Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  ‘You’re right. Many people believe in ghosts, or troubled souls that can’t rest. But Retrocognition is far in excess of that.’

  ‘I’m prepared to keep an open mind,’ she concluded. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it. I already know you’re a singular case; anyone can see that at a glance, and really it isn’t a case of you proving your worth; it’s more a case of not proving me wrong. Some might call me a gullible sap.’

  ‘Mrs Toon?’

  ‘I’d prefer to say I’m open to possibility.’

  Charlie pushed away his empty cereal bowl. ‘I’m glad that’s straight. But I know if Andy hadn’t happened to let slip my psychic ability, you might never have contacted me. I’m hardly the obvious person to read the letters. But you’re running out of ideas.’

  She didn’t respond to that. ‘Have you been, you know, examined?’ she asked.

  ‘Have I been assessed, counselled, analysed? People have offered to, but my parents always refused.’

  ‘Interesting. They weren’t concerned?’

  ‘No, why should they be?’

  ‘I would, if my son was -’

  ‘Acting weirdly?’

  ‘So they encouraged it?’

  ‘Not exactly…,’

  He was beginning to feel uncomfortable but sensed she wouldn’t push it. She noticed he had the diary. ‘You read it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s pretty awful. Spousal abuse, cruelty to women, it’s the drama you’ve been longing for. Visitors will flock.’

  She took the sarcasm placidly. ‘Of course abuse isn’t something to celebrate, it’s abhorrent. But we must view these things in context. The thing I’ve noticed about diaries is that they tend to be downbeat. Most diarists use them to vent their spleen. I don’t ever remember reading a joyful set of memoirs; it’s always the depressing things that are recorded. The happy times, less so – after all, you’re usually too busy enjoying the good stuff, to waste time recording it.’

  He agreed she might have a point.

  ‘Bit of background for you,’ she said. ‘Amelia Vickers married Richard Tunney in 1818, three years after the death of his first wife. Without a male heir, the house passed to a distant cousin, George Oswald. The Oswald family lived at Addleston for the next eighty years, before they eventually sold it to pay off their debts. But I’ve no idea who ‘Mr B’ is. And of course, there’s no record of a Mary Ellen anywhere.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m needed up at the house this morning, the coving expert is coming in. We’re assessing the need for repairs in the Chinese gallery. You can bring the material up to the office, or you could stay here and make a start, and I’ll join you later.’

  ‘Your office will be fine.’

  ‘Great. And when you’re done, you can tell me what your theory is.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what my theory is,’ he smiled, ‘when you tell me yours.’

  *

  They left for the house together, rambling down the Long Drive, the road deserted at that time of day.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what are we looking out for? How will this Retrocognition manifest itself?’

  He didn’t break stride. ‘I have random episodes... Events and happenings from the past are usually triggered by an experience, or a visit somewhere. Or by touching or handling an object. During my teenage years the visions became more frequent. Now I have them all the time.’

  ‘How bizarre.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t realise until much later that it couldn’t possibly happen. I must have been,’ he made commas in the air, ‘making it up.’

  ‘Are you the only one who can do it?’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone else.’

  ‘You keep it to yourself?’

  ‘People tend to make fun of me otherwise.’

  ‘A historian with a USP,’ she said. ‘If you could tap into it at will you could make a killing!’ She wasn’t joking.

  ‘I’m not a show pony.’

  ‘Did something trigger it off? Something in your childhood?’

  ‘I can’t control it... it’ll happen whenever and wherever. Sometimes it’s only a few seconds, sometimes I’m affected for a prolonged period. I once had an episode in front of Andy. I scared him witless. He thought I was having a seizure. I could see the owner of the house we were standing in front of. Not the present owner. The one from eighty years earlier.’

  ‘His ghost, you mean?’

  ‘More than that; it’s like a vivid picture in front of my eyes.’

  ‘Like a daydream?’

  ‘Far more intense. Very detailed, very specific. Time and place. Something had happened to him, that’s why I could see him.’

  ‘Like what? Tripped over his crazy paving?’

  She wasn’t handling this very delicately, he thought, but what kind of person approached such a phenomenon without a healthy degree of scepticism? Astrid would need real proof, a demonstration. Now that she’d primed him with the diary and the bare bones of a story, she was expecting him to leap into action the second he set foot inside the house. As they reached the kissing gate at the end of the Long Drive, he went quiet.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a man,’ he said, gravely. ‘Behind you. He’s been waiting a long time.’

  Hardly daring to do so, Astrid slowly turned around. ‘Oh ha ha, very funny.’ It was Matthew, the Head Gardener.

  ‘Miss Buchanan,’ said Matthew. ‘Can I have a word?’

  Matthew had the weathered patina of someone who spent all his time outdoors, the type of man who could easily build a weather-proof rustic dwelling furnished with running water and a peat-based heating system, using only found materials foraged from the woods. Protruding veins on Matthew’s wrists snaked visibly up to his elbows; he was all sinews and vine, a living, twisting thing.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ said Astrid. ‘I’m in the middle of something right now.’

  ‘I’d rather have it out now, if it’s all the same.’

  Charlie waited patiently. ‘Go ahead, don’t mind me.’

  ‘It’s about Phil, one of my team,’ said Matt. ‘We took him on in the summer; he’s been with us six months. His contract comes to an end soon, and he’s wondering when it’s going to be renewed. As it’s near Christmas and all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Astrid, ‘I’ll find out. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Right you are. Thank you. Only,’ Matthew turned back, ‘I couldn’t help noticing that George’s team are continuing into the New Year...,’

  ‘That’s right. They’re sorting out the debris around the summer house. Rebuilding the path.’

  ‘That’s my point. As far as I’m aware there have been no cutbacks in his team. And yet I’m about to lose Phil, a valuable member of mine. It seems to me that George’s work takes precedence.’

  ‘I’m sorry Matt,’ said Astrid, ‘but we’re a bit overstaffed at the moment.’

  ‘So, you’d rather leave me at a disadvantage. I hardly call that a fair fight.’

  Christ, thought Charlie, were things that tense? Would there be a pitched battle on the east front? George’s rabble on one side, Matthew’s on the other? Loppers and rakes poised to attack as soon as the order was received? There’d be a bloodbath.

  ‘George gets as much staff as the budget will allow,’ said Astrid. ‘As do you. Anyway, I’ll find out about Phil. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Before Christmas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Matthew trudged away; a small victory gained.

  Free at last, Charlie and Astrid resumed their walk, but her mood had changed. The disagreement was obviously festering.

  ‘You all right?’

  She sighed. ‘Perhaps if I’d known that I’d be required to referee staff slanging matches, avoid rows with the chief room guide, arrange weddings, chase up missing caterers, deal with vandalism, tree disease, and flooding, I might never have taken on the job of estate manager in the first plac
e.’

  She climbed the steps towards the portico, the soles of her feet tip, tap, tapping on the stone treads. The breeze was strong up there; it whipped the hair about her face. He bounded up after her.

  ‘Can you feel any psychic activity?’ she asked.

  He smiled wanly. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘You mean I can’t switch you on and off like a Geiger counter?’

  He gazed out over the picnic area and the lake. Despite what he’d said a subtle presence began to make itself felt. He turned his head slightly. A man and a woman were together in the courtyard somewhere behind him... He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he knew it wasn’t good. He felt his senses straining hard as he tried to make out what was happening. Suddenly, as though the wind had whipped itself into a frenzy, he felt a strong powerful presence at his back, propelling him forwards, forcing him down the steps. He knew that if he gave in to it, it would push him over, he would fall. He couldn’t stop it, he was going over, something was pushing from behind. He didn’t want it to let it happen... Please don’t argue, he begged. But the force was too strong to resist, he was going over... His hand reached out to grasp the arm of the woman, but it was too late, his fingers were clutching at air...

  Suddenly he felt a tight grip on his arm. ‘Careful,’ said Astrid. ‘You almost fell.’ He looked down. His heels were right at the lip of the top step.

  He blinked at her. ‘Two people,’ he said, ‘here on the steps.’ This time she could see he wasn’t joking.

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘Arguing, I think. Not sure.’

  ‘Who was it? Tunney? Amelia?’

  He nodded, looking down the steps towards the gravel. ‘I think so. But there’s something else...,’

  ‘What?’

  He glanced at her hand where it still gripped his arm. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Do you need to make preparations?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know – tinkling bells, music and chanting in the background? Do you have to send yourself into a state of higher consciousness?’

  She was filled with curiosity, he got that. Highly sceptical too. But did she have to be so crass about it? He was doing her a favour, after all.

  ‘It would help,’ Charlie said, once he was sitting at Astrid’s desk, ‘if I could familiarise myself with the genealogical background.’

  Pulling open a drawer, she produced a laminated copy of the Addleston Family tree. ‘We sell these in the gift shop. But you won’t find Mary Ellen mentioned. According to that, she doesn’t exist. Anything else I can get you? Cup of tea? The biscuits are in the filing cabinet. Come and find me if you need me.’

  She retreated at last, leaving him alone with the box and its contents. Quite some responsibility, he realised. He only hoped he could do what was required.

  He studied the family tree. Amelia’s birth date was recorded as 1797 but her death date was denoted by a question mark. According to Astrid, there was no positive record of her subsequent whereabouts. What had happened to her? What fresh misery did Tunney heap upon her, once the diary ended? Was there a second volume hidden in another box, under the floorboards in a separate room? And what became of Mary Ellen? Perhaps the correspondence would shed some light.

  Each bundle contained maybe ten letters, gathered together in haphazard fashion. Seals were broken, but all had been re-folded in their original creases. Letters in the first pile were addressed to a ‘Mr H Bramall’, and a London residence. A few consisted of short, brief notes, others were long, detailed epistles; some were written on one side only, others were covered front and back. The penmanship varied from letter to letter; a few neat sentences might give way to a rushed, frantic scribble. All included the endearment ‘Dear Harry’, or sometimes ‘Darling H’, and were signed ‘Poppy’. Could H Bramall be the ‘Mr B’ mentioned in the diary?

  The letters in the second bundle were much more regular in dimension than the first haphazard collection. All were addressed to ‘Mrs Amelia Tunney’ at Addleston House. All were written on similar notepaper, a consistent, even hand in each and every one. All were headed ‘Dear’ or ‘Darling Poppy’ and were signed, ‘Harry,’ or ‘H.B.’ ‘Poppy’ was evidently Amelia’s nickname. The intimacy appeared long standing. What he had in front of him were both halves of a correspondence.

  The puzzlement was why the letters had been concealed with Mary Ellen’s diary, but hidden in a box in Amelia’s bedroom?

  Charlie checked the family tree for offspring. There were no lines down from either of Richard Tunney’s marriages. No issue recorded, not even the baby who died only a few days old. Perhaps the second pregnancy never went to term, but it seemed odd that the first baby’s short life would go unremarked. Was Mary Ellen’s diary the only mention of him?

  He fingered the soft leather of the deceptively toxic diary before depositing it back in the wooden box. This wasn’t the first time he’d studied historical documents but it was the first time he’d been asked to deliberately use psychic ability to fill in the gaps. Usually his responses were random, sporadic, triggered by whatever he’d stumbled across. He’d never been hired to do it. What if it was too much pressure; what if it killed spontaneity? He didn’t usually share his so-called powers with anyone, or allow others to make use of them. What if his mind refused to co- operate?

  The letters lay on the desk in front of him, tantalising, and yet intimidating. Amelia’s writings might reveal more mistreatment. Harry might turn out to be a desperate rake, breaking women’s hearts all over the place. His trifling with Amelia’s affections might complicate her already volatile marriage.

  Charlie started with something practical – putting the two separate piles in date order. He carefully opened out each paper, smoothing them flat, swapping them around, until their chronology made sense.

  Harry’s first letter began the sequence. His gentleman’s hand was steady and regular, exceptionally neat - perhaps too neat, perhaps he was quite the cold fish. With much speculation, Charlie began to read:

  ‘Sweetest P,

  How wonderful it was to see you that last visit, although you were pale and tired, my love. Damn Tunney for a --- I will not write it, my love. It is not for your eyes. But he does not cherish and care for you, as I would, as any decent husband would. Be assured I will attempt to visit again. Let me know how and when he is absent in town, and I will attend you. Although I do not know quite how we are to contrive our meetings henceforth. I would avoid making my presence known if it were at all possible. It is of course fantastical to imagine that I might slip in unnoticed. Mary Ellen sees everything. She is quite the fiend, is she not? Be wary to whom you speak, my love.

  Yours

  H’.

  Charlie let the paper fall to the desk and turned to Amelia’s pile. Her earliest letter was dated one day later, which even allowing for a prompt postal service, suggested that she wrote it before receiving Harry’s. It was safe to assume that the letters had crossed in the post.

  Amelia’s handwriting inconsistencies were more of a challenge than Harry’s neat script, but once he’d gone through the first few sentences with slow precision, the rest came easily. But what a surprise! Amelia Tunney was not the pale, moping, misery guts as portrayed in the diary. Not at all. She expressed herself plainly and dramatically, her meaning explicit.

  ‘My darling H

  Can you believe how much I am in love with you? Can you doubt it? Have you ever doubted it? It is the most wonderful thing. I know in my heart I have always felt it, and always will, forever and ever. And knowing that you feel it too, seems to me the most blissful coincidence! But it is not coincidence my darling, is it? It is two people in love, who are not afraid to own it. How liberating it makes me feel. Say you feel it too. Make me believe it. I want to hear it from your lips. I want to hear everything from your lips. Every day that I don’t see you is a day wasted. It cannot
be fair to live in such a world where I am deprived of you. Make haste and come to me again. For ever and always

  Your loving Poppy’

  Wow. No doubts there. ‘Poppy’ was in love with ‘H’. Most emphatically. Checking the dates, Charlie located Harry’s next letter and read it twice.

  ‘Poppy my dearest,

  Today we have been out walking in the sunshine. My mother, my sister and I talked of plans for my eldest sister’s wedding. The groom does not arrive in England for another three months, I wonder that he can bear to do so, knowing what lies in store for him! I think the shooting season must be well under way before he decides to grace us with his presence. I fear this letter must be brief; my work is keeping me busy today. I thought you might like to hear news of Laura. Yours H’

  What an odd response. The driest, most indifferent response to a declaration of love ever conceived. Amelia had laid her heart bare to him; surely Harry would have the courtesy to acknowledge her emotions, even if trying to keep them secret from the outside world. What sort of man would wilfully ignore such passionately expressed feelings, and confine himself to wittering on about his work and his sister? What if he didn’t, or couldn’t, share that love? Charlie checked the dates again, wondering if he’d made a mistake. No, they were perfectly in key. Selecting the next letter in the sequence he read quickly.

  ‘Harry, my darling,

  How long it is since I have heard from you! Has something occurred? I am not used to missing your letters. Please send me word that you are well, that you are still mine. I long to see you once more. You were expected over a fortnight ago. You did not come. I am uneasy. Pray put my mind at rest. Send me word that you are nearby. I love you so, I cannot bear not to hear from you. Please tell me that you love me, Your Poppy’

  Charlie was puzzled. He had written to her, he’d told her all about his sister’s wedding, the walk with his mother. Had she missed it? Then why was it here, amongst the others? Charlie’s pulse quickened as the truth dawned.