House of Echoes

A log fell with a crackle in the fire basket and a shower of sparks illuminated the soot-stained brickwork of the chimney.

‘Luke, where are you, you idiot?’ She picked up the flower and held it to her nose. The white petals were ice cold and without scent. She shivered and laid it down. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was sharper. ‘I know you’re there.’ She strode across to the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall. There was no sign of him.

‘Luke!’ She ran towards the door and tugged it open. ‘Luke, where are you?’

There was no answering shout.

‘Luke!’ The scent of resinous pine was stronger than ever as she ran towards the kitchen.

Luke was standing over the sink scrubbing his hands. ‘Hello. I wondered where you were –’ He broke off as she threw her arms around his neck. Reaching for the towel on the draining board he dried his hands and then gently he pushed her away. ‘Joss? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’ She clung to him again. ‘I’m being neurotic and hormonal. It’s allowed, remember?’

‘You’re not going to let me forget, love.’ He guided her to the table and pushed her into the armchair at the end of it. ‘Now. Tell me.’

‘The rose. You put a rose on my desk …’ her voice trailed away. ‘You did, didn’t you.’

Luke frowned, puzzled. With a quick glance at her he sat down next to her. ‘I’ve been out working on the car, Joss. It seemed a good idea before it got too dark. The lights in the coach house are not good and it’s freezing out there. Lyn is still out with Tom. They went to collect some fir cones but they’ll be back at any moment, unless they came past me without my noticing. Now what’s this about a rose?’

‘It appeared on my desk.’

‘And that frightened you? You cuckoo, David must have left it.’

‘I suppose so.’ She sniffed sheepishly. ‘I thought I heard –’ she broke off. She had been about to say, ‘Someone calling Georgie,’ but she stopped herself in time. If she had she was going mad. It was her imagination, working overtime in a shadowy too-silent house.

‘Where is this rose? Let’s fetch it in.’ Luke suddenly stood up. ‘Come on, then I’ll help you put the supper on for the infant prodigy. He’s going to refuse to go to bed until he’s had his money’s worth of the Christmas tree this evening.’

The fire in the study had died to ashes. Stooping Luke threw on a couple more logs as Joss walked over to the desk. Her pen lay on the page, a long dash of ink witness to the haste with which she had thrown it down. Next to it lay a dried rose bud, the petals curled and brown, thin and crackly as paper. She picked it up and stared at it. ‘It was fresh – cold.’ She touched it with the tip of her finger. The petals felt like tissue; a crisped curled margin of the leaf crumbling to nothing as she touched it.

Luke glanced at her. ‘Imagination, old thing. I expect it fell out of one of those pigeon holes. You said they were full of your mother’s rubbish.’ Gently he took the rose out of her hand. Walking over to the fire he tossed it into the flames and in a fraction of a second it had blazed up and disappeared.

12

Lydia’s notebook fell open at the marker, a large dried leaf which smelled faintly and softly of peppermint.

16th March, 1925. He has returned. My fear grows hourly. I have sent Polly to the Rectory for Simms and I have despatched the children with nanny to Pilgrim Hall with a note to Lady Sarah beseeching her to keep them all overnight. Apart from the servants I am alone.

Joss looked up, her eyes drawn to the dusty attic window. The sun was slanting directly into the room, lighting the beige daisies which were all that was still visible on a wall paper faded by the years. In spite of the warmth of the sun behind the glass she found she was shivering, conscious of the echoing rooms of the empty house below her.

The rest of the page was empty. She turned it and then the next and the next after that. All were blank. The next entry was dated April 12th, nearly a month after the first.

And now it is Easter. The garden is full of daffodils and I have gathered baskets of them to decorate every room. The slime from their stems stained my gown – a reprimand perhaps for my attempts to climb from the pit of despair. The best of the flowers I have saved for my little one’s grave.

April 14th. Samuel has taken the children to his mama. Without Nanny I cannot look after them.

April 15th. Polly has left. She was the last. Now I am truly alone. Except for it.

April 16th. Simms came again. He begged me to leave the house empty. He brought more Holy Water to sprinkle, but I suspect like all the perfumes of Arabia, even jugs full of the miraculous liquid cannot wipe away the blood. I cannot go to the Rectory. In the end I sent him away …

‘Joss!’

Luke’s voice at the foot of the attic stairs was loud and sudden. ‘Tom’s crying.’

‘I’m coming.’ She put the diary back in the drawer of the old dressing table and turned the key. There were only two more entries in the book and suddenly she was afraid to read them. She could hear Tom’s voice now, quite clearly. How could she not have heard it before?

Which of Lydia’s children had died? Who amongst her lively, much-loved brood occupied the grave in the churchyard which she had decorated with Easter daffodils?

Two at a time she fled down the steep stairs and along the corridor to the nursery. At every step the fretful wails grew louder.

He was standing up in his cot, his face screwed up, wet with anger and misery. As he saw her he stretched out his little arms.

‘Tom!’ She scooped him up and cuddled him close. ‘What is it, darling?’ Her face was in his soft hair. It smelled of raspberries from his jelly at lunch.

How could Lydia have borne to lose a child: one of her beloved brood?

She hugged Tom closer, aware that his bottom was damp. Already the sobs were turning to snuffles as he snuggled against her.

‘Is he OK?’ Luke put his head round the door.

Joss nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll change him and bring him down. It’s almost time for his tea. Where’s Lyn?’

Luke shrugged. Striding into the room he threw the little boy a pretend punch. ‘You OK soldier?’ He glanced at Joss. ‘You too?’ He raised a finger to her cheek. ‘Still feeling bad?’

Joss forced a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

Tom changed and smart in a new pair of dungarees and a striped sweater his grandmother had knitted him, Joss carried him into the study. Putting him down on the floor she gave him the pot of pencils to play with, then she sat down at the desk and reached for her notebook. On the table nearby sat Luke’s Amstrad. The file headed Son of the Sword already contained several pages of character studies and the beginning of her synopsis. She looked at her notebook, staring down sightlessly at the pages, then back at the blank screen of the computer. She wanted to get on with her story, but her eye had been caught by the family Bible, lying on its shelf in the corner. With a sigh of resignation she closed the notebook. She knew she could not concentrate on it until she had spent just a bit longer on the story unfolding on the flyleaves of that huge old tome. Heaving it up off its shelf she laid it on the desk and opened it.

Lydia Sarah Bennet married Samuel Manners in 1919. They had four children. Baby Samuel who died three months after his birth in 1920, John, who was born the following year and died aged four in 1925, Robert, born in 1922 who died at the age of fourteen, and Laura, her mother who was born in 1924 and died in 1989, aged sixty-five. Lydia herself had died in 1925. Joss bit her lip. The diary entries must have been written only a few months before she herself was dead.

She swallowed, looking down at the page in front of her. The faded ink was blurred and in places the pen which had made the entries had blotted the page with a smattering of little stains. Slowly she closed the book.

‘Mummy. Tom’s tea.’ The anxious voice from the carpet caught her attention. He was sitting on the hearth rug looking up at her. His face was covered in purple ink.

‘Oh, Tom!’ Exasperated she bent to pick him up. ‘You dreadful child. Where did you find the pen?’

‘Tom’s colours,’ he said firmly. ‘Me draw pictures.’ His fist was clamped around a narrow fountain pen which Joss could see at once was very old. It couldn’t have still had ink in it so the lubrication for the nib had appeared when the little boy had sucked it. Shaking her head, she slung him onto her hip.… Except for it … the phrase was running round and round in her head. Except for it …… My fear makes him stronger … Words written by two women in their diaries more than half a century apart, two women driven to extreme fear by something which came to them in the house. Two women who had resorted to the church and to Holy Water to try to protect themselves, but to no avail.

As she carried Tom through the great hall she glanced at the Christmas tree. Covered now in silver balls and long glittering swathes of silver cobwebs and decorated with dozens of small coloured lights it stood in the corner of the room like a talisman. Already she and Luke had placed a pile of parcels under it including one for each of them from David. Tomorrow Alice and Joe would arrive and with them lots more presents. ‘Me see tree.’ At the sight of it Tom began to struggle in her arms. ‘Me walk.’ As she set him on his feet he was already running towards the corner, his chubby hand pointing at the top of the tree. ‘Tom’s angel!’

‘Tom’s angel, to keep us safe,’ Joss agreed. Luke had lifted the little boy up so he could put the finishing touch, the beautiful little doll, made by Lyn, with its sparkling feathered wings. ‘Please,’ she murmured under her breath as she watched the little boy standing open mouthed below the sweeping branches, ‘let it keep us safe.’

They were half way through an early supper when the front doorbell pealed through the house and almost at once they heard the raised voices from the front drive.

‘Carol singers!’ Lyn was first on her feet.

The group stayed twenty minutes, standing round the tree while they had a glass of wine each and sang carols. Joss watched from the oak high-backed chair in the corner. For how many hundreds of years had just such groups of singers brought wassail to the house? Through narrowed eyes she could picture them as Anne and Richard in her story would have seen them, clustered in front of the huge fireplace, muffled against the cold, in boots and scarves, with red noses, and chapped hands. Their lanterns were standing in a semi circle on the table, and Lyn had lit the candles in the old sconces and turned out the lights, so there was no electric light save for the little coloured balls of glass upon the tree. Even the carols would have been the same – from This Endris Night they had launched into Adam lay ybounden. She let the words sweep over her, filling the room, resonating around the walls. Katherine might have heard these songs five hundred years ago on just such an icy night. She shivered. She could picture her so easily – long dark hair, hidden by the neat head-dress, her deep sapphire eyes sparkling with happiness, her gown sweeping across the floor as she raised a goblet of wine in toast to her lord …

Sweetheart! He had first met her at the Yule tide feast, his eyes following the graceful figure as she danced and played with her cousins. The music had brought a sparkle to her eyes, her cheeks glowed from the heat of the fire.

Joss shuddered so violently that Lyn noticed. ‘Joss, are you all right?’ She was there beside her, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’

Joss shook her head, staring down at her feet in the candlelight. ‘Nothing. Just a bit cold.’ The singers hadn’t noticed. They sang on, reaching effortlessly for the high notes, their voices curling into the beams. But it was their last carol. They had to move on to the Goodyears’ farm and then to the Rectory itself. Scarves were rewound, gloves pulled on, change found for their collecting bag.

The silence when they had gone was strangely profound. As if reluctant to lose the mood they sat on by the fire staring into the embers.

Katherine, my love, wait for me!

They were so nearly audible, the words, like a half remembered dream, slipping away before it is grasped. With a sigh Joss shook her head.

‘The carols were beautiful. You know, it’s strange, you would expect there to be a feeling of evil in this house if the devil lived here. But there isn’t.’

‘Of course there isn’t.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I wish you would forget about the devil. This is a fabulous, happy house, full of good memories.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘The devil would hate it!’

He was asleep when Joss climbed up into the high bed later. She had lain for a long time in the bath, trying to soak the chill out of her bones in water that was not quite hot enough to do the trick, and she had found she was pressing herself against the warm enamel, trying to extricate the last hint of heat from the rapidly cooling bath. When she finally dragged herself out onto the mat and wrapped the towel around her she realised that the heating system such as it was, fired from the range in the kitchen, had long ago turned itself off for the night with its usual ticking and groaning. There would be no more hot water and no more barely warm radiators until next morning when, with more ticking and groaning, the system would, God-willing, drag itself once more back into life. Shivering she looked in on Tom. He was pink and warm, tucked securely under his cellular blankets and fast asleep. Leaving his door a fraction ajar she crept into her room and reluctantly taking off her dressing gown slid in beside Luke.

Outside, the moon was a hard silver against a star-flecked sky. Frost had whitened the garden and it was almost as bright as day. Luke hadn’t quite drawn the curtains over the back window and she could see the brilliance of the night through the crack. Moonlight spilled across the floor and onto the quilt.

They were all there, in the shadowy room: the servants, the family, the priest. White faces turned towards him as he burst in, his spurs ringing on the boards and catching in the soft sweet hay which had been spread everywhere to muffle the noise.

‘Katherine?’ He stopped a few feet from the high bed, his breath rasping in his throat, his heart thudding with fear. Her face was beautiful and completely calm.

There was no sign of pain. Her glorious dark hair, free of its coif, lay spread across the pillow; her eyelashes were thick upon the alabaster cheeks.

‘KATHERINE!’ He heard his own voice as a scream and at last someone moved. The woman who had so often shown him up to this very room and brought him wine, stepped forward, a small bundle in her arms.

‘You have a son, my lord. At least you have a son!’

Uneasily Joss turned to Luke and snuggled against his back. The moonlight disturbed her. It was relentless, hard, accentuating the cold. Shivering she pulled the covers higher, burying her head in the pillow beside that of her husband, feeling his warmth, his solidity, reassuring beside her.

Frozen with horror he stared down at the woman on the bed.

‘Katherine.’

This time the word was a sob; a prayer.

Throwing himself across the body he took her in his arms and wept.

With a sigh Joss slept at last, uneasily, her dreams uncomfortable and unremembered, unaware of the shadow which drifted across the moon throwing a dark swathe across the bed. She did not feel the chill in the room deepen, nor the brush of cold fingers across her hair.

Katherine, Katherine, Katherine!

The name rose into the darkest corners of the room and was lost in the shadows of the roof beyond the beams, weaving, writhing with pain, sinking into the fabric of the house.

His face wet with tears he looked up. ‘Leave me,’ he cried. ‘Leave me with her.’

He turned to the servant, and his mouth was twisted with hate. ‘Take that child away. He killed her. He killed my love, God curse him. He killed the sweetest, gentlest woman in the world!’

When she woke it was with a splitting headache, and only seconds later the realisation that she was going to be sick. Not pausing to grab her dressing gown she threw herself out of bed and ran for the bathroom, falling on her knees in front of the lavatory. It was Luke, gently stroking her head while she vomited, who wrapped something round her shoulders and later brought her a cup of tea.

13

Dr Robert Simms was rector of the church at Belheddon from 1914 until 1926. Standing in front of the stained-glass window which had been erected to his memory in the church Joss wondered just how much he had been able to comfort Lydia in her last months. Had he sprinkled Holy Water around the house? Had he buried her son? Presumably he had buried her. The grave out in the churchyard was overgrown now with nettles and covered in ivy but, scraping away the moss she had found the inscription:

Samuel Manners, born 1882, died 1926 also his wife Lydia Sarah Manners, born 1902, died 1925 also their children Samuel, born 1920, died 1921 John, born 1921, died 1925 Robert, born 1922, died 1936

What happened to the sons of this house that they died so young? Walking back slowly up the path from the church towards the gate into the garden Joss stopped for a minute beside her brothers’ graves. Luke had cut the nettles now, and she had scraped away some of the moss and planted bulbs in the cold earth between them. She shivered. Edgar Gower’s words kept returning to her: ‘Don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans; Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear. The past is the past; it should be allowed to rest.’ Was there something terribly wrong at Belheddon? And if there was, why did she feel so happy here? Why did Luke love it so much? Why had they not felt the evil which had so terrified Lydia and Laura?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.