The Collectors Book Six: Black Gold (The Collectors Series 6) (28 page)

Without warning, every light flashed on and off a few times before remaining at full brilliance.  This was followed by a hammering on the main door. Gingerly, I opened it to find two Scottish Power Engineers.  “Sign here, Guv – that’s you connected.”

I closed the door and my little girl materialised in front of me. Her lips had no colour; the pale eyes had a frightened look with dark rings around them as one whose nights had been sleepless. The blood froze in my veins as a dim shapeless shadow covered her and then drifted away.

Later, she reappeared – made no sound I could hear but I distinctly saw her lips move. ‘Help us.’

What was I to do?  Again she vanished.  I must admit I was intrigued but felt totally helpless.   Looking at my watch, it was well past six in the evening and I still had plenty to do.  Deciding enough was enough, I would start again in the morning.

I was about to get into my car when my little ghost appeared in the pets’ graveyard, barely discernible in the fading light.  She seemed to be watching me.  I moved towards her - this time she did not disappear.  Now I could clearly hear her singing.
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat.  My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”

              Into the gloom she faded, still singing.   I would come back tomorrow.

              I returned to the hotel, went to my room, sat on the bed bewildered by what I had seen and experienced.  Maybe I’d been over-doing-it and they do say stress can bring on hallucinations but it had appeared so real.  During dinner I asked the young waitress about Keevil House but she knew nothing.   Exhausted, I reasoned that a good night’s sleep was the answer to my problems.

That night I had the strangest of dreams.  I had no idea where I was but the air seemed laden with the scent of wild flowers.  Children played happily, shrieks of laughter filling the air. Then a shadowy veil covered everything and darkness filled my mind.  I awoke in the morning drained. The last thing I wanted was to return to that house but I had no choice.  To buy it I had mortgaged my other hotels; to abandon it would destroy my dreams.  I picked at my breakfast, read the local paper from cover to cover, drank far too many cups of coffee but I knew I must go back.

As I negotiated the long drive I attempted to convince myself it had been my imagination.  I laughed out loud, sure if I opened every shutter, sunlight would dispel my fears. On opening the main door, I stood there listening. There was no sound, not even bird song.  My inner-self told me to shut the door and leave but that young girl’s pitiful face lingered in my mind.

              I grabbed my clipboard, walked to the stables and started work, thinking if I stayed out of the house for a while the clearer my thoughts would become.  I scribbled away, made sketches and formulated plans.  The little coach house and cobbled yard were ideal for parking and offices.  The stables, once converted, would make at least another ten bedrooms. Pleased with my activities, I entered the small smithy at the rear of the coach house and my fear erupted.  I tried to run but my feet could not move. In front of me stood that wretched looking girl. She stared into my soul.  Not a word was spoken but I heard her.

              “The others told me to speak to you; they know you will understand.  Please listen, I don’t have much time before the dark ones come.  Bad people have been naughty and they hurt us.”

              I stood there rooted to the spot and stammered, “H...How can I help?”

              Whether she heard me, I didn’t know; she vanished and I was free to move.  I ran into the yard, sat on an old millstone and breathed the wondrous clean air.  Maybe I was going mad; after all, I had for the past year been working all the hours possible.  The cold fresh air restored my reason.  What did she mean by ‘they know you will understand?’  I wandered around the building looking for something, anything that made sense. 

              The swing in the garden swung to and fro as if being pushed and again I heard her.
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat.  My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”

              The swing stopped but her words lingered as the perfume of wild flowers penetrated my nostrils.  I must have been stupid not to realise she was telling me about the pets’ graveyard.  My mind whirled at an unbelievable thought.  Determined to discover if my thinking had any sense to it, I rummaged around for anything that resembled a spade.  In a dilapidated garden shed, I found what I needed and with resolve I walked briskly to the pets’ cemetery.  Trembling, I searched for Jane the Rat.  A tiny wooden cross, which had rotted at the base, appeared to mark the grave.  I began to dig, desperately hoping that only the brown earth existed beneath my feet.  Not being used to labouring, I sweated as my digging progressed.  Taking time out, I leaned against a tree to regain my breath.  For the briefest of moments she appeared and looked down into the hole. This time a smile lit up her angelic face before she faded away.   I felt like giving up after three feet but something or someone asked me to dig deeper.  At a depth of five feet or so I saw what I didn’t want to see; a small human skull.  Then I knew; I was meant to find it.

I contacted the police but how could I explain why I was digging such a large hole in a supposedly pets’ graveyard.  It didn’t matter, I’d deal with that question if they asked.

In less than an hour the whole area had been closed off and men were digging furiously.  At the station, I gave a statement which seemed to satisfy the DI in charge and returned to the hotel for another night. 

At breakfast the next morning, the Detective Inspector arrived.  Over three cups of coffee he told me they had discovered six small skeletons and were in the process of opening up the remainder of the marked graves.  He explained that I could continue with my survey but to keep away from their excavations.

“Who are they?” I asked.

He looked at me. “I suppose you know that during the war your property was used as a children’s home.  From our records, it would seem many of the youngsters ran away; some were quickly found while others remained missing.  It was wartime and what with the bombing of the dockyards and a hundred other reasons, missing children, unless someone shouted, were overlooked and eventually forgotten.  Regrettably, sixty years have passed, their parents, if they had any, will be dead and even if any of the murderers are still alive, we’d spend a lot of time and taxpayers’ money trying to prove the impossible.  At least they will be buried properly.  Oh, by the way, my men found a tiny bracelet on the wrist of the little girl you unearthed. On it was the name Jane. Thought you might like to know.”

I returned to the house, finished my survey and waited.  Jane appeared for a short while. With her ordeal over, the mistrust in those large blue eyes was gone. She wore an air of triumph and shimmered within an aura of warmth and light. Not seeming to run or walk, she merely floated noiselessly across the floor fading as she went.

As I drove back to London, I thought to myself, ‘So the house has a ghost. Maybe that could be good for business.’ 

When Jane’s Hotel opened, the sun shone and the birds sang.  Sometimes I think I see her playing in the garden with her friends.

The Fare

At the end of a slow day, the call came for Charlie, a middle-aged cockney mini-cab driver. With the thought of a decent fare, he drove his vehicle through the evening traffic from Tower Bridge to a street off Brick Lane. The road, pot-holed and with poor street lighting, made driving difficult. He swerved and stopped outside a large dilapidated Victorian property. The gate hung on one hinge and the front garden had been reclaimed by nature.

              With a spring in his step, he walked up the path, ascended the six worn stone steps and pressed the bell. No noise came from within and he tried again; nothing. 

              Annoyed this might be another wind-up, he pounded the door with his right fist. Faint footsteps echoed from an uncarpeted floor moments before one half of the double door opened. The old, grey-haired woman looked frail, her face uneasy, her skin wrinkled with time but her eyes sparkled. He guessed she was in her late eighties.

              “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice soft. 'Would you be so kind as to help me with my case? I’m not as strong as I once was.”

“No problem, missus.”  His eyes adjusted to the gloom as he traipsed behind her along a wood-panelled hall with doors leading from both sides. A bare wood staircase rose into the dark.  In a spacious room sheets covered the furniture. On the polished wood floor a small brown overnight case rested.

              “It’s all I need,” she said.

              Charlie picked up the case and for an instant was staggered by its weight. “What you got in here, love? The Crown Jewels.” 

              A thin smile formed on her lips. “My husband died many years ago and we were never blessed with children. In this small case is my life.”

              “Look, love, I’ll put this in the car and come back for you. Don’t want you falling down those steps, do we?”

              She closed the front door and locked it. “I’ll wait right here. You’re very kind.”

              Charlie ran back, took her arm as they descended the steps and walked to the car.

              She stopped, turned, tilting her head to the upper floors. She glanced away as if the recollections were sad. Tears formed and ran over her cheeks.

              “Are you going away?” asked Charlie.

              She shook her head as if amused. “Forever, young man, forever.” She fumbled in her purse and removed a card, “Please. take me here.”

              “Lavender House. Not sure where it is.”

              She smiled reassuringly. “Are you in a hurry, young man?  What’s your name?”

              “Everyone calls me Charlie and no, I’m not in a hurry. You’re my last fare of the day.”

              Her cheeks flushed. “Well, I’m Victoria Smythe. Please call me Vicky, my husband used to. I was born, grew up, married and will die in this district. Would you drive me through Wanstead and then on to the park?”

              Charlie checked the time.

              She frowned for a moment. “I’m sorry, Charlie, these days I forget others have a life.”

              “Vicky, no problem. A one-bed council flat on the Isle of Dogs describes my existence.”

A silence followed. “Can I sit in the front passenger seat?”             

Charlie helped and fastened the seat belt.

              The blue Ford Sierra eased along the road while she chatted constantly. She told him who lived where and when, the church with twin steeples where she was married, now a carpet warehouse.

He stopped at the park, alighted, opened the door and helped her out.

              She extended her hand. “I’ve asked for too much but I’d love one more go on the swings.”

              Charlie smiled. “Come on, love, take my arm.”

              She sat on the one swing, gently moving back and forth. “When I was a girl, I’d come here and chat to the boys.”

              “I bet you were a right looker then.”

              She glanced at him and gave a wry smile. “I think I was pretty.”

              The last remnants of the weak sun slowly disappeared. “It’s time,” she said.

              “Hold my arm,” said Charlie.

              “You’re a good boy. Not many would care for an old woman as you have.”

              “You remind me of me old mum.”

              At the car she slid into the passenger seat.

              “Where to now, love?”

              “I’m tired. Lavender House please.”

The journey took time in the rush hour traffic and it started to rain. Charlie found the home and drove up the long bush-lined drive, stopped and helped her out.

              “How much do I owe you?”

              Charlie peered into the car. “Shit,” he muttered, “I forgot to trip the meter.” He lifted his head, ran his hand over his face and smiled. “I enjoyed my trip down memory lane. It’s on me, love.”

She hugged him and he held her tight. “Take this and thank you, Charlie. I had a lovely afternoon.” She pressed a few notes into his hand.

He picked up her case and escorted her through the entrance to reception. The girl behind the desk stopped reading her magazine, stood and smiled.

“Hello, Mrs Smythe.” She turned to Charlie. “Don’t look so worried, we’ll take good care of her.”

              He went to say something but changed his mind. Outside he turned his collar up and stepped out into the rain. “I’ll come and make sure she's alright in a couple of days,” he uttered. “Time for me fish and chips.”

              In The Haven café he ordered his favourite, cod and chips with mushy peas.

              The waitress placed the overflowing plate in front of him. “Busy day, Charlie?”

              “Bloody awful, Sheena.” From his pocket he pulled the crumpled money. He stared at five fifty pound notes.