As Max disappeared from view, Matthew sat in his car for several minutes afterwards, staring at the gates of Four Oaks. Part of him wished he had accepted Max’s offer to view the house: he could have easily just walked away from the place afterwards.
No, I couldn’t!
Matthew knew exactly what he was like. He would have fallen even more in love with the place and would have made a ridiculously high offer. He could have acquired the mortgage, he was certain of that, but he would have had no money for the restoration that the house would undoubtedly require, and he would be left with scarcely any money at the end of each month to buy food, much less have a life.
No, I made the right decision. So why do I feel so desolate?
*
Some while later, Max Revenant stood at the bar in The Green Woman Inn, aware that the locals were staring at him. The pub was packed with lunchtime drinkers, and as he was a stranger to the area, he stood out, the unwilling centre of attention. He ignored the stifled sniggers about his out-of-place pinstripe suit, and the unguarded comment about the size of his backside that came from the booth behind him.
‘What can I get you, Sir?’ asked the equally ample middle-aged woman behind the bar. She smiled encouragingly at him, as if to silently tell him to take no notice of the three men that had made the cruel jibes. She wondered perhaps whether she should berate them for their rudeness after he was gone, or whether she should tell them to watch their manners whilst he was still in there.
‘I’m not here to buy a drink; I’m here to meet someone. It’s such a lovely village that I just couldn’t drag myself away quite yet anyway.’
The woman chuckled. ‘Elendale has that effect on strangers. Some hereabouts say it’s the will of the Wood Witch, Elen, ensnaring travellers into remaining so she can devour their souls.’
‘Hey, Chloe, don’t scare the guy with those old folk stories,’ called one of the men who had previously been rude. ‘We don’t want him going back to the city, spreading stories that’ll keep the tourists away.’
‘Right George, like we get loads of tourists round here anyway.’
Max glanced from the woman to the man and back again. ‘Who is this Wood Witch of whom you speak?’ he asked, trying not to appear too interested.
Chloe smiled, flashing her unnaturally white teeth. ‘Pay me no heed, love. She’s long since gone from these parts. She lived in the woods bordering Wicca Hill many centuries ago, so the legend says. Nothing has been seen nor heard of her for… oh, at least six hundred years, maybe more. She’s how the village gained its name, see!’
George rose to his feet and crossed the bar to stand beside Max. ‘I’ve lived in the neighbouring village all my life, and I’ve seen things that’d make your hair go white.’ He indicated his own white hair. ‘This turned white in the blink of an eye more than a decade ago, when I was possessed by an evil spirit.’
Max glanced at Chloe and arched an eyebrow, and the woman shrugged. She had heard George Palmer telling these stories so often that she had long since stopped paying any attention to them, but even now she occasionally wondered whether there was any truth in the wild tales he told.
‘I think you’ve had too much to drink, George,’ Chloe said, pushing a hand through her disarray of blonde curls. She glanced at her husband as he appeared at the end of the bar. ‘Don’t worry, Ainsley, I’m getting rid of him.’
The memory of what had happened to him fourteen years ago was fresh in George’s mind, as though it had happened only yesterday. He drank to alleviate the fear that remained. He drank to quell the nightmares that plagued him constantly, night after night.
He drank to forget.
George could clearly recall the nauseating feeling of not being in control of his own body, of being shoved roughly to the periphery of his own mind, sidelined by an invading consciousness, which had used his body and soul to exact some kind of retribution for events that had happened in an altogether different lifetime.
He had been aware of everything as it happened, but was completely powerless to do anything about it, and in the process, he had inadvertently hurt Louise Barncroft.
Whilst he had never been particularly fond of her because of her disrespect and the contemptuous manner in which she treated him, she had been Gloria Schofield’s best friend for many years. He had been Gloria’s gardener for several years, and liked to think of her as a friend, which was why he felt so wracked with guilt, for Gloria was the intended victim of his invasive spirit.
The spirit was without doubt the vilest man George had come across, and he had been privy to the evil man’s innermost thoughts whilst joined spiritually.
How could anyone despise Gloria with such fervour?
It sickened George that by pretending to be in love with Louise he had allowed the long dead man to get close enough to try to kill Gloria.
Thankfully, the plot had failed, but at what cost? The creature known as Thaumaturgia Anathemas vanquished the invasive spirit and had somehow plucked that essence from his body, and in so doing, prematurely aged his appearance,.
At times, George felt that the essence of the man was still with him, and sometimes he could still feel the icy talons of Thaumaturgia’s preternatural grip within his mind.
He was terrified of the possibility that one or the other of them still had a degree of control over his actions, and his only solace lay in the bottom of a pint glass. It was not a wise course of action, as well he knew. At times, he lost control when under the influence of alcohol, and had almost been barred from The Green Woman Inn on more than one occasion. He had indeed been barred from the public house in Neville Hill for that very reason.
He stared at Chloe behind the bar, aware that she had been talking to him. He had not heard what she was saying, but he could guess.
‘Don’t worry, Chloe, I’m going. I don’t want any trouble.’ With a final glance in Max’s direction, George left the bar, staggering slightly.
‘Poor bloke’s completely drunk,’ muttered Max, glancing at Chloe. ‘What was he going on about?’
Chloe shrugged. ‘None of us really know what happened to him, but something occurred whilst he was Gloria Schofield’s gardener.’
‘Gloria Schofield, the novelist?’
‘Yes. He was her gardener at the time of her disappearance. For a while, we thought he might know something about her disappearance, but he refuses point-blank to talk about her. He used to come here only occasionally before then, but since that time he seems to have developed a drink problem, and it’s getting worse.’
Ainsley Samwell came to stand beside his wife, towering a good foot above her. He was a powerfully built man of six feet six, with brooding green eyes and a sullen mouth that seldom broke into a smile, even though he claimed never to be miserable. ‘That’s enough, Chloe,’ he said, his Cockney accent as pronounced as it had been when he moved to Elendale as a nineteen-year-old with his parents back in 1979. ‘I really don’t think you should be talking to a stranger about our patrons.’
‘He’s not a stranger,’ said an old woman’s voice from one of the other booths beneath the window.
Max turned at the recognisable voice. His face maintained a mask of aloof detachment when the wizened old woman with thinning white hair and rheumy brown eyes, which were so sunken into her craggy old face that they were barely visible, stood up and hobbled over on frail legs that appeared so brittle that they might shatter beneath her slight weight.
‘Hello again,’ he said with a slight smile, standing politely as she approached. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a large bunch of keys, which he held out for her. ‘It all went as you predicted. Four Oaks is yours.’
Ainsley, Chloe and the regulars who heard this, gasped audibly. ‘Elaine, please tell me you’ve not bought Four Oaks?’ spluttered Chloe.
Elaine Oakhurst, the oldest inhabitant of the village at well over ninety, smiled. ‘Oh, but I have, my dear.’
She had lived in the village for as lo
ng as anyone could remember, and though she kept to herself most of the time, she had been a regular at The Green Woman Inn for all of the past ten years that Chloe and Ainsley had run it, and they felt they knew her well.
Obviously, they did not.
Everyone in the village knew of the reputation of Four Oaks, even the publicans, which was why they could not believe Elaine had bought it. ‘Why on Earth would you do a thing like that, Elaine?’ Chloe continued. ‘Surely you don’t intend to live there, do you? I mean… with its reputation?’
Elaine Oakhurst offered a thin smile, which revealed a mouth full of perfect white teeth, not one of them false, not one with a filling. ‘Of course I intend to live there, my dear. Why else would one purchase a house?’
‘But Elaine, you already have a perfectly lovely house in the village. Why would you want to buy that accursed place?’
Elaine chuckled. ‘Morbid curiosity, perhaps, or maybe I just want somewhere more secluded to live.’
Max cleared his throat and jangled the keys to gain Elaine’s attention.
She took them from him. ‘Thank you, my son. Were there any problems?’
He shook his head and spoke in a low voice. ‘Matthew was very interested, but he knew he would not be able to outbid the full asking price. Your plan worked, Mother. All we have to do now is wait.’
‘Excellent.’
*
Rachel Schofield frowned as she closed the gate and slowly made her way up the path towards the cottage that once belonged to her daughter. She could not remember leaving her own house, and recalled nothing of her journey here.
She seldom came to Neville Hill anymore. Being in the village always reawakened old wounds. Even fourteen years after her daughter’s disappearance, the pain she felt ran deep. She had a granddaughter she would never get to know, even though she knew Elizabeth had lived a long and healthy life.
Rachel had driven herself half-mad, going over the bizarre events that had unfolded at her ancestral home of Ravenscreag Hall.
Again and again, she saw Gloria walking down the aisle towards Allan Barncroft. She had seldom seen him look as happy as he did at that moment, and it pained her to know in advance that his heart was about to be broken so cruelly.
Again and again, she heard the crash as the church door was thrown open to reveal the man, holding a small child in his arms.
Again and again, she heard him call out to the woman who was his wife.
Even at that moment, Rachel had believed things would turn out differently. Even with all that she had witnessed she just could not bring herself to believe in fate. She could not believe in destiny, because she did not want to lose her daughter.
It was only when Gloria ran to the man and bade everyone a tearful farewell that Rachel realised the events had to happen. Gloria had no choice in the matter; the decision was out of her hands.
Allan came to understand, in time, but could never accept the fact. A year after Gloria’s disappearance, he died of a broken heart. Rachel hoped that in death he had found the happiness he had been denied in life.
Being back at the cottage Allan had once shared with Gloria was difficult for Rachel, but she was godmother to the twins, and she had promised Louise and Phil that she would look after them whilst the couple went away for a long weekend to celebrate their wedding anniversary, which fell on Monday.
Looking a good decade younger than seventy-eight, Rachel had the stamina of someone in her early fifties. She remembered her mother at her age: Mary Turner had been prematurely aged by the death of her husband, Angus. At least, that was what Rachel had always believed. Following the revelation at Ravenscreag shortly after her death that Mary had been harbouring the spirit of Thaumaturgia Anathemas for many years, Rachel now believed that was the true reason that Mary grew old before her time.
Old before her time she might have grown, but Mary had lived to the grand old age of ninety-six, and Rachel hoped to live as long as that herself. She saw no reason why she should not. She had the twins to keep her occupied and saw them often, though she usually made Louise or Phil bring them to her home in the neighbouring village.
Following the sale of Ravenscreag Hall to Lesley and Jack Standish, two of their daughter’s old school friends, Rachel and Jeremy had also decided to sell their London home, and moved to Elendale to be close to Allan, but shortly after they moved into the quaint cottage, Jeremy had died in a tragic car accident. Her friends had rallied round her in her time of need, but Rachel was made of sterner stuff than most and decided not to spend her twilight years in perpetual mourning. So many sad events happened in such a short space of time that she did not have enough tears to go round, but she was glad to have Daniel and Susan Barncroft nearby in Crowborough, and after Allan’s death, Louise and Phil moved into his cottage.
Rachel had initially thrown herself into all sorts of creative pastimes; painting, pottery, needlepoint. Gardening was still therapeutic when the weather was warm, but she was definitely a fair weather gardener.
When Louise asked her to be godmother to the twins, how could she refuse the request?
Byron and Bryony.
The mere mention of their names brought renewed happiness to Rachel’s heart and a smile to her face. They were as close as she would ever get to having grandchildren she could actually lavish her love upon, and she made the most of every precious moment.
On the other side of Wicca Hill to their home, Elendale was close enough for Rachel to be near to her godchildren, but far enough away to be distant from the memories that still ached within her soul.
Today, however, for some reason Rachel had awakened feeling relaxed. She had thought of the twins and the fun they would have over the weekend, and she was imbued with an inner sense of calm that had been absent from her life since before Gloria’s disappearance.
She had telephoned Louise and invited herself over for tea, and said she would take the twins and their elder sister off her hands that evening instead of waiting for Louise and Phil to drop them round on their way to the hotel tomorrow morning.
Rachel was at the little bridge that traversed what had once been the moat surrounding the original Neville Manor before she even realised what she was doing or where she was going, and as she opened the gate, she stepped into the garden with little recollection of her journey.
She sighed as she reached the front door. She had obviously been deep in thought, but could not place her thoughts. She guessed that she had most likely been thinking of Gloria. It was, she felt, as though her daughter watched over her, reassuring her that it was perfectly all right to visit the cottage.
Reaching out, she pulled the handle to ring the old-fashioned bell, which she could hear jangling from somewhere inside, and was startled when the door opened almost immediately.
‘Hello, Rachel,’ Louise said, leaning out to peer up at the rapidly blackening sky. ‘You timed that just right, looks like more rain.’
‘Goodness Louise, you made me jump!’ Rachel gasped, breaking into a smile as Glory, Louise’s thirteen-year-old daughter, appeared in the doorway, rudely pushing her mother aside. ‘She looks more and more like you did at her age each time I see her,’ Rachel sighed, affectionately stroking Glory’s blonde curls.
‘Hello, Aunt Rachel,’ Glory said winsomely, an impish twinkle illuminating her eyes with vibrant life. ‘Have you come to look after us while Mummy and Daddy go off on their naughty weekend away?’
‘Glory!’ squealed Louise in amused mock-horror. ‘What a thing to say.’
Glory turned to face her mother, face filled with sudden innocence. ‘But it’s true though. I’ve heard Daddy saying for ages that you don’t have any privacy with us three kids in the house.’
Rachel glanced reprovingly at the teenager. ‘Listening in on private conversations isn’t polite, child.’
Glory hung her head in mock-shame. ‘Yes, Aunt Rachel. I’ll go to my room immediately.’
Rachel and Louise could both hear the merriment
in Glory’s voice as she disappeared into the cottage, but while Rachel smiled in amusement, Louise’s smile had vanished.
As Rachel returned her attention to Louise, she noted the younger woman’s look of disbelief. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’
‘I thought I saw a ghost for a minute. When you called Glory child you reminded me of Mrs Turner.’
‘I reminded you of my mother?’ Rachel chortled. ‘Lord, I hope not.’ The thought of turning into her mother appalled her. No matter how much a woman loved her mother, she never wanted to turn into her.
‘And that’s not the only blast from the past I’ve had this morning,’ Louise said in a hushed tone that matched the haunted look in her eyes.
‘Oh? Had an early morning visitor, did we?’
Louise nodded. ‘You could say that.’
Before she could explain what she meant, Phil appeared behind her from the kitchen, and smiled at Rachel. ‘Hello again, Mrs Schofield.’
Rachel felt the blood drain from her face at the voice emanating from Phil’s mouth, for it was not his, yet was instantly recognisable. She had heard it only once before, in this very cottage, but it was a voice she would never forget.
‘Peter Neville,’ she gasped.
Phil bowed low. ‘Indeed yes, Mrs Schofield. I am honoured that you should remember.’
Rachel was not sure whom to look at. Louise was clearly distressed at Peter Neville’s reappearance, and she could understand why. She focussed her gaze upon him. ‘Why are you here once more, Peter? Surely your task was completed years ago?’
‘Alas, I am the bearer of ill tidings. A great evil is returning to this time. I am here to help prepare for the task that lies ahead for you all.’
‘What task? What great evil are you talking about?’
Louise touched Rachel’s arm. ‘Peter seems to think he has been reincarnated.’
‘He?’ A chill of fear swept over Rachel as she shook her head. ‘No, not…’ Her voice trailed off.
Phil nodded and Peter spoke through him once more. ‘Yes, Mrs Schofield. I am afraid it is so.’
The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2) Page 2