Haunted (11 page)

When he reached the second level, Ash rested against the wall to catch his breath, the flashlight off and dropped to his side. From here on, the stairs were wooden and creaky: he would have to time his steps so that they coincided with the ringing of the bell and its after-tones. Above he could see the faint candle-glow through the hatchway and the rope holes in the rough floorboards.

Ash waited no more than a few seconds before continuing the journey, apprehensive now, the deafening noise increasing his edginess.

The fluttering light from above was abruptly cut out as though someone was deliberately shielding the candle. Ash advanced slowly, one hand touching the stairs ahead of him for support. He reached the hatchway, but crouched cautiously as he took a further step so that only the top half of his head was inside the belfry itself. The shadow of the hooded figure was huge against the far wall.

Ash faced the kneeling intruder as he rose through the hatchway, the other person’s back to him. The robed figure was busy with something by the wall.

Still the bell chimed, its thunderous sound almost unbearable. Yet none of the bells was moving. Nor was the figure close enough to strike any.

‘
Turn it off!
’ Ash shouted, unable to stand the dreadful noise any longer. The other person did not appear to hear him.

Ash clambered into the belfry, enraged rather than apprehensive now.

‘
Turn it off!
’ he screamed, and this time he switched on the flashlight, pointing it at the kneeling figure.

Whoever it was there stiffened, became very still for a moment or two. Then the figure began to turn.

Ash held the flashlight at arm’s length, like an aimed gun.

There could have been a void inside the cowl so deeply black was it before the light struck. A face gradually came into view.

‘Turn it off.’ On this third occasion, Ash spoke the command, knowing it would not be heard anyway over the clamour. He was quite prepared to knock the crouched figure aside and kick the machine into submission, so maddeningly loud was the amplification within the confines of the belfry. But the vicar understood Ash’s words even if he did not hear them. He reached behind him and flicked a switch.

The relief was instant, although the resonance in the atmosphere took time to fade.

‘Let them sort it out,’ Ash said as he and Kate McCarrick walked through the graveyard towards the Saab. ‘We’ve done our job, the rest is up to them.’ The vicarage door behind them was being quietly closed by the rural dean’s assistant, while the dean himself was gently talking to the Rev Clemens inside the house.

‘The Institute’s report won’t help him at all,’ said Kate. She felt depressed, not because the case had fizzled to nothing more than human frailty, but because she had sympathy for the vicar himself.

‘Not our problem,’ Ash replied uncompromisingly. ‘He should have gone to his superiors and asked for their help.’

‘The fact that he suspected his wife of sleeping with half the men in town might have been a difficult subject for a vicar to broach.’

Ash shrugged. ‘Not half the men. But enough to feed the gossip. I think he hated his parishioners for their tittle-tattle more than he hated his wife.’

‘But to fake a possession . . .’

‘He wanted St Mark’s closed down. He wanted to leave this area and start afresh. Who can blame him for that?’

Kate opened the driver’s door as Ash walked around to the other side. He climbed in and ran his hands down his face. ‘I’m beat,’ he said.

‘Don’t sleep on the way back. I need company this time of night.’ Kate checked the dashboard clock. ‘Morning, I mean.’ She closed the car door. ‘Did you know all along?’

He shook his head wearily. ‘I suspected. He was so bloody neurotic to begin with. No point now having the blood on the altar cloth analysed, but I bet we’d find it belonged to an animal. There are probably the carcasses of a few stray dogs or cats – maybe even sheep – hidden in the fields around here, or floating down the local river.’

‘That’s horrible. He was a man of God.’

‘Driven to the limits. Could be he was a little bit crazy anyway. Who can say if it was
all
Rosemary’s fault? The thing that interested me was how he did it.’ Ash drew out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. ‘The blood, the candles, the fires, the wreckage – all that was easy enough for someone who had access to the church. The outrage was meant to look diabolical, but when you think about it, no serious damage was ever done. If he’d flipped completely, or if his own holy vows hadn’t held him in check, he could have burned down the place. But what I wanted to know was how he’d rigged the bell.’

‘A simple timer device fixed to a tape recorder.’

‘Right. He didn’t have a chance to set it today because he’d spent most of his time with the dean.’

Kate turned the ignition key and the Saab gunned into life. ‘Rosemary thought he would be at the dean’s most of the night. She thought the way was clear for her latest lover.’

‘The reverend made his excuses and left early, thinking I was safely back in London. It was all so stupid though – I’d have found the tape recorder hidden behind the boards sooner or later, even if I’d had to tear the belfry apart.’

‘I suppose reason didn’t have much to do with it.’

Ash drew on the cigarette, relaxing back in the passenger seat. ‘It didn’t make for much of a challenge either. It was all so obvious. There’s only one little thing that still bothers me, though,’ he added.

Kate glanced at him questioningly.

‘Two days ago, when I first went inside St Mark’s, I saw someone by the altar. Someone who was either kneeling, or was quite small. I think now that maybe it was a child.

‘I assumed that person had left by the side door, but when we all examined that same door only minutes later, it was locked and bolted from the inside. Yet there was no way that anyone could have got past us unseen, and no way they could have left through there.’

Kate joined him in looking back across the graveyard at the church.

Steam curled to brush the ceiling in delicate licks, its ascent stippling the white tiles of the bathroom walls with moisture. The only sound was that of water splashing, the movement vigorous, the cleansing that was taking place more than a physical purification: Ash scrubbed at his flesh as if to scour what lay beneath, feeling that in some way the filth from the pond had tainted his inner self. An irrational notion, but one he could not easily exorcize.

The dirt soon washed away; the sense of defilement did not.

The bath was huge, the enamel stained deep brown beneath old upright taps, its clawed feet squat, as if cowered under the great weight. A small mirror above a solidly square sink was misted opaque; a pale green stool stood by the bath, paintwork cracked, flaked away in places.

He finally rose from the water, dark hair on face and body matted flat against his skin. His fingers wiped the wetness from his eyes, the flat of his hands scratching against the roughness of his chin. He stepped from the bath and reached for a large towel hanging over a rail behind the door, careful not to slip on the shiny floor. Ash dried himself briskly, starting with his face and hair, working down, the towel rough against his skin, the wiping still part of the cleansing process. At one point he stopped, listened, looked towards the bathroom door. But he heard nothing, and felt only the stillness of Edbrook itself. He resumed drying himself, then pulled on a robe, his body now damp from the steam that had accumulated.

Ash yanked the bath plug and used a hand to wash away the dirt mark that was left as the water level lowered. He watched the whirlpool over the drain as though mesmerized; but his thoughts were elsewhere, in another time, caught in a more powerful vortex . . . He shuddered, became aware of the present once more. Ash breathed in deeply, vapoured air rushing into his throat; he released it in a long sigh, forcing his fluttering nerves to settle.

The last of the water gurgled away and Ash went to the bathroom door, finding its brass handle slippery, difficult to grip. He hesitated before tightening his hold and twisting, wondering why he should feel that someone waited beyond as he did so. Coolness rushed in at him from the dim but empty corridor.

Running his hands through his wet hair, Ash returned barefooted to his bedroom, tiredness, despite his tension, almost overwhelming.

He closed the door behind him and went to the bureau where his notes and plans of the house were spread. By them there was now a tumbler glass and he quickly poured a generous measure of vodka into it. He took a large swallow, then another, waiting for the warmness to reach his chest, the initial lightness to glide into his head, before approaching the window. He stared down into the gardens, relieved that the terrace and pond were not in view from that part of the house.

He disliked the statues out there, and the shadows cast by single trees and shrubbery. Could he be
sure
that’s all they were? What the hell was the matter with him? He’d fallen into the pond, pushed by someone – some
one
, not a dog! – and had thought,
imagined
, that person had been in the water with him, had wanted him drowned. But that fleeting image was jumbled, confused by events of many years before, a terrible memory creating its own falsehood. Damn it! He had to calm himself, he had to think logically! There was a secretiveness about the Mariells; he sensed they were holding something back from him. Idiot! He had
told
them not to divulge anything, not at this preliminary stage of the investigation. He was allowing just one unnerving experience to distort everything else. The family genuinely believed they were being haunted; he considered it his task to dissuade them from that by providing firm evidence to the contrary, to explain rationally the disturbance – in whatever shape or form it took – at Edbrook. Ghosts, spirits, lost souls, did not,
could
not exist. In a day or two – hopefully less – they’d be convinced. And he, himself, would be certain again.

Disgustedly, he turned away from the window and crossed the room to the bed, taking the vodka bottle and tumbler with him. He placed them on the bedside cabinet where they would be close at hand, shrugged off the robe, and climbed into bed.

The coldness of the sheets made him shiver. The smothered moon afforded no light when he switched off the bedside lamp. His eyes remained open. He stared up at the dark grey mass that was the ceiling . . .

No lights, no glow from within. Edbrook was a vast black bulk that merged with the blackness of night clouds. A breeze stirred through the gardens, ruffling foliage, disturbing trees. In the woods, night creatures hunted, their skirmishes violent but brief. Honey fungus glowed blue-green on decaying tree trunks, beetles scuttled in the undergrowth. The moon was a pale ghost seen only behind slow-moving monoliths.

Inside the house, Ash slept; but he did not rest.

His dream was of water, a terrible churning pressure all around him. Occasionally his eyes would rise above its choppy surface and he would glimpse the riverbanks on either side, far out of reach and rushing away from him. He screamed and cold liquid filled his mouth; and that choking sensation was familiar to him.

He plunged, drawn down by the fierce undertow. Someone else was with him in the deep, a blurred image, struggling as was he. Her hair was wild around her face, her arms and legs flailed the water. Her mouth, too, was open as though she was screaming at the horror of what was happening to them. The girl was drifting away from him, her figure becoming even more unclear, softened and bedimmed by the coursing river; yet still, and peculiarly, he noticed her white ankle sock, one shoe missing. Then she was gone, lost in fluid mists.

He rose again, a boy too feeble to defend himself against the water’s violence, but light enough in weight to be tossed upwards like flotsam by the currents.

He saw her once more, but her hand only, a small pale beacon that appeared to wave before it was sucked down, the young girl claimed completely . . .

Ash awoke, his cry little more than a whimper. The terror of his nightmare remained in his wide eyes. And soon a different emotion tinged them: a deep sadness, perhaps remorse. His flesh was coldly damp.

Early morning light crept through the window, a seeping greyness that offered no cheer.