Strange Sight

by Syd Moore

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Syd Moore lives in Essex where the Rosie Strange novels are set. Previously to writing, she was a lecturer and a presenter on Pulp, the Channel 4 books programme. She is the author of the mystery novels The Drowning Pool and Witch Hunt. Strange Sight is the second novel in the Essex Witch Museum Series. The first book in the series is Strange Magic and the next instalment, Strange Fascination, will be published in 2018.

  STRANGE

  SIGHT

  SYD MOORE

  [definition] Strange /streɪn(d)ʒ/

  Adjective: strange

  1. Unusual or surprising; difficult to understand or explain.

  Comparative adjective: stranger; superlative adjective: strangest

  Synonyms: Odd, curious, peculiar, funny, bizarre, weird, uncanny, queer, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, atypical, anomalous, different, out of the ordinary, out of the way, extraordinary, remarkable, puzzling, mystifying, mysterious, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable, inexplicable, incongruous, uncommon, irregular, singular, deviant, aberrant, freak, freakish, surreal, alien.

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  The rat sniffed a discarded crisp packet then, finding it empty, turned its attention to the central rail.

  This was the time they tended to come out, when the crowds were thinning post-pub, and Saturday night revellers were either calling it a night, splashing out on a cab, maybe bracing the horrors of the night bus, or forgetting about Sunday and going on to a club.

  Not that anywhere in London ever really ‘thinned’ out. Though the Square Mile, home to the financial district, or the City of London as it liked to crown itself, was quieter than anywhere else. At the weekend anyway. The nine-tofivers hotfooted it from work on a Friday afternoon and stayed away from the place as long as they possibly could or till their alarms rudely ordered them back on Monday morning. Hardly anyone actually lived in the City any more. The few that could afford the stratospheric rents swanned up west at weekends in pursuit of bright lights and glamour, dancing, dining, drugs or drinks. Or a combination thereof.

  Mary wondered if she would ever get to join the ranks of these elusive types – people who got weekends. That magical formula of two consecutive days with no interruptions or demands from work. What bliss, she sighed. It was the first thing to go if you went into the catering business. A mild twang of envy resounded within as her mind spewed an unbidden image of herself and Tom sitting at a circular table in a bijou little café bar. She caught a gleaming tablecloth. Tasteful and expensive. A fresh white. The opposite of the on-trend maroon efforts that the interior designer had chosen for La Fleur where she was the restaurant manager. No, this fantasy table that existed in another life was set against a classy background, simply furnished. Laid for dinner. And across it she imagined Tom’s arm entwined with hers as they sipped each other’s cocktail glasses.

  That’d be nice, she thought.

  One day.

  Maybe.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the furry blackness appear before the rail and scurry towards the platform.

  A middle-aged man, who was standing a few feet away swaying, coughed and made a retching noise.

  Mary leant over the Tube track and watched as the rat stopped stock-still. It sniffed the air, then suddenly powered up its haunches and darted into a crumbling hole.

  The action reminded her of the rodent that had made a similarly speedy, though wholly unexpected, appearance in La Fleur’s dining room just eight weeks ago.

  What a fiasco that had been. They’d had a couple of regular customers in too. Big spenders. And that woman who looked like a hairdresser but actually reviewed restaurants for some ‘city-living’ blog. Because of her, Ratty’s debut had been extremely well publicised. In the following month’s bookings had taken a real hammering. It was only in the past week that they’d managed to reach the level of custom they needed to break even. Which is why today had been so devastating. At about noon she’d received a blistering phone call from one of their best customers, an American businessman wooing China, who was threatening to sue. He was so wound up she’d called in her dad and he was not best pleased. Had to stop what he was doing and go and see the guy in person. But there was nothing else for it. These were exceptional circumstances: last night the customer had spent an absolute fortune on La Fleur, ordering up the finest wines, arranging for Seth, the chef, to create a particular Chinese starter that he believed would impress the delegation and seal his big deal. Those who had partaken of that oriental delicacy, it turned out, had all gone down with food poisoning. Mary seriously felt sick herself when she got off the end of that phone call.

  ‘Did they also have the fish?’ she’d asked and then cringed and slapped her forehead, grateful that there was no one else in the office to hear. She shouldn’t have said that. Her father told her never to admit liability. ‘Let them prove it,’ was his motto. But she’d not been able to stop herself blurting it out. Not that it mattered. One had gone for guinea fowl, another had indeed consumed the sea bass, but then two of the others who had also become ill were vegetarian.

  It was the second irate call of the evening. She’d managed to deal with the first without seeking help from Dad. That had been from a young man who she’d never seen before. His date had ordered the sea bass and started chucking up in the taxi home. Very embarrassing for all parties and yes they’d pay the cleaning bills.

  It didn’t make sense. Four different dishes, same symptoms. It had to be a hygiene issue, not food poisoning. Which was worse, really.

  She shuddered and looked at the rail again. It was vibrating. A train was on its way. She’d have to have that conversation with Seth on Monday, before her dad got to him. He could be quite formidable. But then again, this kind of thing was the death kiss to restaurants and, as chef, Seth really should be taking responsibility for standards in his kitchen. They certainly paid him enough and she couldn’t have eyes and ears everywhere, all the time.

  The thought of the inevitable confrontation made her feel totally and utterly fatigued.

  Like most good chefs, Seth was talented, imaginative and a total prima donna. There would be tantrums and swear words, denials and counter-accusations. Plates might even be broken. But it would have to be done.

  She was just relieved that she hadn’t had to face him tonight. She’d been slightly cowardly and left a note on his workstation telling him they needed to speak when the restaurant reopened Monday morning.

  That meant, she thought, as the train trundled out of the tunnel and along the platform, she had thirty-four whole hours to spend with Tom. She didn’t want to be thinking about Seth now. She wanted to be thinking about Tom and how his face was going to light up when she showed him the beautiful cashmere jumper she had bought to celebrate their twelve-week anniversary. He’d tell her she shouldn’t have, but she’d tell him h
e deserved it and that she’d taken note when he’d muttered about being cold in her flat and moaned that he didn’t fit into any of her fleeces.

  It was so soft that she just couldn’t resist it and of a pale blue that reminded her of duck down, and spring, and, if she were being totally honest, her boyfriend’s eyes. Though she wasn’t sure if she’d tell him that. Might save it for a few months. He could get awfully squeamish about that sort of thing.

  As the train slowed to a stop she reached down to her side to pat the paper bag which held the gift, wrapped in silver tissue paper and tied with grey ribbon.

  Her fingers slipped through the air.

  ‘No!’ She looked down. Not there.

  How could it not be there?

  She almost stamped her feet as, to her great frustration, she remembered stopping in the kitchen to write Seth’s note. She had put it down. Dammit.

  That was just before she left for the night.

  Bugger.

  Had she left Tom’s jumper on the food prep area?

  She might have done.

  It certainly wasn’t here with her now, was it?

  Damn, damn, damn.

  The restaurant was closed tomorrow and she wasn’t sure when she was seeing Tom after tonight.

  There was nothing else for it – she’d have to go back.

  Blast.

  That meant she’d miss the last Tube as well and have to get a cab.

  A typically stupid ending to a hellishly bad day.

  She let a bald man in a denim jacket get off ahead of her, cursed silently, then turned and followed him out the exit.

  The night was getting cold as the midnight hour progressed.

  Mary wrapped her arms around herself and stepped into the near-empty streets.

  Round this way, hard, shiny office blocks, bullies of the landscape, were springing up everywhere. She marvelled at the way they built themselves up and up, looking like they were sending a one-fingered salute to the sky. Sexy and sleek, they were so very unlike the mostly glum minions who filled them. But as smart and as modern as these structures might try to appear, they simply couldn’t shake off their old neighbours – squat Tudor guildhalls, Victorian thoroughfares, medieval church ruins and other lopsided survivors that let down the neighbourhood. Inconveniently historic. Stupidly listed. Retrogressively protected.

  It was these little nooks, crannies and courts down which she skittered to and from work that Mary both loved and hated in equal measure.

  During the day she couldn’t shift the feeling that they were watching her with interest and benevolence, like impassive stone observers who, she fancied, might one day tell the story of their lives and feature her as a heroine. But at night those personas vanished. Overwhelmed by shadows they seemed to transform into dark and jealous sentries who kept guard over the ancient secrets.

  Silly, of course, on lots of levels. Not least the fact that most of London’s secrets were completely out now, paraded and picked over for the delectation and prurience of native and international tourists. Millions and millions each year.

  She didn’t really like knowing about the furtive, squalid aspect of her city – the dark side. But it wasn’t easy to ignore. You overheard and saw things: snatches of talks from well-informed guides, plaques that piqued your interest and prompted a quick google, customers who showed off their local knowledge to gossip-hungry waiting staff. It seeped in. It laid eggs. It hatched troubling visions.

  She was unaccountably aware for instance that the road down which she presently trod had at one time been a bear-baiting circus; that its adjoining Fetter Lane had once swarmed with beggars, vagrants, vagabonds, thieves; that in among this distinctive throng the ladies of the night had sallied and swung their hips; that one of them, Mary Ann Nichols, or Polly as she liked to be called, was born on a street of cottages underneath the foundations of the upmarket fast-food outlet that she was passing now. And she also sadly knew that this woman, this Polly, had, in the early hours of August 1888, stumbled into the waiting arms of Jack the Ripper to become his very first victim. You couldn’t not know that round here. It was where one of the London ghost tours began each day, except for bank holidays, at seven o’clock on the dot. She’d done it with her dad when they first started looking at restaurants in the area. He’d thought it was fun. It had given Mary the creeps.

  The shadows grew deeper.

  Mary hunched her shoulders and increased her speed, checking her reflection in the mirror of a neighbouring barbers, the bitterly ironic Sweeney Todd’s, named after the local killer who had set up his business but a stone’s throw away.

  It was no wonder her imagination went into overdrive sometimes.

  She straightened her shoulders against these imagined ghosts of the past and noticed, in the halos around the street lights, moisture was forming into droplets – a fog was descending. She quickened her pace, listening to the echo of her solitary footsteps click-clacking over the pavement towards Fleur de Lis Court, from which the restaurant took its name. But as she turned the corner into the court something made her pause.

  She wasn’t conscious of exactly what that might be but she had the distinct notion that something was different. Though the street looked as it always did on late spring nights – a narrow cul-de-sac, bordered with high buildings that kept it perpetually dim, archaic in parts with its cobbled forecourt fighting for space among the elegant and modern glass fronts and revolving doors. Tonight, however, the cobbles were already shiny and damp. Fog had slithered through the narrow court like a snake. She heard the drip drip as it met with cold stone and began to melt against it. But there was no obvious change she could put her finger on.

  Maybe she’d picked up on a subtle difference in the atmospheric pressure about the narrow row of buildings? Or perhaps she’d subconsciously detected a faint cry, the shriek of a fox, a variation in the light?

  A moment passed as she watched her quick breaths make clouds in the air and, out of nowhere, a shudder ran down her back.

  Suddenly she was overcome with a feeling of intense dread.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mary,’ she whispered aloud. She really needed to get a grip. What the blimmin’ heck was she doing, standing here like a lost lemon? She should get out of the dampness ASAP and on with her business.

  Hurrying over to the door she brought her handbag up to her chest and peered into its dark interior. It was so hard to see. Why did they have black linings in handbags? She supposed it was to hide the dirt – crusty chocolate and toffees stuck to the internal fabric, smears of lipstick, grubby-looking fingerprints, fluff and such. It was practical, yes, but also exceedingly annoying at times like this, when the light was bad. It was always bad. She could never see properly these days. That was half the problem, she thought wryly.

  Her hand felt past her inhaler, lipstick, comb, gum till her fingers closed on four sharp prongs – one key for the office and three for the front door. It was London after all. With a grunt she heaved open the glass doors and went to dismantle the alarm only to find it hadn’t yet been set.

  Now that was peculiar: everyone was usually well away by now on a Saturday.

  But as she made her way across the dining-room floor she saw a glimmer of light in the kitchen.

  Oh no. Was Seth still here working late on the new menu?

  Damn. She really did not want to have that conversation now.

  She was wondering if she should just cut her losses and turn around when she heard a voice. Or were they voices? Raised.

  She pushed open the swing doors and pressed the light switches. They blinked twice and buzzed on.

  Yes, she could hear Seth’s booming bass tone. It was coming up from the cellar.

  There was a sudden loud clang, the noise of a heavy weight hitting the floor. He’d dropped something.

  ‘Hello?’ Mary called, directing her voice towards the door to the cellar.

  She stood there a good minute, waiting.

  No answer.


  Maybe he didn’t want to talk to her either. Maybe he’d found out about the complaints. Okay, well if that was the case then it served her purpose to be quick. She bent her gaze and inspected the surfaces. All tidy and shiny and clear. Definitely no package there. She crossed the floor to the staff lockers. Nothing there either.

  It must be in the office.

  She turned towards the room.

  Out of habit she had replaced her keys in her bag and spent another half a minute searching and cursing until finally she unlocked the door.

  Yes. Eur-bloody-reka! The daintily wrapped package was exactly where she had put it to keep it away from splatters and fat. On top of the filing cabinet. Unable to resist a quick peak at the cashmere nestled in its tissues, she unwrapped it, touched the softness and then swiftly did it up again. It was perfect. Tom would love it.

  Right, now home. She snuck the package firmly under her arm and bolted from the office, accidentally slamming the door in her haste.

  Oh no. That would alert Seth, for sure.

  Best be super quick.

  She was locking the office when she heard something that stilled her.

  A groan.

  A not nice groan. A man’s possibly. Dozy, sluggish but distressed. Torn-sounding.

  She swivelled her eyes over to the cellar from whence it had come.

  Something down there made a scraping squeaking noise.

  That didn’t sound good.

  Drawing a deep emboldening breath, Mary began to move across the kitchen floor towards it.

  A horrible gurgling noise issued from the cellar. This time it was higher, more panicked, scratchy, reminding her of a promo one of their suppliers had sent about humanely slaughtering pigs.

  Ugh.

  She was about to move closer still, to take the top steps, when all at once the cellar door was thrown wide open.

  She clutched Tom’s package to her breast and froze.

  Above her the fluorescent lights fizzed and flickered.

  There was someone there.

  Mary squinted, aware of her pulse accelerating.