His mind was whirling into activity now. Superstitious nonsense. Idiot. Ignoramus. I don’t believe this.
Slamming his notes into a pile he strode towards the door and threw it open. There was no one there. Moving swiftly towards the stairs he ran up them two at a time and reached for the landing light. ‘Where are you?’ His voice was stronger now. ‘Come on. I want you out of here.’ He strode into Joss and Luke’s bedroom. It was tidy, strangely impersonal without them there, and empty. Swiftly he headed for the door, searching Ned’s little room, then Tom’s. Both were empty. He went into Lyn’s next, then not giving himself time to think he ran on up towards the attics, searching the two spare rooms, then pausing at last before the door which led through into the empty rooms. Surely there was no need to search those? Too right there is, he lectured himself furiously. Don’t be a fool. Pulling open the door he hesitated, staring into the darkness. There appeared to be no light switch here. Perhaps there were no lights. He could smell the slightly damp, cold smell of emptiness and disuse, and at last he conceded defeat. He closed the door again and turned back to the stairs.
A small painted wooden car lay discarded on its side on the top step of the staircase. He stared down at it, his arms and back crawling with fear. It had not been there a few moments before. If it had been he could hardly have avoided seeing it. He would have fallen over it. He stared down at it in horror, then overcome by curiosity he bent and picked it up. It was about four inches long, and two inches high, crudely made and painted a bright blue, though the paint was worn and chipped. He turned it over in his hands, then slipping it in the pocket of his jeans he ran on down the stairs, leaving all the lights on behind him.
In the kitchen the stove had heated up enough to put something in the oven. He rummaged through the freezer and found a foil-wrapped package labelled steak and kidney pie. Heaven knows how one was supposed to cook it, but he supposed if he stuck it in the oven until it was done it would be all right. He put the whole thing, foil and all into a baking tin, put it in the oven and reached for Luke’s whisky on the dresser. Then he pulled out the car. Standing alone on the kitchen table it looked shabby and forlorn – and distinctly old. Toys these days were made of plastic or metal; they were brightly coloured and non toxic. This looked as though it would be eminently toxic. The paint was flaking off even as he touched it. He frowned. Ghosts didn’t have toys. Or did they, if they were little boys, trapped in a house where they would never grow up? He frowned, taking a deep swig of Scotch, hoping that Margaret de Vere, if she was guilty of witchcraft as charged, was having a really bad time in hell.
One of the books he had brought with him to show Joss was a history of magic in the middle ages. He had left it on her desk in the study. Putting down his glass he went to fetch it, gathering up an armful of books while he was there to bring back to the comparative warmth of the kitchen. It felt more comfortable there. He would read while he was waiting for his foil-wrapped package to cook or self destruct depending on which happened first. Pouring another drink and slopping in some water he spread the books out and opened the book on magic.
Twice he looked up, listening. It was strange how the silence at this end of the house was companionable; not threatening. He felt safe here, even content, as slowly the smell of cooking steak and rich gravy began to permeate the room.
Procuring people’s deaths by magic was a common enough charge in the Middle Ages; any sudden death was immediately suspect. With minimal medical knowledge and even less forensic what else was there to fall back on? He sighed, flicking through the book. He was right, wasn’t he, in dismissing magic as nonsense? His gaze strayed to the little car on the table near him. Supposing Margaret de Vere had real power? Had she caused the king to fall in love with her daughter? Had she gone on, when her scheme had gone tragically wrong, to bring about the downfall of both king and bastard child? Was it possible? If so where had she got the knowledge from? Picking up the car, he turned it over and over in his hands as though seeking inspiration from the small wooden toy. The legends of the devil at Belheddon went back into the mists of time. They seemed to predate Christianity. She must have known about them too. Was that where she had found her power?
He gave an involuntary shudder. Putting down the car he got up and went to the oven, pulling the baking tray out with hands padded with dish cloths. He examined his supper. Inside the foil there was a solidly frozen amorphous lump inside a gloriously rich mess of gravy and meat. The pastry appeared to have disintegrated into a soggy mess. He shrugged, pushing the whole lot back in the oven again. No doubt it would taste nice, whatever it looked like.
Did she conjure the devil? Did she swop her eternal soul for power? He wished he had paid more attention to the stories and legends which he had always dismissed as philosophical hogwash. He was beginning to feel grave doubts about all this.
On a sudden impulse he went to the dresser and pulled the phone book out from its position under the telephone. Edgar Gower’s Aldeburgh number was listed.
The clergyman listened carefully as David spoke. He was sitting at his desk overlooking the blackness of the sea, twiddling a pencil in his hand. From time to time he made notes, frowning. ‘Mr Tregarron, I think you and I should meet.’ He shifted in his seat slightly so the reflections moved in the window. He was watching the lights of a fishing boat far out at sea, moving slowly up the coast. ‘When will you next be coming up to East Anglia?’
‘I’m here. Now.’ David carried the phone to the table and sat down. The smell of steak and kidney was getting stronger and more mouth watering.