‘Maybe.’ He paused. ‘How often do you hear “things”, Joss?’
‘Not often.’ She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘When we first moved here I began to hear the boys – shouting – playing – and Katherine – the voice calling out for Katherine.’ She shrugged, finding it difficult to go on. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m ready for the men in white coats. I’m not mad. I’m not imagining it – ’ she paused again. ‘At least I don’t think so.’
‘Are we talking about ghosts?’ He raised an eyebrow. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he was watching her intently, studying her face.
She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. ‘I suppose we are.’
There was a long silence. He was waiting for her to say something else. She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Women grow fanciful in pregnancy don’t they? And, thinking about it, I’ve been pregnant since we moved in.’
‘Do you think that is what it is?’ He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, almost too deliberately casual.
‘You tell me. You’re the doctor.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, Joss.’
‘So I’m going mad.’
‘I didn’t say that. I think you have been physically and mentally exhausted since you moved into the house. I think you have allowed the romance and history and emptiness of the place to play upon your mind.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose if I told you to take a holiday you would say it was out of the question?’
‘You know Luke can’t go away. He’s got three cars to work on now.’ They were even discussing his taking on some help.
‘And it’s out of the question that you go away without him?’ He was still studying her face. She was too thin. Too pale.
‘Out of the question.’ She smiled.
Why did he get the distinct impression that her answer had, in fact, nothing at all to do with Luke. He shook his head. ‘Then you must be firm with yourself, Joss. More rest. Real rest. More company. I know that sounds a contradiction, but you have a real treasure here in Lyn. I know she would welcome visitors and take the strain off you. You need distraction and laughter and, not to put too fine a point on it, noise.’
She laughed properly this time. ‘Simon, if you knew how awful that sounds! I’m not lonely. I’m not suffering from the quiet and I’m sure I’m not having delusions.’
‘So you believe in ghosts.’
‘Yes.’ One word, half defiant, half apologetic.
‘When I hear or see something myself, then I’ll believe you.’ He stretched, groaned, then stood up. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help with the sleeplessness. Gentle walks in the fresh air, cocoa or Horlicks before bed and an easy conscience, that’s the best prescription a doctor can give.’ He turned to the door and reached for the handle, then he stopped. ‘I hope you’re not afraid of the ghosts, Joss?’
‘No.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m not afraid.’
The attic was full of bright sunshine. It showed up the marks of rain and dust on the window, and made the air dance with sunbeams. It would make the perfect setting for one of the scenes in her book – just like this – the hot sun, the smell of centuries, old oak, the dust, the absolute silence. Puffing slightly after the steep stairs Joss went straight to the trunk by the wall and threw back the heavy lid. She had only managed to open the padlock a few days before. Not wanting to ask Luke to cut it off for her she had sat there for an hour with a hair pin and suddenly, easily, the lock had clicked back and the hasp swung open. Elated she had lifted the heavy lid and stared inside. Books, letters, papers – and an old bunch of dried flowers. She had picked them up and stared at them. Roses. Old dried roses, colourless with time, tied with silk ribbons. Laying them gently on the floor beside her she began to look through the paper. From the depths of the chest drifted a musty smell of cedar and old brittle paper.
In the bottom of the box she had found John Bennet’s diary – the John Bennet who had married her great grandmother in 1893 and nine years later, in 1903, had disappeared without trace.
The last entry in the diary which seemed to cover, on and off, about five years, was dated April 29th 1903. The writing was shaky, scrawled across the page.
So, he claims yet another victim. The boy is dead. Next it will be me. Why can’t she see what is happening? I have asked that the sacrament be celebrated here in the house and she refuses. Dear sweet Jesus save us.
That was all.
Joss sat on the closed trunk, the book open in her lap staring out of the dusty window. The sky beyond was a dazzling ice blue. Dear sweet Jesus save us. The words echoed through her head. What had happened to him? Had he run away, or had he, as he feared, died? She looked down at the book again, leafing through the pages. Until the last few entries the handwriting had been strong, decisive, the subject matter on the whole impersonal – to do with the farm and the village. She had found the entry for little Henry John’s birth.
Mary had an easy delivery and the child was born at eight o’clock this morning. He has red hair and looks much like Mary’s father.
Joss smiled, wondering if that was a touch of humour. If it was, the reason for it had long gone.
Further back she found the entry where his marriage to Mary Sarah in the spring of 1893 was similarly laconically described:
Today Mary and I were married in the church at Belheddon. It rained, but the party was I think a merry one. We have waited so long for this marriage I pray that it may be joyous and fruitful and that happiness will come now to Belheddon Hall.