The Devil's Blue Eyes

by Chris Sanders

  The Devil’s Blue Eyes

  CHRIS SANDERS

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  The Devil’s Blue Eyes

  By

  Chris Sanders

  Copyright © 2014 Chris Sanders

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Black Coppice Books

  www.chrissanderswriter.com

  To

  All those who believed in me

  Table of Contents

  1. Bad Spirits

  2. Bad Penny

  3. Pillow Talk

  4. Box 1034

  5. Country Retreat

  6. Lord Chatterton

  7. Rose Cottage

  8. It’s In The Blood

  9. Midnight Soiree

  10. Blood Brothers

  11. Final Preparations

  12. The Great Owl

  1 -Bad Spirits

  Luke had arrived at Highgate tube earlier than expected. The walk to Crouch end would take him ten minutes at best. His appointment with Mrs Chatterton had been pencilled in for two later that day. It was only twelve, so he bought himself a paper and retired to a nearby café. He ordered the all-day breakfast with coffee and set about reading his new purchase. The Polish waitress threw in two slices of free toast and smiled sweetly as he’d thanked her. He ate slowly and sipped the coffee. Luke liked to be on time for an assignment. He was even happier when he could arrive at a location an hour earlier. It gave him time to think up new questions and settle on the right tone of voice. He was happier working freelance. He liked working for himself. He was a terrible employee. He couldn’t be told what to do. It was, he reasoned, the Irish rebel in him. Half-Irish. His Mother had been born in Connemara.

  “Would you like a dessert?”

  “No thanks.”

  The waitress forced a second smile and wiped down his table. She left him to his coffee. Luke had been working as a freelance journalist for eight months. He’d been sacked by South London news ten months previous and had toyed with the idea of skipping London for good. He had friends who worked on ex-pat papers in Costa Rica and Panama. He knew a girl in Kentucky who ran a magazine too. She would have set him up if he’d asked. In the end he’d decided to stay put. The truth was he was tired of running away. He was tired of starting over in foreign countries and tired of foreign relationships that never stood any real chance of a future. The truth was Luke had reached a point in his life where he needed roots. Solid roots.

  He flicked aimlessly through the newspaper and sipped from his coffee mug. He read the stories with only a mild interest. His thoughts were really on his next assignment. It was important he got this piece right. He was broke. He’d been able to pay the rent, but now, he was living off his last twenty pounds. That would have to last until next week when his best friend, Benny, would pay him what he owed. He’d go to the local pool halls then and hustle up some more cash. Until then, Luke had to be careful. He’d managed to pitch the last editor just right. He’d sold his idea beautifully and the old lady had lapped up every sentence. She would pay him two hundred pounds per thousand words. In Luke’s game that was good money. Money he couldn’t afford to turn down. He had to get this commission just right.

  There was nothing of interest in the paper. He continued to muddle through its pages without any real conviction. He was just killing time. Luke was good at that. Killing time, he reasoned, was all part of the job. The endless pitching and waiting to hear back from an editor. There was a lot of killing time in his line of work. He flipped the paper over and began to scan the sports section. The Gunners had lost again. His eight other teams had come through and only a last minute goal by Cardiff against Arsenal had ruined what would have been a perfectly good accumulator. He’d have to stop that nonsense too. Betting on accumulators was a mug’s game. He’d stick to casinos and poker from now on once the commissions started to come through. He’d thrown too much money down the drain playing football bets. It was time to slow down.

  “Would you like anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Some more coffee?”

  Luke took another sip from the mug, his big, blue eyes on the waitress from behind the mug’s rim.

  “Maybe just another coffee then. Make it a strong one this time. Plenty of sugar.”

  He necked back the last of the mug’s cold contents and handed it to the waitress.

  “Sure you don’t want a cake with your coffee, sir? Something a little sweet?” The waitress persisted, holding eye contact with Luke. He smiled.

  “And bring me one of your cakes too…”

  ~ ~ ~

  Luke had decided to walk to Crouch End from Highgate. He still had one hour to kill and he knew the stroll would only take him twenty minutes or so. He’d finished the cake and managed to get the waitress to give him her number. He’d slipped the receipt with the number into his suit pocket and promised himself faithfully that he would place the receipt carefully into his old copy of the Maltese Falcon just as soon as he got back to his flat in Gypsy Hill. He’d call her in a couple of days and hope she remembered him.

  He’d reached Crouch End in less than ten minutes. He stood idly beside the clock tower and watched the early afternoon shoppers spill into the surrounding stores. He lit a cigarette and waited for the clock face to strike the half hour mark. Then he took the main street north past the cafeterias and shops and towards the sprawl of big, detached urban housing. A young man with no shoes and a broken front tooth had stopped him as he’d paused to cross the road. Luke had fished out a few coins and placed them in the boy’s palms. The boy was African. Luke figured he’d arrived from the west coast. Most likely Nigeria, the delta region. He gave the boy a friendly pat across his back and crossed the road. He turned right at an old furniture store and found a steep hill with a narrow pavement to climb. The hotel would be at the hill’s summit. The elderly man he’d spoken with on the phone had given him clear directions, even if it had taken him a good ten minutes to do so. Luke reasoned the poor man had dementia or very bad hearing. Either way, Luke hoped he’d have the interview over and done with within the hour. He had calls to make that evening. He needed to be back in Gypsy Hill no later than four.

  Luke paused outside the front gates to a large, detached house. Pulling open his jacket pocket, he fished out a crumpled piece of paper and stared impatiently at his handwriting. 127 Maple Street, Crouch End. He glanced at the detached house. 125 Maple Street. He looked up the street. The road veered sharply off to his right. He followed its curve and found himself facing a tall, gaunt building with two smashed basement windows and a front garden which was in dire need of landscaping. The Chatterton Hotel had seen far better days. Luke stepped through a broken gate and started up the front garden’s overgrown path. He noticed a stagnant pond to his left almost invisible beneath the branches of a low lying willow tree. He counted three dead fish, each one belly up, in the centre of the pond.

  The Chatterton Hotel had, back in the day, been a fashionable place to stay. According to his research, the Chatterton Hotel had entertained numerous celebrities, politicians and prominent members of the Illuminati. Guests had arrived from all across Europe, such w
as the hotel’s reputation amongst the great and the good. Ernest Chatterton, its previous owner, had died a rich man. Upon his death, he’d made the mistake of leaving his beloved hotel to his eldest daughter, Claire Chatterton. In the ten years which had elapsed, Claire had turned the Chatterton into a dilapidated wreck. Claire was a drunk, while her inheritance had become a happy memory.

  Luke gave the hotel door a knock. He would have used the bell, but it looked so rusted and dead he hadn’t bothered. He knocked for a second time and took a few steps back. He caught a glimpse of a net curtain twitching above him in one of the second floor windows. He tried to catch a face behind the curtains but only glimpsed a flicker of long, black hair and then it was gone. He was stepping forward to give the door a third rap when he heard the faint sound of steps approaching. Luke ran a quick hand through his hair and cleared his throat. He hoped the old man he’d spoken with on the phone would not be the one who opened the door. It was, and Luke mumbled something obscene under his breath as a tiny, grey haired gent appeared in front of him.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Chatterton?”

  “What you say? Speak up pup!”

  “Mr Edwin Chatterton?” Luke continued, leaning into the old man’s ear and raising his voice. “Mr Edwin Chatterton?” He repeated for effect.

  The old man briefly screwed up his face and pondered the question.

  “Chatterton. Yes. That’s me. That’s my name, son. And who are you? Are you looking for a room?

  We’re fully booked now, you see. I’m sorry young man. You’ll have to try somewhere else.”

  Luke paused and smiled patiently.

  “I spoke with you on the phone. We spoke yesterday.”

  “We spoke you say?”

  A flicker of recognition flashed across Edwin’s face.

  “Ah, yes. So we did. You’re the reporter fellow, right?”

  “Luke McGowan. That’s right.”

  Edwin shuffled back, pulling the heavy door wide.

  “Well, don’t just stand there looking so ugly. Come on in. Come on in.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Chatterton Hotel looked even smaller once inside. A wide staircase stretched itself across the narrow hallway, its bottom step nearly kissing the base of an old flower vase which lived against the opposite wall. Chatterton led him through a side door and into a quiet study. He pointed to an old chair and ushered Luke to sit down. Luke did, not before dusting off the chair’s cover.

  “Would you care for a drink young man?”

  “Water would be fine. Thank you.”

  Edwin left the dining room and returned two minutes later with a cold glass of water.

  “Claire will be with us shortly Mr McGowan. She’s out back at the moment. We had some

  difficult guests last evening and she’s been trying to clear up the mess they left ever since. I hope

  you understand.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Very well.”

  Edwin left the room once again, leaving the door ajar and walking briskly down the hall. Luke sipped from his glass and scanned the dining room. In one of the corners, nestling up against an old piano, he noticed a pile of boxes. Some of the lids had fallen free and Luke could see cheap looking T-shirts packed inside. There were other similar boxes packed with these same garments in various locations around the room. He counted nine in all. It looked as though Claire had a side business going on. Above the boxes and the old piano he spotted two framed photographs. One showed Claire with, what he reasoned, were her husband and son. The husband looked oriental. Luke figured he was Chinese, Han Chinese. The second photo was of a young boy, a sad looking boy with big brown eyes. He was half Chinese. He had the same brown eyes as Claire and looked around six years of age. There was little else in the room that caught Luke’s interest. He took another sip from the glass and made his way over to the boy’s photo. He’d noticed a small inscription at the foot of the photo tucked away in the far right hand corner, almost hidden from view by the photo’s thick, brown frame.

  ‘Mamma’s little treasure.’

  Mamma’s little treasure didn’t look too happy. Luke was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The boy’s sad eyes had brought back a rush of memories he didn’t want to revisit. He glanced back at the first photo and tried to put the boy’s eyes out of his mind. It was too late. The damage had been done. Thoughts had been set in motion. He’d started to think about his own little brother, his late brother, and now he just wanted to interview Claire and duck into the nearest bar. He necked the water and went back to his seat. He could hear the sound of Chatterton’s footsteps approaching.

  “She’ll see you now. She’s finished clearing up.”

  “Thank you.”

  Edwin led him from the dining room, along the corridor and into the kitchen. The kitchen itself was large and, to Luke’s surprise, very clean looking. An elderly Indian gentleman dressed immaculately from head to toe in white stood peeling potatoes beside the sink. He nodded towards Luke as they made eye contact. At least the chef still had standards, Luke mused, as Edwin led him quickly through the galley. A second man was busy mopping down the floors as they passed through. This guy was younger, maybe in his early twenties, of Indian descent too, and he never once looked up from his work as Edwin and Luke had exited the kitchen. Luke was led up a thin flight of stairs. There were two other flights left to climb, but Edwin had stopped beside a door on the first floor.

  “I used to be able to climb these stairs in no time, Mr McGowan. Can you believe that son? Age will catch up with you too one day young man,” Edwin rambled on with a smile. “Some days I’m lucky if I can make it out my bedroom. Now, she’s inside, Mr McGowan. You just go straight on through. Don’t mind me. I’ll leave you both to your business. Just knock young man. Just knock,” Edwin went on still smiling. He gave Luke a pat on his arm before heading back downstairs. Luke watched him go before turning to face the door again. He could hear the sound of soft jazz coming from the room. He could also hear someone singing just as softly but entirely out of tune. It was the sort of singing someone attempted when they’d had too much to drink and Luke was beginning to feel tense once more. He knocked the door and waited. The singing didn’t stop. It grew louder as its owner approached.

  “Yes.”

  The lady who opened the door was younger than Luke had expected. He’d been told Claire Chatterton had turned fifty not a month ago, but she looked no older than forty-five. Her eyes were red from gin and her hair, long, blonde and curled, had forgotten what a comb looked like. She wore a silk nightgown and almost leaned on the door’s frame for support as she’d addressed Luke.

  “And who the hell are you?” she whispered with a smile.

  “Luke McGowan. I’m the reporter you contacted last week. I’m not that forgettable, am I, Mrs Chatterton?”

  “I’ve been speaking to a lot of journalists this week, Luke. I apologise if I don’t break open the champagne.”

  “I take it you’re still looking for someone to help cover your story? I’d hate to think my journey had been wasted, Mrs Chatterton.”

  Luke was holding firm eye contact with Claire. He was watching her lips closely as she spoke. They were thin and delicate. They sank slightly at either end too, giving her the impression of looking upset. She didn’t seem to register the question at first. There was a pause of maybe four seconds where she looked intently into Luke’s own eyes, as if his features had suddenly sparked a memory.

  “Well, you better come in then.”

  She stepped unsteadily to one side, still leaning against the door, as Luke strolled in. He stood himself in the centre of Claire’s bedroom, waiting for his host to speak. He stood straight, his broad shoulders back, his face expressionless.

  “You remind me of someone,” Claire then spoke.

  “A friend?”

  “Ha! I don’t have many of them anymore. There’s old Edwin of course. Then there’s my little John too…”

  “
John?”

  “Please. Take a seat. You’re making me nervous just standing there.”

  Luke pushed a pile of old newspapers from Claire’s bed and sat himself down. Claire, in turn, sat next to him.

  “You smoke?”

  “No.”

  “You drink?”

  “When the mood fits.”

  “Good lad. Of course I never touch a drop. Not a drop,” she whispered, looking for Luke to smile.

  “You do believe me, don’t you, Luke?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, I think I could get to like you, Luke.”

  “Mrs Chatterton…”

  “Claire. Just call me Claire…”

  “Mrs Chatterton, I’ve come a long way for this interview. If it’s all the same I’d very much like to have it wrapped up by evening.”

  “Not much of a talker are you? Now that’s a little strange. You being a journalist and all. I figured you’d be a talker. I like a chap who can talk, you see. I like a guy who has something interesting to say. A lady can look up to a chap like that.”

  “I’m here to do my job, Mrs Chatterton. Nothing more. You hired me to write this piece and that’s what I aim to do. I think it’s best we just keep that in mind.”

  “Right you are, Luke! Right you are! Well, there’s no time like the present. C’mon, I’ll take you on a tour of our lovely hotel.”

  Claire stuffed her arm under Luke’s and tried to lift him from the bed.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, young man? I thought you said you wanted a story?”

  “I was planning to interview you. Here will be just as good as any other place.”

  The truth was Luke didn’t give a damn. He’d written haunted hotel pieces before, many times before. It was the usual angle. The guest house owner was in some sort of financial trouble. They’d hired a freelancer to write a cock-and-bull story about their place being haunted and that, so the theory went, would result in more guests once the article had been published. Luke had seen it all before. He didn’t need a tour of the Chatterton Hotel. He just had to go through the motions. He’d been going through the motions for a long time now.