Haunted (3 page)

The psychic smiled up at her. ‘We’ll just have to remind each other of the calorie count when we eat. Not that you couldn’t do with a few more pounds. Now, tell me more about our widowed friend while we walk . . .’

Ash thumbed through the local directory he’d found inside a shelf beneath the telephone. He muttered as he scanned the Ms. Where the hell was Mariell? He turned the page, looking for variations in spelling. Double-R? No such name. He flicked to the back section, looking for Webb. A few of those hereabouts, but no T for Tessa. And none of these Webbs lived at a place called Edbrook. On a chance, he tried the Es. No, not listed under Edbrook, either. He cursed under his breath; Miss Webb should have told Kate that the Mariells were ex-directory.

He was about to slam the book shut when a hand lightly touched his shoulder. Ash shivered as cold air breezed through the open doorway.

She was small and dark-haired, her skin pale and her features delicate. Her smile was apprehensive.

‘David Ash?’ she asked.

He nodded, for a moment, ridiculously, unable to speak. A glint of amusement was in her eyes now.

‘You’re Miss Webb, right?’ he said at last.

‘Wrong,’ the girl replied. ‘I’m Christina Mariell. Miss Webb is my aunt. I persuaded her to let me fetch you from the station.’ Her head inclined to one side as she studied him. Then: ‘Sorry I missed you.’

He cleared his throat, realized his whole body had tensed. Ash smiled back at her. ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I needed some nourishment anyway.’

Her attire was simple: a long coat, slim-fitting, curving in gently at the waist, hardly swelling at all over her breasts; the shoulder padding was squarish but by no means exaggerated, the collar tight around her neck. He couldn’t decide if she were ultra-stylish or hopelessly old-fashioned; not that he had any real sense of such things.

‘I wanted to be the first to meet you,’ she told him as though excusing her presence.

Ash was surprised. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘It’s exciting. I mean, a ghost hunter . . .’

‘No, it isn’t really. How did you know who I was?’

The girl held up a copy of a book and his own monochrome image frowned back at him. ‘You’re a
someone
,’ she said.

Ash grinned. ‘True. It sold at least three hundred copies. Can I buy you a drink?’

‘My brothers are waiting for you back at the house. We really should go.’

Ash hid his disappointment. ‘If you’re sure . . . let me get my luggage from the bar.’

She turned to him, saying, ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’

He stared after her, a little bemused. Then he shrugged and returned to the saloon bar to drain half the pint of bitter before picking up his case and holdall. He nodded towards the thin man with the veined face, who continued to watch him from beneath the flat cap with no apparent interest, then went through to the vestibule once more, this time stepping out of the main door into the autumnal day.

He stopped to appreciate the car in which Christina Mariell sat waiting. It was a model he hadn’t seen in many a year, and only then in magazine features on popular old cars. The Wolseley’s bodywork and wheels appeared to be in immaculate condition and its engine was running smoothly with only a mild escape of exhaust fumes from the rear. The girl leaned across and pushed open the passenger door, her smile the invitation.

Ash shoved the suitcase over onto the backseat and eased himself into the front, keeping the holdall on his lap. ‘Some car,’ he commented. ‘There can’t be many still around of this era.’

She gave no reply but engaged first gear and pulled out into what little traffic there was. When they were some distance along the high street, she said: ‘What do you drive?’

‘Uh, nothing at the moment. Another four months before they let me back on the road again.’

She looked at him and he caught the surprised amusement.

‘You don’t imagine I’d use British Rail by choice, do you?’

Christina returned her gaze to the road, the smile still playing on her lips.

‘So tell me,’ Ash said.

She was puzzled, but the smile remained. ‘Tell you what?’

‘Why your family is so keen to have me on this job.’

She kept her eyes on the way ahead. ‘You’ve got quite a reputation for solving mysteries of the paranormal.’

‘The irregular normal, I prefer to call it.’ He shifted the bag on his lap so that he could stretch his legs. ‘There are other investigators employed by the Institute just as good as me.’

‘I’m sure there are some almost as good, but it seems that you’re the best. My brother, Robert, made extensive enquiries before deciding on you. And you came highly recommended by Mrs McCarrick. We’ve also read your articles on the para—’ she gave a small laugh ‘—sorry, the “irregular” normal, as well as your book, of course.’

‘Who’s we?’ he asked, interested.

‘Both my brothers, Robert and Simon. Even Nanny’s shown an interest.’

‘Nanny?’

‘Nanny Tess. My aunt . . .’

‘Miss Webb?’

Christina nodded. ‘Nanny’s looked after us all since my parents died. Or perhaps we’ve taken care of her, I’m not sure which.’

There were fewer houses on either side as the car reached the outskirts of the village. The stubby tower of a church rose above gravestones like a flint conduit to the heavens; someone in black looked up from their insular mourning as the car sped by, pallid face as bleak as the monuments around.

‘And all of you have been made aware of this . . . haunting?’ Ash asked, returning his attention to the girl. ‘I believe that’s how Miss Webb referred to it in her letters to the Institute. You’ve all experienced the phenomena?’

‘Oh yes. Simon first saw—’

He held up a hand. ‘Not just yet. Don’t tell me about it now. Let me see what I can find out for myself to begin with.’

‘You won’t know what to look for.’

He saw that her hair was auburn, its shade depending on the light she was in. And her eyes were blue, tinged with grey. ‘I don’t need to at this stage,’ he explained. ‘If you really are being haunted, then I’ll know soon enough, won’t I?’

She was smiling again. ‘Not even a hint?’

And he returned the smile. ‘Not a whisper. Not yet.’

The two pills felt ridiculously burdensome on Edith’s tongue, like swollen pellets, difficult to dislodge. She took a gulp of Perrier water, washing away the sour debris in one swallow. There, you devils, she said in her mind, enough of your arrogance; now go about your business and keep this tired old blood flowing.

She thanked the waiter with a smile as he placed fillets of sole before her, then looked across the table at Kate who was glumly surveying an egg and anchovy salad. Edith shook her head. ‘I should be the one punishing myself with health food,’ she said with only the faintest hint of guilt.

‘This is the price I’m paying for a weekend’s indulgence,’ Kate replied, squeezing lemon over lettuce. ‘However, penance is one thing, masochism is another.’ She reached for her white wine and took a long sip. She shrugged at Edith. ‘It compensates.’

The psychic saluted her companion with the Perrier as though it were champagne. She noticed the faintest of lines around Kate’s eyes, a certain tightness around the mouth, first hints that ‘prime’ was beginning its metamorphosis into ‘maturity’. Still, forty was no longer regarded as ‘over the hill’ for a woman and Kate certainly had the kind of handsome looks that would follow her into old age. Unlike me, Edith considered, who never had had the sort of features she’d wished to follow her into later years. No, for some people the ageing process was a bonus (count me among them, she thought) whereby ‘awkwardness of countenance’ mellowed and became absorbed into the whole. Perhaps that was why the really old looked so alike, a unification in physical balance, almost a return to the uniformity of birth.

‘Edith, you’re miles away,’ Kate’s voice interrupted.

The psychic blinked. ‘I’m sorry. My mind wanders too much these days.’

‘Not unusual for a medium.’

‘Our thoughts need direction.’

‘Not all the time. This is lunch, remember? You can relax.’

‘Like you?’ Edith gently chided. ‘When was the last time you completely relaxed, Kate?’

The other woman looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I have no problem with that at all – you should see me at home.’

‘I wonder. The Institute is always so busy, and with the Parapsychological Conference imminent . . .’

‘Well, yes, the annual conference always presents a lot of work for us, especially when we’re the host country.’

‘And the many investigations you’re involved in?’

‘Most so-called paranormal phenomena take no more than a few hours for our investigators to dismiss as perfectly natural happenings, even though the circumstances might be unusual.’

‘But others can mean weeks, even months of painstaking study.’

‘True enough. Let’s be honest though, they’re the ones we like.’ Kate sliced her egg and began to eat. ‘Incidentally, I think the case that David is on might prove interesting – it could be a genuine haunting. I just hope he handles it correctly.’

Edith, picking up her knife and fork, leaned forward. ‘Are you worried about him?’ she asked.

Kate smiled distractedly. ‘Not as much as I used to be.’

‘Now what does that imply? Does it mean you’re no longer so involved with him, or that he’s a little more settled?’

‘I hadn’t realized it was common knowledge that we’d become “involved”.’

‘Why should it be a secret? You’re divorced, he’s unmarried, you see a lot of each other – a reasonable assumption for people to make, wouldn’t you agree?’

Kate shook her head. ‘Our relationship was never that serious. An occasional “thing” I suppose you could have called it.’

‘Less occasional now, though.’

‘A good deal less.’

Edith tasted her fish and refrained from adding salt. ‘He’s an unusual man,’ she said after a while. ‘I’m surprised you’ve lost interest.’

‘I didn’t say I had.’

‘Then he—’

‘David can sometimes be too absorbed in his own cynicism to allow much room for a developing relationship.’

‘Or too absorbed in his work,’ Edith suggested.

‘It more or less amounts to the same thing.’

The older woman pondered her companion’s response. ‘I see what you mean . . . He has such an active prejudice against all things spiritual, I often wonder why he and I are friends.’

Smiling, Kate reached over and touched the medium’s arm. ‘It’s nothing personal, Edith. He regards your type of sensitive as misguided, but sincere. I think he appreciates the comfort you give to the bereaved. No, it’s the outrageous charlatans that he despises, the kind who practise deceptions for their own profit. You’re different, and he’s aware of that; he really believes you can help people.’

‘And how does that sit with you, Kate? Having two such opposing factions under the same roof.’

‘The Institute’s research has to have balance. We need people with honest scepticism such as David’s to give credibility to our genuine findings on paranormal occurrences.’

‘Even though he attacks much of that evidence, genuine or not?’ Edith lowered her voice as a couple were shown to a table nearby. The restaurant was busy, a hubbub of conversations and movement. ‘Many of my kind hate him for his constant negative reaction against us. They look upon him as a threat to their own validity.’

Kate was insistent. ‘But many others – outsiders – regard that attitude as positive. Let’s face it, Edith: David has an impressive record for exposing phonies and for explaining hauntings or certain psychic phenomena in perfectly rational, materialistic terms.’

‘You sound as if you’re on the side of the sceptics.’

‘You’ve known me for too long to think that. But as a director of the Institute I have to keep
my
mind open to the logical as well as the illogical, don’t you see?’

‘Of course I do,’ Edith replied. There was a sparkle in her eyes when she added, ‘And I know how often you accept the logical when every instinct tells you otherwise.’