by Cavendish
* * *
“It is good of ye to think about our lad, Miss Carmichael.” Andy McDonald leaned back in the rickety chair which protested at the shifting of his weight. “But the likes of us dinnae belang in the New Town.”
Miss Carmichael sighed. She knew he would be hard work and he was certainly proving her right. Why couldn’t the man see that her suggestion was the only way their boy could escape the dreadful existence he was forced to live?
“Mr. McDonald, Robbie is young, only nine years old, and at his age well able to cope with such change as a move to the New Town would afford. His chance to have a good education and a real future is in your hands. He has already said he would like to come and stay with me, go to a good school and achieve what he is capable of. Please don’t stand in his way.”
Andy McDonald’s face showed a mix of emotions from fear to confusion and everything in between.
Robbie, crouched in a corner of the room, switched his gaze from his father to his would-be benefactor and back again. Mrs. McDonald sat sewing an already much mended child’s undergarment. She said nothing, but looked anxious.
Miss Carmichael waited, offering up silent prayers that the proud man would make the right decision.
Andy McDonald cleared his throat. “I dinnae want ye to think we’re no’ grateful.”
“Then let him come with me. You can see him whenever you want. I can bring him here or.…”
Mr. McDonald shook his head. “We’ll no’ be visiting the New Town. I’ll no’ have folk staring and pointing, turning up their fine noses at us.”
“I’m sure they.…” She had been going to say ‘wouldn’t’ but he was probably right. Some people could be so cruel.
“Pa, please let me stay wi’ Miss Carmichael.” Miss Carmichael hadn’t expected the boy to speak up. He rarely did in her hearing. From his father’s reaction, he was just as astonished.
“Robbie lad? Are ye’ sure?”
The boy nodded vigorously.
Husband and wife exchanged glances. There was a pleading in Moira’s eyes that tugged at Miss Carmichael’s heart. A tear glistened in the corner of the mother’s eye.
Mr. McDonald nodded. “Ye’ll no’ forget us, laddie.”
Robbie ran into his father’s outstretched arms. Miss Carmichael dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, touched by the sight of the parents letting a beloved child go.
A few minutes later, Robbie and his few meager possessions left Henderson Close, clutching Miss Carmichael’s hand.
* * *
“Reverend, you have some news for me?”
Lucy closed the door and Miss Carmichael waited for the minister to sit down. She poured him a cup of tea. Robbie was in his new room, playing with some tin soldiers she had bought for him and which he seemed loath to leave alone for more than five minutes.
“I saw the bishop this morning and told him of your experience. He agrees with me that you had an encounter with an evil presence a few days ago.”
“And what was his advice? What should I do?”
“The answer is in prayer, Miss Carmichael.”
“I prayed at the time but the…whatever it was…told me prayer was no good. It wouldn’t work. That he was master there.”
“The Devil lies. It is one of his most powerful weapons. He makes us believe that which is blasphemous. You are a good Christian woman, Miss Carmichael. You know to reject the Devil and all his works. You did so at your confirmation. Your parents did so on your behalf at your baptism.”
Miss Carmichael felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Of course she had her own firmly held beliefs in the power of prayer but in the light of what she had experienced, she now needed practical help to back it up. “But should I carry something with me? Holy water? A crucifix?”
Reverend Smalley’s normally pallid complexion turned puce. “Miss Carmichael. Let’s have none of that Papist nonsense here. You don’t need any of those trappings. Your faith and prayer. That is what will protect you.” He stood up. “Thank you for tea, Miss Carmichael. I trust you will be bringing the young lad to Sunday service?”
“I will indeed, Reverend.” She rang for Lucy, who opened the door almost at once. Had she been listening? What if she had? She wouldn’t have learned anything more than Miss Carmichael had herself.
As the minister left, Miss Carmichael uttered a deep sigh that emanated from the very core of her being. She had been a firm Christian all her life, attended church on all but a handful of Sundays when illness of one sort or another had kept her confined to home. Now, on the one occasion she had needed to call on one of its officials for practical help, it had been found wanting.
Her relationship with the church would never be quite the same again.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” George said. “Look at these.”
The last tour drifted over to the photo section, eagerly anticipating their pictures.
Hannah put her hand to her head.
“Are you OK? You don’t look well.”
“I’ve suddenly got a ferocious headache. I’ll take some paracetamol in a minute. What’s the problem?”
“See for yourself.”
George turned his computer screen to face her, careful to ensure that none of the visitors could see it.
Hannah stared. Every single photo was swathed in a fog so thick, it was impossible to tell who was being pictured. “We’ll have to explain that there’s been a fault and invite them to go down and have them taken again.”
“And if the same thing happens?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
A middle-aged man approached them. “Are they ready yet? Only I have a train to catch.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hannah began. “There’s been a technical problem and I’m afraid we will have to take your pictures again.”
The man’s face reddened. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t hang around here all morning. My train leaves in less than an hour.”
“I can only apologize,” George said. “If you would like to come with me, I’ll take you down right away.”
The man looked as if he was about to explode but George was already heading in the direction of the door. With a glare at Hannah, the man followed him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hannah said, wishing her head would stop pounding, “please follow my colleague and we will take your pictures again. I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
Amid some muttering, the group wandered off toward the entrance.
Hannah handed them over to Morag and went to take her tablets.
In the staff room, something bothered her. She could remember being down in the Close with that group but she couldn’t remember returning with them. And suddenly it seemed vital that she did remember. If only she knew why. It was as if her own mind was playing tricks on her, keeping something from her. Thoughts. A memory. A far distant memory. Not of herself, but of someone else, closely connected with her. However she struggled to make sense of these unfamiliar feelings, she failed.
* * *
Her sense of unease stayed with her all through the rest of the day and lingered after she got home. Restlessness and insecurity took hold and she couldn’t concentrate. Finally, disgusted with herself, she went to bed, falling asleep almost instantly but waking suddenly, knowing she wasn’t alone.
The little girl stood facing out of her bedroom window, her hair blowing gently in the breeze. Once again, a smell of lavender wafted under Hannah’s nose and she sat up in bed, strangely unafraid of the apparition in front of her.
“It’s Isobel, isn’t it? Why are you here?”
“I’ve lost ma dolly.” The tiny voice, barely audible.
Hannah swallowed, picturing the rag doll in the closet. “I’ll get it for you.”
She padded out in
to the hall and opened the closet door. She reached up and pulled the doll down. Its black button eyes glinted up at her.
In the bedroom, the girl stood stock still by the window. Hannah approached her, heart thumping. She held out the doll. “Here you are.”
The child did not move at first. Hannah edged a little closer. A chill enveloped her, growing stronger the closer she came. An age seemed to pass before the girl showed any signs of movement. Her hair fluttered in a breeze that failed to reach Hannah.
“Isobel? Can you help me? Do you know who killed Miss Carmichael? Can you help me bring him to justice? She cannot rest, Isobel. Not until he pays for his crime.”
The girl turned.
Hannah gasped as, once again, instead of a face, a swirling mass of dark clouds swept across an oval space. The swirling became a silent storm. Hannah backed away.
Isobel spun faster and faster until she became a writhing, twisting tornado trapped within some sort of force-field. As Hannah retreated further the spinning slowed until Isobel once more stood in front of her, facing out of the window. She held her doll. She turned once more. “Thank you,” she said, and the voice made the clouds of her face vibrate.
She vanished.
Hannah rubbed her eyes, uncertain of what she had seen or even if she had seen it. Deep within her, a nameless sensation surged and subsided, like someone taking the deepest of breaths. She ran to the bathroom and vomited, sinking to her knees as she emptied the contents of her stomach and more besides into the toilet.
Shattered, she leaned against the cool tiles, her head banging with renewed fervor.
She lost track of time and didn’t know how long she had sat there before she managed to struggle to her feet and stagger into the kitchen. Her headache had subsided a little and two more paracetamol would hopefully send it on its way. She poured a glass of water, took the pills and drained the glass, then another as an unquenchable thirst took hold.
She flopped down onto the sofa, another glass of water in her hand. Maybe she had eaten something that had disagreed with her, or was coming down with some sort of tummy bug. Flu even. She didn’t feel feverish but maybe that would come later. At least the next day was her day off. She would rest up and see if anything developed. It would be good to have a duvet day. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. And she would call Jenna. It was her turn to call and it would be good to catch up on all her news.
A little before four in the morning, Hannah went back to bed. This time, she was alone in her room. At times it seemed she had imagined everything, but then the image of the girl’s face – or lack of it – flashed into her mind. The way she had transformed. No way had she imagined that. Then there was the doll. So real and yet it too had vanished with the girl.
Hannah slept fitfully and finally got up around lunchtime. Her empty stomach demanded to be fed and she made some toast and honey. Best to take it steady after being so sick.
The weather was fine, if grey and cold. She needed to get out. She would wrap up warmly and go for a walk in the New Town.
The streets thronged with people of all nationalities as always. Hannah hadn’t a particular destination in mind, just a desire to wander around the Georgian streets for a while, admiring the architecture. She made her way along Princes Street until she came to South Charlotte Street. Reaching Charlotte Square, she wandered up to the Albert Memorial. Every major town and city in Britain seemed to have its own Albert Memorial. This one showed him astride a horse and looking every inch a personage of great standing. Queen Victoria must have loved it.
Hannah carried on with her walk, passing elegant town houses and hotels. One house in particular attracted her attention. She stopped and looked up at it. There was nothing different about it. The same, typical Georgian architecture, a glossy black front door with highly polished brass knocker. But something drew her to it. An inscription on a plaque informed her that the building housed a firm of solicitors.
She mounted the steps and raised her arm. What was she thinking of? Knocking on their door? What possible reason would she give for being there?
She descended to the street again and hurried off. Back on Princes Street she found a café and ordered a mocha. The chocolatey warmth calmed her and brought her back to whatever passed for sanity these days. But that house. She couldn’t get it off her mind.
* * *
Mairead closed Ailsa’s office door and drew a deep breath. It could have been worse. At least Ailsa had only issued her a written warning. She had also relented where George was concerned, refusing to accept his resignation. So Mairead’s job was safe, for now. OK, the warning would stay on her record for a year, but she could live with that. What she couldn’t live with was all the uncertainty, the gaps in her memory. Ailsa had suggested she seek psychiatric help, but the thought of unburdening herself to a total stranger, on demand, wasn’t a prospect she was prepared to entertain.
Then there was the small matter of where she lived. Presumably she was paying rent or a mortgage but her bank account showed no sign of either. She had obtained statements for the past three years. All they showed was that she had never paid council rent on Bishop close. Why the council hadn’t let the house again was a mystery. Maybe she should go back and call on that nosy neighbor who had spoken to Ailsa, but she couldn’t face seeing that place again. Not after last time. Meanwhile, she had taken a room at a cheap and cheerful bed and breakfast. It would suffice for now and was all she could afford. If only she could wake up one day and find her memory restored, with all the gaps filled in, but as each new day arrived, it remained stubbornly like an impossible jigsaw.
Mairead made her way into the gift shop to collect her latest tour group. They were all there, ready and waiting, eagerly anticipating the stories and spookiness to follow. She could only hope the spirits would be quiet and let her get on with her job.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Emily.…”
Every group of visitors had its own identity, even though they were mostly strangers to each other. They shared a common purpose and interest, maybe that was it.
Mairead told her stories, made her usual stops, and as the tour progressed and nothing untoward took place, some of her confidence trickled back again. Outside Murdoch Maclean’s shop, she told them about the printer and how he had been the last to leave the Close in 1906.
“Of course, he wasn’t living here then. But he still conducted his business from these very premises. By that time, the Close had been sealed up at one end, so there was one way in and one way out. The council buildings above had been constructed, resulting in the demolition of the upper stories of the houses here.”
“It must have been awfully dark,” said one young woman with braided hair and scarlet-framed glasses.
“There were gas lamps but, yes, it would have been dark down here.”
“Not much passing trade then,” an older man piped up.
“Indeed not, sir,” Mairead said. “It would have been hard to make a living but by the end of his time here, Murdoch Maclean was a very old man. He always maintained they would have to carry him out in a pine box. In the event, he left on foot, hauling a cart with his possessions on it. After he had gone, the council immediately sealed up the Close and built on it. That’s why you enter it from inside the gift shop.”
“What’s down there?” The young woman pointed to the end of the street where the boards blocked off Farquhars Close.
A shiver traveled the length of Mairead’s spine. “That’s our next destination. Well, near it anyway.”
A woman gave a little cry. “Oh my God, no. It stared at me.” The woman gripped the arm of her female companion. “Did you see it, Dawn?”
A middle-aged woman in pink shook her head. “See what?”
“Is everything all right, ladies?” Mairead asked, knowing it wasn’t.
The woman pointed a sha
king finger at a locked building. “There. In the window. A face…only it wasn’t a face.… I can’t describe it.”
The rest of the group crowded round, jockeying for position, trying to see what the woman had just witnessed.
“There’s nothing there, Wendy,” Dawn said. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
“No, I’m telling you, I saw it. Hideous. A face shape but no actual face. No lips, nose, eyes. Just…like dark clouds.”
“People do report seeing strange phenomena down here,” Mairead said, keeping a firm grasp on the pressure cooker of emotions mounting inside her. “But mostly it is as the other lady said. The light’s pretty dim and it plays tricks on the brain. I shouldn’t worry about it.” I’ll do quite enough worrying for all of us. “Now, gather round while I tell you the tragic story of poor Miss Carmichael.…”
“No, I’m sorry,” the woman called Wendy said. “There was definitely something there.”
A few impatient murmurings. Mairead must contain this. “Would you like to go back to the shop? I can take you if you wish as long as the rest of you don’t mind waiting here for a few minutes.”
“No, it’s all right,” Wendy said. “I’ll carry on. I don’t want to hold anyone up. I just know what I saw, that’s all.”
“Well, I wish I’d seen it,” an older man said. “That’s what I came for and I haven’t seen one ghost yet.”
Laughter erupted from some of the visitors and Mairead breathed a silent sigh of relief. The tension lifted and she got on with her story.
That’s when the banging started.
“It’s coming from behind those boards,” an Australian woman said.
“I think perhaps we should move on now,” Mairead said.
“But what is it?” the woman asked.
“Probably workmen,” Mairead said.
“Or heavy-duty rats,” the older man said, lifting the tension once again.
“Precisely,” Mairead said. “Now let’s get you all back to your own time.” She forced herself to keep her voice steady while she told them of poor Miss Carmichael’s fate and then the party trooped back, had their photographs taken at the foot of the stairs and, much to Mairead’s relief, returned safely up to the gift shop.