He had trouble with this. Big trouble. Witchcraft could not be real. Or could it? Feminists always thought accusations of witchcraft were macho-male-misogynist politically inspired, didn’t they? Witchcraft either did not exist at all and was drummed up as a charge by these fearsome women haters, or, it was a harmless, indeed benevolent remnant of some pre Christian paganism dating from a Golden Age which had never existed, but which antagonised a male-macho-etc Christian hierarchy.
Supposing neither was true? Supposing the witchcraft as practised by Margaret de Vere was real, effective and as malevolent as popular myth described it?
He gazed into the warm, cheerful depths of the fire and wished Joss were here. He would like to argue this out with her. Without her acerbic comments to keep him in line, he was floundering deeper and deeper into a mire. Could Margaret have killed and/ or cursed King Edward IV? and could that curse, effective five hundred years later, still be blighting the house where she had uttered it? The thought which haunted him, one that had arrived unbidden as he lay sleepless one night in his London flat mulling over the problem was a simple one. Did Margaret de Vere kill her daughter’s baby by the king? And had the curse, raging out of control, threatened every boy baby to be born in the house ever since?
He shuddered. Not the best thing to think about if he was going to spend the night alone in the place. Not the best thing at all.
He stood up and went to stand near the fire, stooping absentmindedly to throw on a log. It was very quiet without the others there. He stared down into the flames, watching them lick greedily over the wood. Quiet and somehow brooding. He gave himself a mental shake. He did not believe in ghosts, nor the power of the occult. It was an intriguing theory, but one based solely on the superstition and gullibility of its audience. It might – would – have worked in the fifteenth century. It could still work presumably in the twentieth but only by association; it relied on rumour and fear and ignorance to give it energy. He turned his back on the fire, massaging his backside in the warmth. Yet Joss believed it. She was neither ignorant nor gullible, nor, as far as he could remember, superstitious. He frowned. She was, though, a woman with two small children and through them desperately vulnerable.
The sound of scuffling in the hall was very small. He hardly heard it above the crackle and hiss of the fire. Stiffening, he listened, every ounce of his attention fixed, not conscious before just how twitchy he had been. He felt the sweat start out on the palms of his hands. It couldn’t be the cats. It was his imagination – or at worst, mice.
Cautiously he tiptoed away from the fire towards the door, listening as hard as he could, cursing the fact that the dry log he had thrown on was crackling and spitting merrily and noisily behind him. He put his hand on the doorknob and waited, his ear to the panelling. Nothing. There was no sound. He stood there for a couple of minutes before gently beginning to turn the knob.
The hallway outside was in darkness. He frowned. Had he forgotten to turn on the light? Of course, it had not been dark when he came into the study. The early dusk of November had fallen swiftly and like a blanket across the garden. Pushing the door wide so the light from the study fell across the floor he took a step forward, his hand raised towards the light switch.
The scuffling came from above him this time, on the broad staircase, where it swept round out of sight into the darkness. It took all his resolution not to dive back into the study and slam the door. Instead he took another step forward and turned on the light then he looked up. Silence. His back to the wall he listened, frowning. He had the very strong impression that there was someone up there, sitting on the stairs, just out of sight.
‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded shockingly loud. ‘Come on. I can see you.’
There was a suppressed gurgle of laughter – a child’s laughter and then he heard the thud of footsteps as someone ran on up the stairs. He swallowed hard. Children from the village? Or Joss’s ghosts? He licked his dry lips, not moving. ‘Sam? Georgie?’ This was ridiculous. All he was proving was that he was as superstitious and gullible as the next man when it came to spending a night alone in a haunted house. ‘Come on, Tregarron. Pull yourself together.’ He spoke under his breath. ‘You’ve got to go up there. You’ve got to search the place. Supposing they’re thieves. Or vandals!’ He did not move. His limbs seemed anchored to the spot. Behind him the study was warm and welcoming. His coffee was getting cold. Cautiously, a step at a time he retreated into the study, leaving the lights on, and pulled the door closed. Mug in hand he went sheepishly to the telephone and picked it up. The Goodyears were in the phone book.
‘I didn’t realise that Joss and Luke were away. I feel a bit of a fool – here on my own – I wondered if I could ask you both over for a drink. I’m sure they won’t mind.’ He glanced at the windows, seeing his own reflection, upright, tense, on the edge of the chair, staring back at himself in the glass. He should have drawn the curtains at once, before he phoned.
‘Oh, I see.’ He tried to keep the disappointment and fear out of his voice as Roy explained that they were going out. Laughing, he brushed off Roy’s apology. ‘Not to worry. Next time perhaps. No, no. I’m going back to town early tomorrow. Good night.’ He replaced the receiver with a shaking hand. Getting up he went to the curtains and pulled them across, then he wandered over to the desk and stood looking down at his meticulously written notes.
Georgie!
He looked up at the door, shocked. The voice had been so close. So clear.
Georgie!
He clenched his fists. They’re only children. They can’t hurt me.
What am I saying. They don’t exist.