House of Echoes

by Barbara Erskine

  Joss shook her head. There was a wall in her mind – a wall of impenetrable blackness – a wall behind which she did not want to look.

  He waited, watching her thoughtfully, the silence drawing out between them.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head again, as she spoke at last. ‘No, I can’t remember.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, as I said, I’ve spoken to your GP and your husband and they both feel very strongly that what you need is a bit of time away from everything.’ He thought for a minute. ‘I’m going to give you some tablets and I’m going to let you go away for a few days with your husband.’ He paused and then went on carefully, ‘I think your doctor mentioned to you the possibility of leaving the children behind. How do you feel about that?’

  Joss shook her head. ‘Not happy. Of course, not happy, but Lyn would look after them, I suppose. I …’ she hesitated. ‘I do want to rest. To sleep.’ To feel safe. She didn’t say it out loud, but the fear was there, lurking; the fear in the house. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back onto the pillow.

  He was watching her closely. He couldn’t decide whether she was suppressing the memory of what had happened to her consciously or not. Or was it just that she didn’t want to tell him. On the whole he thought it was a genuine amnesia, induced by shock. The interesting thing would be to find out exactly what had caused it.

  He stood up, tweaking the bedcover straight behind him. ‘So, enjoy your break. And I shall need to see you as soon as you get back. Just to see how you are.’

  ‘Paris?’ Luke stared at her in astonishment.

  He had expected protests at the thought of leaving Tom and Ned, refusal to leave the house, not this sudden almost feverish desire to cross the Channel.

  ‘We needn’t go for very long. The doctors are right. It’s just what I need.’ She had been reluctant to leave Ned and Tom with Lyn, but the suggestion that Lyn take the boys to Oxford to stay with the Grants had mollified her. She knew how much Tom adored his Granny Liz and their big house could easily absorb three visitors and two small cats, where the small terraced house in London where the Davieses lived would have bulged uncomfortably however much Alice and Joe would have loved to have them.

  ‘I suppose we could afford it with the wine money.’ Luke smiled. ‘The only real problem is time. We’ve promised the Lagonda by the end of next month and there’s a little Austin Seven coming in next month too but if I can persuade Jimbo to keep things ticking over while we were away I reckon we could do it. Yes. Why not? It would be fun.’

  31

  Putting down the telephone David sighed. He had been trying to phone Belheddon for three days. Where were they all? He paced up and down his small study once more, glancing at the piles of books and notes on his desk. There was so much information here. So much to tell Joss. Frustrated, he stared down at the notes he had been making that morning. He had planned to go down to Belheddon over half term and now he couldn’t raise them. Time was so precious when you were tied to a job like his.

  He made up his mind in the time it took to pace towards the door and back to the window – four large steps, that was all. He would go down there anyway. Joss had to know what he had discovered. She had to know it as soon as possible.

  The coach house door was standing open when he turned under the arch and brought the car to a rest near the kitchen door. He could see the lights on and hear from somewhere deep inside the raucous beat of heavy metal being played on something the tone of which left a lot to be desired. Rather apt, he thought with a wry grin as he climbed out of his car and made his way towards the noise. ‘Hello? Luke? Anyone at home?’

  The radio was switched off abruptly and Jimbo appeared from the back of the garage, wiping oil off his meaty forearms. ‘Hello Mr Tregarron.’ He gave a grin.

  ‘Jimbo. Where are Luke and Joss?’

  ‘They’ve gone to France.’

  ‘France?’ David stared at him in shock. It had not crossed his mind that they might not be there at all.

  ‘Went two days ago. Joss had a bit of a fall. She hadn’t been well so they thought they’d get her away for a break.’

  David was shocked. ‘What happened? Is she all right? My God, I didn’t know!’

  ‘She’s OK. They’ll be back at the end of the week.’

  ‘I see.’ David felt deflated. His shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realised just how much he had been looking forward to seeing Joss again. ‘And Lyn and the children? Are they still here?’

  Jimbo shook his head. ‘They’ve taken the cats with them and gone off to stay with Mr and Mrs Grant. Somewhere near Oxford, I heard.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a blow. I was hoping to stay a couple of days.’

  ‘I’ve got the keys if you want. Don’t s’pose they’d mind if you use the house.’ Jimbo turned to the work bench which ran down the side of the coach house and rummaged amongst his tools. He produced a bunch of keys. ‘Wouldn’t do no harm for the place to have some heat on. They asked me to keep an eye on things, but I haven’t been in.’ He folded his arms with a gesture of finality.

  ‘I see.’ David hesitated. ‘You don’t have a phone number for them, I suppose?’

  Jimbo shrugged. ‘I was told if there was a problem to get in touch with Mr Goodyear at the farm.’

  ‘Right.’ David glanced over his shoulder towards the back door. He felt strangely reluctant to go in on his own. ‘Supposing I have a brew up. Would you like to come in and get some coffee?’

  Jimbo shook his head. ‘I’d as soon stay out here.’

  ‘Right,’ David said again. ‘Fair enough. ‘I’ll go in and have a look round then.’

  He put his hand out for the keys. As he turned towards the back door he felt Jimbo’s eyes following him. The young man’s expression was far from reassuring.

  The kitchen was ice cold. The range was out and the room was unusually tidy. He flicked on all the lights, wondering if they had an electric kettle. If they didn’t he would have to fire up the stove and wait while the heavy iron kettle boiled. He scowled. The weekend was not turning out quite as he had hoped.

  By the time he had made the coffee and carried a mug out to the coach house Jimbo had gone. He stared at the padlocked doors in disbelief then reluctantly he turned back towards the house.

  He established a base camp in Joss’s study, clearing her notes and manuscript into meticulously arranged piles on the floor under the table, well out of the way and spreading out his own material in its place. He had had only a brief struggle with his conscience about whether he ought to stay in the house uninvited as he was. But he had been given the keys by Jimbo who was, it seemed, in charge, however unlikely that appeared to be, and he was after all Ned’s godfather which made him almost a relation, and he was certain had Joss been there that he would have been made welcome. Whether Luke would have been quite so welcoming he did not consider quite so closely.

  He sat down at Joss’s desk and began to read through his notes. First thing in the morning he was planning to visit the church. There were several things he wanted to check against the brasses and plaques, but until then he wanted to get a feel of the house.

  He glanced up at the fire which had been left ready laid. It was crackling merrily, already throwing warmth into the room. His researches seemed to prove that the original house had been built on the site of a Roman villa; the building as it stood was certainly a substantial manor house in its own right by the early fifteenth century, probably a hundred years before that. It was the fifteenth century he was interested in, however. And in particular the reign of King Edward IV.

  He ran through the dates again in his head. Three times, Edward had come to East Anglia in 1482. On two of those occasions Belheddon was mentioned by name and on the third by implication. David had made a chart of the king’s movements. It was exactly nine months after his last visit that Katherine de Vere had died. For two weeks in the month of her death he had visited Castle Hedingham. In the previous year he had spent several weeks at
Belheddon and in the year before that two visits of a week each. Katherine’s marriage he was prepared to bet had been arranged by the king’s command to give the king’s bastard a father. The poor young man had not lived to enjoy his rather dubious honour; within months he had died. Of natural causes, or at the hand of a jealous man who could not bear to see his mistress as another man’s wife? Probably they would never know.

  David sat for a moment, staring out of the window. All those facts were, near enough, just that: fact. He had guessed perhaps at motive, and he had certainly guessed that the child that had killed Katherine was the king’s but the rest was the stuff of record. The remainder of his researches had moved well beyond the realms of what was acceptable to a serious historian. He found himself smiling, alone as he was, in something like embarrassment. This was the matter of Margaret de Vere and her witchcraft. That she was accused was fact. That she had been arrested twice was fact. That she and the women accused with her were guilty as charged was something dismissed as rubbish by historians. The women had been framed by the supporters of Edward’s brother, Richard. But. He ran over the facts again. The first time Margaret was arrested, it was by Edward’s orders, shortly after a visit by him, to Belheddon Hall. There was no question then of her being framed by anyone – unless it was by Edward himself and why would he want to frame (and by implication get rid of) his hostess, the mother of the young woman he loved? Unless she opposed him. But surely it made no sense at all to oppose a match, even one on the wrong side of the blanket, with the king himself? No ambitious woman of the period would do that if she were in her right mind.

  Unless she really was a witch.

  He had trouble with this. Big trouble. Witchcraft could not be real. Or could it? Feminists always thought accusations of witchcraft were macho-male-misogynist politically inspired, didn’t they? Witchcraft either did not exist at all and was drummed up as a charge by these fearsome women haters, or, it was a harmless, indeed benevolent remnant of some pre Christian paganism dating from a Golden Age which had never existed, but which antagonised a male-macho-etc Christian hierarchy.

  Supposing neither was true? Supposing the witchcraft as practised by Margaret de Vere was real, effective and as malevolent as popular myth described it?

  He gazed into the warm, cheerful depths of the fire and wished Joss were here. He would like to argue this out with her. Without her acerbic comments to keep him in line, he was floundering deeper and deeper into a mire. Could Margaret have killed and/ or cursed King Edward IV? and could that curse, effective five hundred years later, still be blighting the house where she had uttered it? The thought which haunted him, one that had arrived unbidden as he lay sleepless one night in his London flat mulling over the problem was a simple one. Did Margaret de Vere kill her daughter’s baby by the king? And had the curse, raging out of control, threatened every boy baby to be born in the house ever since?

  He shuddered. Not the best thing to think about if he was going to spend the night alone in the place. Not the best thing at all.

  He stood up and went to stand near the fire, stooping absentmindedly to throw on a log. It was very quiet without the others there. He stared down into the flames, watching them lick greedily over the wood. Quiet and somehow brooding. He gave himself a mental shake. He did not believe in ghosts, nor the power of the occult. It was an intriguing theory, but one based solely on the superstition and gullibility of its audience. It might – would – have worked in the fifteenth century. It could still work presumably in the twentieth but only by association; it relied on rumour and fear and ignorance to give it energy. He turned his back on the fire, massaging his backside in the warmth. Yet Joss believed it. She was neither ignorant nor gullible, nor, as far as he could remember, superstitious. He frowned. She was, though, a woman with two small children and through them desperately vulnerable.

  The sound of scuffling in the hall was very small. He hardly heard it above the crackle and hiss of the fire. Stiffening, he listened, every ounce of his attention fixed, not conscious before just how twitchy he had been. He felt the sweat start out on the palms of his hands. It couldn’t be the cats. It was his imagination – or at worst, mice.

  Cautiously he tiptoed away from the fire towards the door, listening as hard as he could, cursing the fact that the dry log he had thrown on was crackling and spitting merrily and noisily behind him. He put his hand on the doorknob and waited, his ear to the panelling. Nothing. There was no sound. He stood there for a couple of minutes before gently beginning to turn the knob.

  The hallway outside was in darkness. He frowned. Had he forgotten to turn on the light? Of course, it had not been dark when he came into the study. The early dusk of November had fallen swiftly and like a blanket across the garden. Pushing the door wide so the light from the study fell across the floor he took a step forward, his hand raised towards the light switch.

  The scuffling came from above him this time, on the broad staircase, where it swept round out of sight into the darkness. It took all his resolution not to dive back into the study and slam the door. Instead he took another step forward and turned on the light then he looked up. Silence. His back to the wall he listened, frowning. He had the very strong impression that there was someone up there, sitting on the stairs, just out of sight.

  ‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded shockingly loud. ‘Come on. I can see you.’

  There was a suppressed gurgle of laughter – a child’s laughter and then he heard the thud of footsteps as someone ran on up the stairs. He swallowed hard. Children from the village? Or Joss’s ghosts? He licked his dry lips, not moving. ‘Sam? Georgie?’ This was ridiculous. All he was proving was that he was as superstitious and gullible as the next man when it came to spending a night alone in a haunted house. ‘Come on, Tregarron. Pull yourself together.’ He spoke under his breath. ‘You’ve got to go up there. You’ve got to search the place. Supposing they’re thieves. Or vandals!’ He did not move. His limbs seemed anchored to the spot. Behind him the study was warm and welcoming. His coffee was getting cold. Cautiously, a step at a time he retreated into the study, leaving the lights on, and pulled the door closed. Mug in hand he went sheepishly to the telephone and picked it up. The Goodyears were in the phone book.

  ‘I didn’t realise that Joss and Luke were away. I feel a bit of a fool – here on my own – I wondered if I could ask you both over for a drink. I’m sure they won’t mind.’ He glanced at the windows, seeing his own reflection, upright, tense, on the edge of the chair, staring back at himself in the glass. He should have drawn the curtains at once, before he phoned.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He tried to keep the disappointment and fear out of his voice as Roy explained that they were going out. Laughing, he brushed off Roy’s apology. ‘Not to worry. Next time perhaps. No, no. I’m going back to town early tomorrow. Good night.’ He replaced the receiver with a shaking hand. Getting up he went to the curtains and pulled them across, then he wandered over to the desk and stood looking down at his meticulously written notes.

  Georgie!

  He looked up at the door, shocked. The voice had been so close. So clear.

  Georgie!

  He clenched his fists. They’re only children. They can’t hurt me.

  What am I saying. They don’t exist.

  His mind was whirling into activity now. Superstitious nonsense. Idiot. Ignoramus. I don’t believe this.

  Slamming his notes into a pile he strode towards the door and threw it open. There was no one there. Moving swiftly towards the stairs he ran up them two at a time and reached for the landing light. ‘Where are you?’ His voice was stronger now. ‘Come on. I want you out of here.’ He strode into Joss and Luke’s bedroom. It was tidy, strangely impersonal without them there, and empty. Swiftly he headed for the door, searching Ned’s little room, then Tom’s. Both were empty. He went into Lyn’s next, then not giving himself time to think he ran on up towards the attics, searching the two spare rooms, then pausing at last befo
re the door which led through into the empty rooms. Surely there was no need to search those? Too right there is, he lectured himself furiously. Don’t be a fool. Pulling open the door he hesitated, staring into the darkness. There appeared to be no light switch here. Perhaps there were no lights. He could smell the slightly damp, cold smell of emptiness and disuse, and at last he conceded defeat. He closed the door again and turned back to the stairs.

  A small painted wooden car lay discarded on its side on the top step of the staircase. He stared down at it, his arms and back crawling with fear. It had not been there a few moments before. If it had been he could hardly have avoided seeing it. He would have fallen over it. He stared down at it in horror, then overcome by curiosity he bent and picked it up. It was about four inches long, and two inches high, crudely made and painted a bright blue, though the paint was worn and chipped. He turned it over in his hands, then slipping it in the pocket of his jeans he ran on down the stairs, leaving all the lights on behind him.

  In the kitchen the stove had heated up enough to put something in the oven. He rummaged through the freezer and found a foil-wrapped package labelled steak and kidney pie. Heaven knows how one was supposed to cook it, but he supposed if he stuck it in the oven until it was done it would be all right. He put the whole thing, foil and all into a baking tin, put it in the oven and reached for Luke’s whisky on the dresser. Then he pulled out the car. Standing alone on the kitchen table it looked shabby and forlorn – and distinctly old. Toys these days were made of plastic or metal; they were brightly coloured and non toxic. This looked as though it would be eminently toxic. The paint was flaking off even as he touched it. He frowned. Ghosts didn’t have toys. Or did they, if they were little boys, trapped in a house where they would never grow up? He frowned, taking a deep swig of Scotch, hoping that Margaret de Vere, if she was guilty of witchcraft as charged, was having a really bad time in hell.