The House on Cold Hill

by James, Peter

  ‘Meeeee!’ Jade raised her arm in the air. ‘Or French toast? Could I have French toast? And will you make that tomorrow, too, for Phebes and me?’

  Ollie looked at Caro.

  ‘Just scrambled eggs. A tiny amount.’ Then she said, ‘Is everything OK? What was that phone call earlier?’

  ‘It was just Charles Cholmondley – he wanted me to add some things urgently to his website.’

  ‘Has something gone wrong?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘He owes you a lot of money, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I’m invoicing him for it.’

  She gave him a dubious look. ‘You told me you thought he was dodgy – is he trying anything on you?’

  ‘No, he’s fine.’

  Ollie cooked the eggs, but his mind was all over the place. He burned them. Then he burned the French toast, too.

  As soon as breakfast was over he hurried back up to his office, then sat down at his computer and logged on apprehensively, ready to screenshot any message that might appear. An instant later everything vanished from his screen, then the words appeared:

  BURNT EGGS. BURNT TOAST.

  WE’RE IN A BAD WAY, AREN’T WE, OLLIE?

  His door slammed shut behind him, as if someone had stormed into the room.

  He spun round.

  There was no one.

  All the windows were shut, but in any case, there was no wind. He shivered. He could feel a presence in the room with him. Something above him, staring down.

  Then he turned back to the screen. The letters had vanished and all his files were back. He had missed his chance to take a screenshot.

  He felt a swirl of cold air around his neck. He looked up, then around. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands for some moments, thinking. Was he losing his bloody mind?

  He opened his eyes and stared at the deeds laid out on his desk, and the list of names that he had written down, going right back into the eighteenth century. But he was too distracted by worry to concentrate on them. The more pressing thought was how the hell he was going to recover the situation with Cholmondley and Bhattacharya. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and laid it on his desk. Through the window he saw two rabbits playing on the lawn. What a simple life those creatures had, he thought.

  What a bloody mess his own was right now. God, what a mess. Then he looked up at the ceiling, another ripple of shivers going down his back. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’ he said aloud.

  Then he googled The Reverend Roland Fortinbrass, Vicar of Cold Hill.

  Moments later he saw the man’s name and the address and phone number of the vicarage. He dialled it.

  The vicar answered promptly. ‘Ah, Oliver! How nice to hear from you. You were on my mind – I was thinking of popping up to see you – would this morning be convenient?’

  ‘Please,’ Ollie said. ‘It would be very convenient. I need to speak to you. I need to ask you something. How soon could you come?’

  ‘Well, in about an hour? Eleven thirty?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you,’ Ollie said.

  Then the vicar sounded hesitant. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes – thank you – well – the truth is – no, no, it’s not. Everything’s not all right.’

  41

  Saturday, 19 September

  After he ended the call, Ollie returned to the deeds, trying to decipher the increasingly illegible handwriting as they went back in time, steadily adding more names to the list of past owners of Cold Hill House. But all the time his mind was focusing on what he could say to his two major clients to recover the situation. He would have just one shot with each of them. It was going to need to be good. And so far he was still at a loss about what to say.

  If he blamed being hacked he knew, in his current mood, that Cholmondley would blame him for having insufficient firewalls. So would Bhattacharya.

  Suddenly he heard the click of the door and spun round. He was becoming scared of his own shadow, he realized. Caro came in, dressed in jeans, cardigan, sleeveless puffa and designer trainers. ‘I’m going off to Waitrose in Burgess Hill. Anything you can think of that we need?’

  He wondered whether to tell her to wait for the vicar. But then decided it might be better, initially, for him to chat to the man on his own. ‘I’ll have a think – I’ll text you.’

  ‘And anything you fancy for supper tonight?’

  He pointed his finger at her. ‘You!’

  It had been a sign of affection between them, in answer to that question, ever since they had been together. But instead of her usual grin in response, she gave him a wan smile.

  ‘We’ve got Phoebe with us tonight, and all day tomorrow, too, as well as Ruari for lunch.’

  ‘Avocado and prawns for sups, and some grilled fish if you see something nice and not crazy money in the wet fish department? What about the kids?’

  ‘Jade’s said she wants pizza. I’ll pick some up. And I have a very specific chocolate ice cream order from her, too. For lunch tomorrow I thought I’d do a roast. Jade says she doesn’t want lamb – she’s been looking at the sheep on the hill. Beef or pork or chicken?’

  ‘Maybe pork?’

  She nodded. Then she walked over and put her arms round his neck. ‘What was that conversation with Cholmondley about, darling? If there’s a problem it’s better if you share it with me.’

  Maybe he should tell her, he thought. But she looked so strung out as it was. The vicar was coming shortly and she would be out. He’d seemed a wise man. Perhaps he could talk everything through with him, quietly, on their own. Man to man.

  ‘Everything’s OK, darling. We need more eggs, and we’re getting low on milk.’

  She nodded. ‘They’re on my list.’

  Five minutes later he saw her Golf head off down the drive, and was feeling bad for not telling her the truth. He read again the two emails that had gone to Cholmondley and Bhattacharya.

  What the hell could he say to them?

  Was something in here, looking down at him, having a laugh?

  He returned to the deeds, and twenty minutes later had completed his search through them. Eighteen people had owned Cold Hill House since it was built, in the 1750s. Next he googled death registry websites, and signed up to one, for a fourteen-day free trial, called DeadArchives.com/uk.

  Then he began the laborious task of entering each name in turn, from the bottom up. The information he got back was scant. It gave him the name, address and date of birth and death of each person, though little else. But it was sufficient.

  He worked feverishly, speeding up even more as 11.30 approached. He was just looking at the names of the first owner in the nineteenth century when he saw a small, boxy-looking purple Kia coming up the drive.

  He logged off then hurried downstairs, along the hall, and opened the front door, in time to see the vicar closing the door of his car, then carefully locking it. The vicar turned to see Ollie standing in the porch, and gave him a wave.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Ollie asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Builder’s tea would be very nice – milk, no sugar, thank you.’

  Five minutes later they sat in the drawing room, facing each other on sofas. Fortinbrass, in jeans, a sweater with his dog collar beneath it, and stout brogues, sipped the mug of tea Ollie handed him. Ollie gestured to the plate of Penguins he’d laid out on the coffee table between them.

  ‘I’m tempted but I mustn’t, thanks – putting on a few too many pounds at the moment.’ Fortinbrass smiled. ‘This is such a very beautiful house,’ he said, looking up at the ornate cornicing moulding around the ceiling, and the grand marble fireplace.

  ‘It will be if we ever get the place finished!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you will. It reminds me of the house I grew up in. My father was a vicar, also, and until I was fifteen we lived in a very grand rectory in Shropshire. I say very grand but it was a nightmare in winter because my father couldn�
��t afford to put the central heating on. I’m afraid we’re not paid very much in the clergy. We spent the winters of my childhood living in the kitchen, sitting as close to the Aga as we could get.’ He sipped his tea, then eyed the plate again, clearly wavering. ‘So tell me how you and your family are settling in here? You said on the phone that things were not all right?’

  ‘Yes – I – well, I thought it would be good to have a chat with you on my own.’

  The vicar nodded, his face giving nothing away.

  ‘I went to see your predecessor, the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, as you suggested,’ Ollie said.

  ‘Good! And how is he?’

  ‘You didn’t hear?’

  ‘No – hear what?’

  Ollie gave him the news.

  ‘Good Lord, that is so very sad. I only met him a few times. He seemed a very dedicated man – he—’

  The vicar stopped in mid-sentence, looking distracted, staring at the doorway into the hall.

  Ollie followed his gaze. He could see a shadow moving, very faintly, as if someone was hovering outside the door.

  ‘Do you have someone else living here, in addition to your wife and your daughter – I think you said daughter?’

  ‘Jade, yes, she’s twelve. No one else living here.’

  Fortinbrass was staring again at the doorway, his face troubled. Ollie could still see the shadow, moving very slightly. He jumped up, strode out of the door and into the hall.

  There was no one.

  ‘Very strange,’ Ollie said, walking back into the drawing room. Then he stopped in his tracks, and stared.

  The vicar wasn’t there.

  42

  Saturday, 19 September

  Ollie stared around at the empty room. Where the hell could the vicar have gone? There was no way he had gone out of the door. And the windows were closed.

  But then he saw the plate of Penguins wasn’t on the coffee table either. Nor were their two mugs. The room felt still, as if no one had been in here all morning. He could smell furniture polish and new fabric. The curtains hung motionless.

  He frowned. He’d only been gone a few seconds, into the hall. He ran across to one of the bay windows and stared out at the driveway. The vicar’s little purple Kia was not there, either. What – what —

  He was startled by a patter behind him.

  He turned and saw Sapphire walk in, her back arched, looking around as if something was bothering her.

  ‘Hey, girl!’ Ollie knelt to stroke her, but before he could touch the cat it let out a meow and shot back out of the room.

  Then he heard the sound of a car arriving. Through the window he could see a purple Kia heading up the drive towards the house. He watched in astonishment as it pulled up, then the vicar climbed out, locked the door carefully, and strode towards the front door.

  Had he imagined it? Ollie wondered. Was he having a Groundhog Day moment?

  Feeling dazed, he walked through into the hall, and opened the front door.

  Fortinbrass, dressed just as he had seen him only minutes ago, in jeans, a sweater with his dog collar beneath it and stout brogues, gave him a wave as he came towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Oliver!’ he said, giving him a firm handshake. ‘Very nice to see you again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ollie said, hesitantly, staring at the man’s face for any sign that he was being hoodwinked in some way. But all he saw was a pleasant, open smile.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Ollie asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Builder’s tea would be very nice – milk, no sugar, thank you.’

  Exactly the words the vicar had just used only minutes ago.

  ‘Righty ho!’ He showed Fortinbrass through into the drawing room, then went into the kitchen, still dazed. What the hell was going on inside his head, he wondered? Was he actually going mad?

  He opened a cupboard where the biscuits were kept and looked in. There was an unopened family pack of Penguins. He studied the cellophane wrapping, then opened them and placed several on a plate.

  Five minutes later he was seated, as before, on the sofa opposite the vicar, with a mug in his hand. Ollie gestured to him to help himself from the biscuits he’d placed on the table between them.

  ‘I’m tempted but I mustn’t, thanks – putting on a few too many pounds at the moment.’ He smiled and patted his stomach. ‘This is such a very beautiful house,’ he said, looking up at the ornate cornicing moulding around the ceiling, and the grand marble fireplace.

  This was so weird, Ollie was thinking. This was exactly the conversation they’d just had, surely? ‘It will be if we ever get the place finished!’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you will. It reminds me of the house I grew up in. My father was a vicar, also, and until I was fifteen we lived in a very grand rectory in Shropshire. I say very grand but it was a nightmare in winter because my father couldn’t afford to put the central heating on. I’m afraid we’re not paid very much in the clergy. We spent the winters of my childhood living in the kitchen, sitting as close to the Aga as we could get.’ He sipped his tea, then eyed the plate again, clearly wavering. ‘So tell me how you and your family are settling in here? You said on the phone that things were not all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ollie finding this extremely weird. ‘– I – well, I thought it would be good to have a chat with you on my own.’

  The vicar nodded, his face giving nothing away.

  ‘I went to see the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, as you suggested,’ Ollie said, for the second time in – how many – minutes?

  ‘Good! And how is he?’

  ‘You didn’t hear?’

  His demeanour darkened. ‘No – hear what?’

  Ollie gave him the news, again.

  ‘Good Lord, that is so very sad. I only met him a few times. He seemed a very dedicated man – he—’

  The vicar stopped in mid-sentence, looking distracted, staring at the doorway into the hall.

  Ollie saw the shadow moving again, as if someone was hovering outside the door. His skin crawled with goose pimples.

  Still staring at the door, Fortinbrass asked, ‘Do you have someone else living here, in addition to your wife and your daughter – I think you said daughter?’

  ‘Jade, yes, she’s twelve. No, no one else living here.’

  Ollie could still see the shadow, moving very slightly. He jumped up, strode out of the door and into the hall again.

  There was no one.

  ‘Very strange,’ he said, walking back into the drawing room. To his relief the vicar was still there, and reaching for a Penguin.

  ‘Can’t resist these, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘What was it Oscar Wilde said about temptation?’

  ‘I can resist everything except temptation,’ Ollie prompted.

  ‘Yes, so true.’ The vicar unwrapped the end of his biscuit and bit a small piece off. ‘These always remind me of my childhood,’ he said after he had swallowed.

  ‘Me too.’

  Ollie was feeling slightly disassociated, as if he wasn’t actually fully in his body, but was floating somewhere above it.

  Suddenly the words of Bruce Kaplan, after their tennis game yesterday, came back to him.

  ‘Maybe ghosts aren’t ghosts at all, and it’s to do with our understanding of time . . . What if everything that ever was still is – the past, the present and the future – and we’re trapped in one tiny part of the space–time continuum? That sometimes we get glimpses, through a twitch of the curtain, into the past, and sometimes into the future?’

  But they were in the present now, weren’t they? The vicar took another bite of his chocolate biscuit. Then another. Ollie stared back at the doorway. The shadow was there again, just as if someone was hovering outside.

  ‘Who’s that out there, Oliver? Is there someone who wants to join us?’

  ‘There’s no one there.’

  Both men stood up and walked to the doorway. Fortinbrass stepped out, followed by Ollie. The hall was empty.


  They returned to their seats.

  ‘It’s why I called you,’ Ollie said, and glanced out of the window, hoping Caro would not return until they’d finished this conversation. She would be an age, he knew – it would take her a good couple of hours to finish her shopping. But nevertheless he worried.

  ‘Please feel free to speak openly. Tell me anything that’s on your mind.’

  ‘OK, thank you. When I went to see Bob Manthorpe on Thursday, he told me some quite disturbing rumours about this house. He said that every county in England has a diocesan exorcist – or Minister of Deliverance, I believe you call them? Someone to whom clergymen can turn when something happens within their parish that they cannot explain. Is that correct?’

  Fortinbrass nodded, pensively. ‘Well, broadly, yes. You want me to see if I can arrange someone to come here?’

  Ollie watched the vicar’s eyes move back to the doorway. The shadow was still there, lurking.

  ‘Tell me something, you seem a very rational man to me, Ollie. Are you sure you want to open yourself up to this? Might it not be preferable to close yourselves to whatever is bothering you, ignore it and wait for it to go away?’

  ‘You’ve seen that shadow out there, right, Vicar – Roland – Reverend?’ He pointed at the doorway. There was nothing now.

  Fortinbrass smiled, amiably. ‘It could just be a trick of the light. A bush moving outside in the wind.’

  ‘There is no wind today.’

  Fortinbrass cradled his mug and looked thoughtful.

  ‘I’m an atheist, Roland. I had religion drummed into me so much at school. All that Old Testament stuff about a vengeful, sadistic, egotistical God who would kill you if you didn’t swear undying love to him? What was that about?’

  The vicar studied him for some moments. ‘How God presents himself in the Old Testament can indeed challenge all of us, I can’t deny that. But I think we need to look to the New Testament to find the true balance.’

  Ollie stared hard back at him. ‘Right now I’m prepared to accept anything. We’re living a nightmare here. I feel like we’re under siege from something malign.’ He glanced up, warily, at the ceiling, then his eyes darted around at the walls, the doorway. He shivered.