River of Destiny (42 page)

Without comment Ken walked over to the tray of drinks on the side table and poured a slug of whisky into a tumbler. ‘Here.’ He pressed it into her hands. ‘It will make you feel better.’

She took a sip. ‘He was swinging, so gently. I could hear the rope creaking; his legs were dragging on the floor. If he had stood up he could have taken the weight. He was dead before –’ She shook her head and took another sip.

‘No horses this time?’ Ken said softly.

She shook her head. ‘No horses.’ She sniffed. ‘Then a boy walked in and saw him.’

‘So,’ John said abruptly. ‘I thought you were the expert.’ He was looking at his wife. ‘What’s going on?’

Amanda shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I felt nothing; I saw nothing.’ She was standing looking down at Zoë, an expression of awed concern on her face. ‘I’m a fraud. I must be. I’ve never experienced anything like that.’

Ken looked at Rosemary and then Steve. ‘Did this happen to our predecessors? Is this what finally drove them away?’

Steve nodded. ‘I suppose so. They didn’t tell us in detail. We thought it was the kids next door. To be honest, we never really believed them.’

‘Can you tell us what “the usual” is?’ John said suddenly. ‘Not all of us are in the loop here. What do you see normally?’ He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

‘Just barn stuff,’ Ken said calmly. ‘We hear things mostly. Horses clip-clopping across the cobbles, hens, we see dusty visions of the past sort of hanging in the sunbeams.’

Zoë looked up. ‘That’s exactly it,’ she said huskily. ‘It is like a film projected into the space around us. Nothing scary. Not as such. But this time I could see someone. And it was awful. He was hanging from the beam –’ Her voice broke and she fought back her tears. ‘A boy came in and saw him,’ she whispered. ‘He collapsed on the floor, then it all stopped.’

No one said anything. Zoë was aware of the others exchanging glances. ‘Sorry,’ she said at last. ‘A bit of a conversation stopper. That’s what happens when you come out into the deepest countryside, folks!’ She looked from John to Amanda with a shaky smile. ‘Ignore me. I’ve gone all weird. Rosemary has noticed it setting in. It’s the curse of The Old Barn syndrome!’

Rosemary managed a smile. ‘I’m afraid she’s right. These old places have such an amazing atmosphere, don’t they? You will sleep well, my dears, don’t doubt it.’ She leaned forward and put her hand over Amanda’s. ‘There is nothing to fear. Have you met Leo yet?’ She nodded towards the window. ‘Our other neighbour? He is the expert on all this history – he’s been here longer than any of the rest of us – he will tell you about the ghosts.’

Amanda looked at Zoë and raised an eyebrow. Zoë looked away. Rosemary saw the exchange. ‘You’ve heard about him, I expect. An interesting man,’ she went on relentlessly. ‘Did he show you his books, Zoë? He’s an expert on our best ghost of all. It is a ship.’

‘A ship?’ John interrupted. ‘Now that is interesting. That’s our kind of ghost, eh, Ken?’ He laughed. ‘This conversation is getting altogether too serious for my peace of mind. I suggest we broach that interesting bottle we bought you folks. What do you say?’ He stood up and walked across to the table by the far wall where Ken had left several expensive carrier bags which their guests had presented them with on arrival. He rummaged through them and produced a bottle of brandy. ‘Glasses?’ he demanded.

Ken got up and headed for the kitchen. He paused beside Zoë and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘OK?’ he whispered.

She looked up and nodded. ‘OK,’ she replied.

In The Old Forge Leo was standing in his kitchen. He had turned out the lights and was standing at the window looking down towards the river. In the moonlight a hazy mist was forming over the water. He was waiting for the ship to appear. He could sense its presence, feel the chill that accompanied it as it drifted up the river. Zoë had asked him if it was a portent of evil. He shivered. What else could it be?

Eric cradled the sword in his arms as he carried it up through the wood, swathed in a length of cloth he had brought with him for the purpose. Every now and then he paused, every sense straining to hear or see anything suspicious. All was silent in the darkness. There was no moon or stars. The sky was steeped in cloud. He kept well away from the village. He wanted there to be no possibility of involving Edith in what he had done any more than he had already. He picked his way surefooted through the undergrowth and stopped again at the edge of the wood, staring out at the darker silhouette which was the squat solid outline of the little church. There were no lights showing in the small high windows.

He crept forward and ran the last few paces, crouching against the northern wall, several feet from the door. Again, nothing. He waited until his breathing had steadied. Somewhere below in the woodland he heard an owl calling, the haunting sound echoing in the silence. After a long pause he heard the answering call of its mate, sharp and loud, very close. He stood with his back to the wall, his eyes the only part of him that moved. Was that an owl, or the signal of a man?

Some instinct was telling him to be wary, that all was not well. Surely Father Wulfric would not betray him? Soundlessly he squatted down and put his bundle carefully on the ground, pushing it in amongst the long grasses against the wall. He straightened up and again waited, holding his breath. Again he heard the hoot of the owl. The sound was further away now, more wavering. There was no answer from its mate. He took a step closer to the door, and then another and then he heard the sound of horses, the thump of their hooves on the dry ground, the chink of harness.

He retreated into the shadows of the wild rose bushes beyond the track which led to the door and waited. Three men rode up and slid from their mounts. One remained with the horses, the other two approached the door and banged on it loudly. There was no reply. Eric waited, straining his eyes in the darkness. He could see the outline of the horses, the shape of the man holding them; the other two had vanished against the more intense dark of the shadows in the lee of the church wall. The two men by the door held a whispered consultation – he could hear their murmuring but nothing of what they said – then they banged again and he heard them rattle the handle, the great iron ring which he himself had wrought when Father Wulfric had taken over the church.

The door was not bolted. He heard the creak as it opened and saw the faint glow of candlelight spilling out into the darkness, then he heard the first cry of alarm. He pulled back, watching. The man holding the horses led them closer, right up to the door, and Eric heard him call out. Inside there was silence. Eric felt himself grow cold. For a while nothing happened, then the two men reappeared, silhouettes against the golden light. They grabbed their horses’ reins and flung themselves into the saddle. In seconds all three had galloped away.

Bending low, Eric ran towards the door, his heart thudding with alarm. He paused as he reached the threshold, staring into the church. Father Wulfric was lying on the ground in front of the altar. His eyes were open, an expression of such horror on his face that Eric blenched. The old man’s woollen robe was soaked in blood; there was no sign of the weapon which had killed him.

It took Eric only three heartbeats to take in the scene before he turned away. He ducked out of the light, ran round to find the sword where he had left it and fled towards the darkness of the woods, clutching it in his arms. It was a long time before he stopped running. He was breathless, blind from the sweat which trickled into his eyes, not even knowing where he was as he slumped to a halt, his back against the trunk of a tree, and rested there, his chest heaving, the sword still held tightly in his arms. Below him, the tide was running slowly up the river, licking at the mud banks, combing out the tresses of weed. There was no sound now from the owls.

It was a long time later that he heard the bell clanging frantically from the small belfry on the end of the church. Someone had found the body and was summoning help.

In the barn Amanda lay staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom. She had been intensely disappointed to find it was a comparatively ordinary room at the back of the building. It had a no doubt beautiful view, but from what she could see in the moonlight, it faced across the fields. There was no sign of the river. It had been very late when the party had at last broken up and Rosemary and Steve had made their way out into a night, suddenly illuminated by the cold white lights clicking on beneath the eaves, floodlighting the lawns. It had been fun in the end, Zoë’s weird turn neutralised by the liberal doses which Ken had poured of their expensive brandy. She frowned in irritation as John beside her let out a particularly resonant snore. Alcohol always did that to him. However tired she was she was not going to sleep now. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, grabbing her dressing gown.

The landing was in darkness. She felt her way towards the staircase and began to make her way down. The great room was warm from the fire in the woodburner. The glass doors showed a deep glow. She could still smell the range of
smells from the evening; the faint residue of cooking, the warm pungency of Ken’s wine, the sharper notes of the brandy, the light traces of the women’s scent. At the bottom of the stairs she paused and stared round, her eyes becoming used to the faint light from the fire, and soundlessly she subsided to sit down on the lowest step, her bare feet on the wood floor, her hand on the turned oak post at the base of the banisters. Quietly she began to try to still her thoughts, to tune in to whatever unhappy spirit haunted this place. She had been extremely miffed to find she had sensed nothing of the turmoil which had obviously left its mark here. Why had she not picked up on it? She prided herself on her sensitivity.

She waited, her eyes fixed on the stove, watching the flickering fire behind the glass. A log slipped slightly and banged against the doors and she jumped. Her attention wavered a little towards the table over by the far wall and she debated the idea of going to pour herself another small libation from the brandy bottle. It was a tempting thought but she didn’t move. Her sleepiness was beginning to overwhelm her. Her head nodded and just for a moment she rested it in the cradle of her arms on her knees.

They cut Dan’s body down and laid him in the straw. Then they dispatched Robert up to the Hall, riding on one of the Suffolks, the harness bouncing loose on the horse’s fat rump as it trotted heavily up the drive. While George and John the cowman waited with the body, Ben stayed outside in the sun. He had stopped sobbing now and sat, a small frozen figure, arms hugging his thin body, on an upturned bucket near the pump. The two men debated urgently what to do about Susan. ‘She has to know,’ George said firmly. ‘Poor woman can’t be left in ignorance.’ Both men glanced towards the open door and the forge on the far side of the yard.

John breathed out heavily between his teeth. ‘Reckon your missus will be with her. You go and have a word and see what she thinks.’