kid who went about reading old newspaper articles. Not when I was twelve, anyway.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was the same man that you saw in the church?’ Effie asked.

  Corwin nodded across at her. ‘Positive. At the time,’ he added, then grinned at Duncan. ‘Of course, I’m sure the professor can tell you how time can warp your memory about certain events. And memories tend to fade. So naturally, as time passed, I could only become less and less sure about what it was that I’d actually seen. But that’s a common problem we often come across when talking to witnesses who are telling us about events that happened many years ago. I can only say that the incident was so striking, so real, and so convincing to me at the time that when I grew up, there was never any doubt about what I wanted to do with my life.’

  ‘And so far your career in the paranormal has been very good to you,’ Duncan put in neutrally.

  Which made Effie feel like kicking his shins under the table.

  Not that Corwin needed defending, because the next moment he smiled just as neutrally back at the professor. ‘Thankfully, just like you, Duncan, I can write a book that many people will pay to read. Which is more than enough to cover my bills, and to allow me to continue my research.’

  Effie promptly put a hand up to her mouth to hide a grin.

  A hit. A palpable hit.

  Beside her, and ever a good sport, Duncan began to grin widely. ‘Touché.’

  ‘How’s your wife, Duncan?’ Gisela asked, no doubt intuiting she should change the subject.

  ‘Oh, Margot had surgery today,’ he said casually. And then, as everyone did an appalled double take, added quickly, ‘That is, she’s the surgeon — she’s not being operated on.’

  ‘Margot’s a heart surgeon at the John Radcliffe,’ Effie quickly put in.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Zoe said, as everyone wilted with relief. ‘And, Effie, we all thought we’d get to meet Mr James at last. I know that Corwin especially was looking forward to it.’ She cocked her head slightly to one side as she regarded Effie. ‘Did he have to work as well?’