Читать книгу The Ghost Tree - Barbara Erskine - Страница 21

‘No, of course I didn’t try it.’ When Harriet rang Ruth the next morning, she laughed. ‘This is me you’re talking to, Hattie. I do not, never would, try to summon ghosts.’

She looked round the room with a shiver. Even in the mornings the kitchen was such a gloomy place with its high ceilings and shadowed corners, and she was beginning to hate it.

There was a moment of silence as Harriet considered what to do next. Giving up was obviously not an option. ‘Pity, but don’t worry. I looked up some stuff about Dion and how she contacted ghosts last night. As far as I can gather, she and her companions meditated.’

‘I’m not the right person to try this,’ Ruth said firmly.

‘Yes, you are. You’re perfect. You’re a relation of his. You must have some sort of link. Besides, your father could do it and he didn’t believe in it either and he loathed the man.’ Harriet was not going to be thwarted that easily. ‘Let me read it up some more then I’ll call you back, OK?’

Ruth spent the morning tidying up, going through the drawers in the dining room and the sitting room. Then later she went upstairs. On the first landing she stopped and listened. It was very cold up there and strangely still. It was as though there was a tangible presence in the silence of the house. ‘Timothy? Is that you?’ She knew it couldn’t be, but it felt as though there was someone there listening to the silence with her. She could feel the heavy sadness, the pall of loneliness. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered at last. One by one she went into the rooms, looked round, then moved on. In her father’s room she paused a little longer, her eyes drawn to his empty bed. It was stripped now, but, unable to bear the sight of it with her father gone, she had thrown a tartan rug over it. It did nothing to dispel the emptiness of the room. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered again.

There was no reply.

The top landing was dully lit from the skylight. She could hear the rattle of rain on the glass above her head. Almost reluctantly she went into the back room and pulled open the cupboard doors. There was nothing left in there now except for some old newspapers on the top shelf. She reached up to them, and then, feeling something more substantial underneath them, stood on tiptoe to drag everything down off the shelf.

There were three large brown envelopes beneath the papers, tied together with thin pieces of ribbon. She carried them over to the divan, surprised at how heavy they were and, sliding off the ribbon, teased one open. On the envelope was one word: COPIES. It contained a substantial collection of letters, all in the same handwriting, which was faded, old fashioned, with a marked slope to the right. She felt a leap of excitement. The letters appeared to have been copied from originals addressed to various people over quite a long period. The top one was headed Walcot. She slid the letters carefully back into the envelope and, gathering them all up, turned back towards the stairs.

The radio and some strenuous house cleaning did nothing to dispel the lonely gloom of the house. Even the letters failed to tempt her and at last she reached for her phone.

Finlay was at home. ‘I’ll come and fetch you about five,’ he said at once. ‘Come for supper and stay the night.’

‘I’ve already looked,’ Finlay said, as he pulled away from the kerb. He had noticed the nervous way she glanced over her shoulder. ‘I can’t see him.’

She gave a grim smile. ‘He’s not going to give up that easily, though, is he.’

‘Probably not, but we’re a match for him.’ Finlay turned into the traffic on Morningside Road. ‘I gather he doesn’t know yet that we’re on to him over the forgery?’

‘I don’t think so. James Reid is waiting for my go-ahead.’

‘So, why are you waiting?’

‘I’m afraid he will destroy the things he stole.’ She glanced across at him helplessly. ‘And I can’t prove what, if anything, he’s taken. Catch twenty-two.’

Finlay checked the mirror and signalled left as they headed for the centre of town. He grimaced. ‘I can see that’s a problem.’ He drew up behind another queue of cars. ‘But I would be inclined to act sooner rather than later. He must realise you’re on to him. Why otherwise would you have changed the locks? So,’ he went on, ‘tell me about the conversation your neighbour overheard between your father and Lord Erskine.’

‘There is nothing to tell. Poor Daddy must have been hearing things. That house is so lonely and quiet it would drive anyone round the bend after a bit.’ She shuddered.

‘And you weren’t the littlest bit tempted to try and summon Lord E?’ She had told him about Harriet’s input. He turned to look at her as they waited at the lights.

She laughed. ‘Certainly not. To that extent, I’m my father’s daughter. But …’ her voice faded. ‘But,’ she repeated, more strongly, ‘Daddy wasn’t the sort of man to talk to himself.’

Finlay thought for a minute. ‘My house is haunted.’ He lived in an old mill near the village of Cramond, about five miles along the coast from the centre of Edinburgh. ‘I’ve seen her several times. A lovely wee girl. She plays in the garden and sometimes round the old stable block at the back. Several other people have seen her too.’

‘Ah.’

‘That sounds sceptical? Defensive? Disappointed? You wanted me to be an ally.’

‘No. I wanted the hear the cold light of reason. I expected the cold light of reason.’

‘Sorry. Do you want me to take you back to your father’s?’

She laughed. ‘No way. You promised me supper.’

‘Indeed I have. A soupçon I’ve taken from the freezer, but I’m sure it will please.’ Finlay’s cooking was famous. It was also probably responsible for his somewhat large girth. He was a cookery writer and in a small way a TV celebrity.

Glancing in the driving mirror again he indicated right and changed lanes, then he slowed to turn off the main road. Ruth leaned back in her seat, her eyes closed, relaxing for the first time in days. Seconds later she was shocked into wakefulness as Finlay swung the car left and then right again into a quiet housing estate where he pulled in sharply in front of a parked furniture van.

‘Finlay! What’s happening? What are you doing?’

‘Hush! Duck right down.’ Finlay was studying the wing mirror. ‘I was wrong; he was following us. It’s OK, I think I’ve lost him, but he’ll turn round when he realises. I recognised the car. He moved up closer in the heavier traffic just now so I was able to check the number. He must have been waiting round the corner as we left. That’s the problem with having a red car; it’s easy to spot.’ Finlay drove an old maroon Daimler.

They sat in silence for several minutes then Finlay pushed open the door. ‘You stay here. Lock yourself in. I’ll go up to the corner and peer round. See if he’s cruising up and down the road.’

‘I’m not staying here on my own!’ Ruth reached for the door handle.

‘He’ll recognise you if he’s there.’

‘You think he won’t recognise you?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You spoke to him on the doorstep. And he’s not going to forget what you look like, Finlay Macdermott!’

‘Touché! Come on then.’ He reached out for her hand.

They looked round cautiously. There was no sign of Timothy’s car.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Ruth breathed.

‘Probably. I won’t drive straight home, just in case.’

They drove around for twenty minutes before deciding it was safe to head for Cramond. As they drew to a halt outside the mellow stone-built old house with its long driveway and broad gravelled parking area, it was already growing dark. Ruth followed him through the front door and into his kitchen. ‘Ssh!’ Finlay put his fingers to his lips. Tiptoeing across the floor, he pulled the curtains and only then did he turn on the lights.

Ruth looked round. The room was warm and full of the succulent fragrance of cooking herbs. It was years since she had been here. Then it had been with Rick and they had had the most wonderful few days in Fin’s company. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered it, with a huge oak dresser and refectory table, a bookcase stuffed with cookery books and several framed French posters on the stone walls. The only nod to modernity was a circular ceiling rack laden with shiny saucepans and utensils, and an elegant kitchen island with an attendant cluster of high stools.

‘It is lovely to be here again, Fin.’ She climbed onto a stool and accepted a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. ‘We had such a lovely time when I came with Rick.’ She watched as he slid a dish out of the oven and checked it. Satisfied, he pushed it back, threw down the oven gloves, adjusted the heat slightly then he turned to her. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Wait there.’

The something was the writing slope. He had mended the lock and somehow removed the deep scratches from the wood. Ruth exclaimed with delight. ‘You’re so clever. You would never know it had been damaged!’

‘I enjoy doing things like that. A bit of a hobby. Open it.’

She did so. Inside was an envelope. She picked it up. ‘What’s this?’

‘Something I found when I was mending it. The blotter is made to lift up to form yet another secret cavity.’

She peered into the envelope and extricated a small folded piece of paper. ‘It’s a letter!’

‘A very old one.’

She unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table. The handwriting was small, closely crammed on the page, the ink faded to sepia. Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out the last line of the address at the top. ‘It’s Sussex. Where my grandparents lived.’

My Darling Daughter

it was signed

Your loving mother, xxx

With a grunt Finlay climbed off his stool to fetch a magnifying glass from the dresser. ‘I needed this to read it. Very charming. I’ve no idea who these people are, but it seems affectionate. Try this.’ He pushed the glass over towards her.

Ruth studied the letter. ‘I’ve no idea who they are either.’

‘Ancestors of yours?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose they must be.’ She looked up. ‘I’m going to try to construct a full family tree. But I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘You start at the bottom with you. Then go up to your mum and dad. Then up to your grandparents – on both sides if you can, to keep it fair. You can get that far, presumably?’ He grinned. ‘Then if there’s no one you can ask – cousins? Uncles and aunts? – and no birth certificates and things like that to look up, there’s always the Internet these days. And, in your case, you can start the other end, with your Lord High Chancellor himself. His wife, his children and grandchildren are bound to be easy to find as he was famous, and then you can go down from there towards you until you meet in the middle, or backwards to find out his ancestors and on up a tree full of ghosts into this glorious aristocratic jungle your father hated so much.’ He looked at her mischievously. ‘What fun. Count me in for help if I can do anything. This research of yours is a perfect way of taking your mind off the horrors of the low life that is Timothy Bradford.’

Ruth looked up at him fondly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘You’d manage.’ He reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘Come on. Let’s eat.’

Timothy had pulled up at last at South Queensferry near the towering girders of the Forth Railway Bridge. He climbed out of the car and went to stand by the parapet, overlooking the Firth, his hands in his pockets. He shivered as the wind found its way down the neck of his jacket. He had been looking forward to telling April that he had found out where Ruth’s minder had taken her and now he had lost the trail. But there was always tomorrow. He would go and stake out Number 26 again and this time he would make sure he followed Ruth everywhere she went.

His mind went back to April. It was odd how she had gone all superstitious on him, shuddering when she tried on those rings, or whenever he mentioned the loot, anxious to be rid of it all. Thank goodness he had the sense to see that as long as they held onto it there was no possibility of anyone spotting it. It would be a shame to chuck it away. His eyes strayed out over the cold grey water. The tide was running fast and there were white-topped waves crashing onto the shingle below the wall.

He turned away and headed back across the road towards the Hawes Inn. The bright lights reflecting out over the wet road were comforting and there was just time for a pint before they closed. Inside there was warmth and food and companionship and escape from the sound of the crashing waves. He saw the door open and then close behind a man and a woman. They hesitated for a moment before the onslaught of the weather, put up their umbrellas and began to battle into the wind. It was only then he realised it was raining.