The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  “I could leave you to sleep here, if you like,” he heard the Major saying.

  “I was dreaming,” Felix said, startled that he had not heard him return to the room. He found he was slurring his words. “The fire. It seemed so –”

  “It’s not much to speak of now,” said Major Vernon. “It has almost gone out.”

  He was right. Only the smouldering remains of a log remained in the grate, and a moment later it had crumbled into a heap of grey and white ashes.

  Chapter Two

  Carswell, who had undoubtedly drunk too much port, climbed into the great bed and fell asleep in a matter of moments.

  Giles was not ready to sleep, and sat down by the fire, turning over the Colonel’s perplexing story in his mind. The room had not been disarranged as he had described, and judging by the way Carswell was clutching at the sheets there seemed little chance of some supernatural hand clawing them from him. The house felt quiet and safe, just as it had done when he had been ill and had made it his refuge after Laura’s death.

  He did not like to doubt the Colonel’s word, but it had to be done. The man was requesting a release from his tenancy on the grounds that the house had become uninhabitable. There was a substantial sum of money involved, for there was over six months to run on the lease. Mr Pye, the land agent, had said he had never had a lease challenged on such grounds in all his years in the business. He had been fairly put out by it, but there was such a polite gravity in the Colonel’s letter it seemed impossible not to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least in the first instance. Furthermore, the Colonel had been anxious that Carswell come and see for himself what was happening at the house, and form his own opinion of the matter. And so Carswell had turned to Giles and asked him to accompany him. This the Colonel had accepted without demur.

  If the man was feigning, would he really have accepted such a pair of visitors, who were both sceptics by profession? It was a dangerous strategy if the whole thing was a pack of lies.

  He had been faultlessly hospitable. In fact the Colonel’s plain fare had been rich, and the flow of wine liberal, perhaps too liberal. Carswell was now murmuring in his sleep and threshing about the bed and in no fit state to be a rational observer. One down, Giles thought, as if they had been lured into some kind of trap. But then, in all honesty, what was the man going to do? Lay on a phantasmagorical show for them, as if they were at the theatre? It made no sense at all.

  Perhaps the Colonel simply kept a good table and Carswell could not hold his liquor. The latter was true enough. Giles had observed it frequently and had endured all the self-reproaches the following day. Carswell had a weakness for an open decanter, no matter what resolutions he made to resist it.

  Giles lay back in his chair, stretched out his feet to catch the warmth of the fire, and closed his eyes. He felt suddenly exhausted, as if he also had drunk too much, which he was sure he had not. He had drunk two small glasses of claret and half a glass of port. That was not enough to produce the extraordinary languor that now overcame him. It was perhaps the rich food that was to blame – a creamy kidney fricassee and a Madeira sauce with the roast widgeon. They had been living plainly of late. Their current lodgings were not comfortable ones, and the cooking was on the dreary side. Perhaps he had, like Carswell, over-indulged.

  Slightly annoyed with himself for it, Giles got up from his chair with some effort, rearranged the fire a little to prevent accidents, and went to join Carswell in the great bed. As he got under the covers, Carswell gave a great moan as if he were being attacked by demons. It is as well I am tired, Giles thought, given such a vocal bedfellow. And it was not long after he had put out the candle, that he found himself falling deeply asleep.

  -o-

  She was undoubtedly the most exquisite young woman Felix had ever laid eyes on.

  Such was her perfection that he decided she was not mortal. How could she be mortal, anyway, coming upon her alone in that woodland glade, with the early morning sun catching every drop of dew, and turning it into dazzling crystal? For she was riding a milk-white pony, and was dressed in green while her hair flowed loosely about her shoulders, without a care for fashion. She was not of this world, certainly.

  That hair – it was a brilliant fiery red, far brighter than Sukey’s dark auburn tone, and to his mind, at that moment, far more desirable, as was the fascinating pallor of her complexion. Her porcelain skin was scattered with freckles. Why did anyone consider freckles imperfections? They seemed only to add to the sum of her beauty.

  She brought her pony to a standstill and seemed to be examining him with the same scrutiny as he had extended to her, as he stood there, bare-footed in the woods. But he could not read her expression.

  “Who are you?” he managed to say.

  “Who are you?” she responded, as if all life were a riddle to her, and she had stepped straight from one of the old ballads. Had she come from a palace under the hills, and in which case where was her retinue of fairy knights? He expected to feel a dagger at his throat any moment. It was surely dangerous even to have seen such a creature as this, let alone speak to her.

  “I...” he began but found he could not finish. He was not entirely sure who he was at that moment, nor how he had got to this place. “These are my woods, I think,” he said, managing to grasp at least this fact from his memory.

  “I very much doubt that,” she said. “You look lost.”

  “Are these your woods, then?” he asked, wondering into what curious realm he had strayed.

  “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

  “I would have thought you might know,” he said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because...” he hesitated. Was there not some etiquette to be observed with such dangerous creatures? It did not do to name them, surely, that was it, especially not to their faces. He did not want to be taken prisoner and dragged under the hill, or at least he supposed he ought not to want that. There was a strong feeling in him that he would have liked nothing better than to be her captive. “You have a look about you – it makes me think that you might know everything,” he said at length.

  “Oh, do I?” she said.

  “As if you are very wise,” he said, taking a step towards her.

  “Only a fool would say that,” she said.

  “Then that is what I am!” he said. “Given I don’t seem to know anything about myself, and I am standing here in just my shirt in the middle of a wood which might be mine, but is probably not, and even if it is, is not really!”

  “What?”

  “It is complicated,” he went on, feeling breathless as he spoke. “My father, who is not really my father, but who is, in truth, bought them for me, the woods, that is – but what do you care?”

  “I think you are ill,” she said.

  “Oh, certainly I am,” he said. “Why I else would I be talking to you, your Highness? Or is it your Majesty?”

  “Neither.”

  “Your Grace? My Lady?”

  “Miss – Smith.”

  “Smith?” he said. “That’s a very poor alias, I must say.”

  “I am going to get help for you,” she said, gathering up her reins. “You are raving. You must stay here, and I will get help.”

  He stepped a little closer.

  “And you will take me to your people?” he said.

  “Perhaps. I am not sure what ought to be done with you. A doctor is what you need, certainly.”

  “You have doctors in your realm?” he said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “That I should like to see. That’s my profession, you see,” he added, recalling now that this was the case. Her eyes widened at that. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Stay there, will you?” she said, and steered the pony past him, turning it neatly. “Do you promise me?”

  “Yes. Yes. I would promise you anything, you know,” he could not help saying. She did not answer this, and instead started off, trotting crisply along the track
she had come. He watched her hair flapping on her back, catching in the light.

  In a minute or two the sound of the pony’s hooves became indistinct and he could see nothing more of her. He sat down, intending to keep his promise, and saw at the same time that his feet were bleeding.

  It began to rain heavily and in a matter of minutes he was soaked to the skin and coming to his senses. He was startled and appalled to find where he was. How was it he was sitting there in the woods in only his shirt? How had he come to be outside in such a disgraceful state?

  He staggered to his feet and began to trek back to the house, slashing his feet and legs on the bramble-strewn path.

  It was a blessed relief to find himself stumbling though the gate which led to the orchard. Here, the trees in their new blossom were being pounded by rain, and he felt as fragile as the tiny flowers clinging to the branches as he made his way back towards the house.

  It was at this moment he caught sight of Holt running towards him.

  “There you are, sir!” Holt exclaimed. “Where have you been? Away with the fairies, by the look of it!”

  -o-

  Giles was aware he was dreaming, but it was one of those powerful dreams that made him doubt the fact.

  He found he was with Laura, who was dressed very beautifully in lilac silk, with a bonnet veiled in gossamer lace. In short she was wearing the sort of expensive clothes he could not have afforded to buy her. They were in some grand drawing room – he did not know where it was but it somewhat resembled one of the great rooms at Holbroke, except that it was far larger and more opulent. They appeared to be at an afternoon party. There was music playing in another room, and all the windows were open. Beyond those windows, he knew without looking, were vast gardens, kept in a state of utter perfection.

  A little girl of eleven or so came up to Laura. She was dressed in the style of thirty years ago, neatly and plainly, in white muslin, with a blue sash that exactly matched the colour of her eyes.

  Giles recognised the sash, having long ago seen it laid by on a dresser, in his mother’s room. She had brought it into the room, having left the women to their work of laying out the body, dressing her in best Sunday dress. No doubt his mother had decided it should not go with her and had stood for a moment, smoothing out the creases. Then she began folding it, her tears running down her face.

  It was then she had seen him, hiding in the corner. He was not supposed to be there. He had expected to be scolded. He was supposed to be upstairs in bed. But she had not scolded him. She had taken in him in her arms and kissed him.

  “Won’t you come and sit by me, Lizzie?” Laura said to the girl, whom Giles knew to be his sister. “I’m your brother’s wife.” She patted the space on the sofa beside her.

  “Johnny’s wife?” Lizzie said. “How can Johnny be married?”

  “No, I am married to your little brother, Giles.”

  “Giles?” said Lizzie incredulously.

  “Oh, yes,” said Laura. “Please, won’t you sit with me? We should be friends, don’t you think?”

  “I should ask my parents,” said Lizzie. “Do they know you?”

  Laura shook her head, and looked up at Giles.

  “I should know them,” she said, “Should I not? Go and fetch them, Miss Vernon. Your brother will introduce me.”

  “Is that you, Giles?” said Lizzie, turning and staring at him. “Is that really you?”

  He had no chance to answer, for at that moment he woke, shaking as if it had only been a day since Lizzie had died, carried off by a spring fever.

  Then, as he crossed the tide margin from the confused world of his dream and into reality again, he had a further surprise.

  There was no sign of Carswell in the bed beside him, and a quick glance about him established that his clothes and boots remained in the room, as if he had left in only his shirt. Given the fierce chill of the room this seemed curious. Giles at first supposed he was wandering about the house. Perhaps he had taken refuge in the library, as had been his habit previously, but not to have bothered to dress, even in the most rudimentary fashion, seemed out of character.

  He got out of bed and began to dress. A few moments later, Holt came in with the hot water.

  “Have you seen Mr Carswell?” said Giles.

  “No, sir,” said Holt.

  “Perhaps he went out to clear his head,” Giles said going to the window and looking out at the rain-soaked garden. “But in only his shirt.” Saying it aloud, the more curious it felt.

  “What was that, sir?” said Holt.

  “He’s not dressed. I think we should go and look for him,” said Giles, pulling on his boots. “I will probably be proved a fool for it but –”

  “As you like, sir,” said Holt. “And surely no Christian would go out in that in his shirt!”

  Yet in a little more than a quarter hour, his intuition was proved correct.

  It was Holt who discovered him, staggering into the orchard, in a state of near collapse and considerable confusion. His bare legs and feet were bleeding, his shirt was torn and dirty and his face and hair covered in mud.

  Between them, Holt and Giles got him back to bed and bound up his lacerated feet as best they could, although he was scarcely a compliant patient. He was talking nonsense between bouts of retching, as well as swinging between shivering and sweating.

  “I will send Mostyn to fetch Dr Hall,” said the Colonel.

  Giles agreed to this, although he suspected that Carswell would not think much of his services, even in his strange condition.

  After a while, Carswell grew calmer and fell into a fitful sleep. He woke a little after noon, and sat up in bed, staring at his two unlikely nurses.

  “What is going on?” he said.

  “That’s a good question,” said Giles. “Hopefully Dr Hall will be here soon to answer it.”

  “That quack?” said Carswell, starting to climb out of bed. As he did, he winced, and looked down and saw his bandaged feet.

  “You must have walked through a briar bush, sir,” said Holt.

  “When?”

  “This morning,” said Giles. “Do you not remember, you were in the orchard?”

  Carswell thought for a moment, and then covered his face with his hands.

  “Dear Lord...” he murmured. “I remember now. What the devil was I doing out there?”

  “Your guess is as good as ours, sir,” said Holt.

  “Go and find some breakfast for Mr Carswell, Holt,” said Giles.

  Holt left, and Carswell got out of bed, with some care, and walked across the room, wincing. He peered at himself in the looking glass, lifting an eyelid and grimacing.

  “Dear God,” he said. “What on earth is going on? Did I have a fever?”

  “Yes, and you were retching.”

  “I cannot make any sense of any of it. It makes no sense!”

  “Perhaps when you have rested some more it will become clearer,” Giles, attempting to steer him back across the room to the bed.

  “Last night,” Carswell said, turning and gripping his forearms, meeting his gaze with a wide eyed stare, “did you experience anything or see anything?”

  “I was extremely tired and I did have some strange dreams, but that would be expected given the subject of our conversation.”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “Whom?”

  “I did try and wake you, now I think of it. But you were out cold, like a corpse. She was here. The woman in the black cloak that the Colonel saw. Except it was a grey cloak. She was standing there as clear as day, with a candlestick in her hand. She spoke to me.”

  “She did?”

  “She told me I had to help her. That if I went out I could help her. So I went outside and then –” He pressed his fists to his forehead. “Or at least I think that is what happened. I don’t remember going downstairs or leaving the building. I found myself in the woods and there was another woman, and she was –”

  “Ought you
not try to rest?”

  “I need to tell you this now, in case I forget. My mind is so turned about and upside down! This other woman – a red haired woman on a white pony. No, a girl, she was little more than a girl, and the most beautiful creature I have ever seen in my life. Are you sure you saw nothing? These dreams of yours, what were they?”

  “Just a jumble, as dreams often are. Now, Carswell, I think you should rest. I think your fever is still with you. What should I do about that?”

  “I want my books,” Carswell said. “I need to see what this is – if there is any natural cause, that is. Otherwise, I do not...” He stood in the middle of the room, clutching the stuff of his shirt in his hands. “They were both real, as real as you are now –”

  “You should rest,” Giles said again, taking his arm and leading him to the bed. He was a little surprised that he consented, but it was clear that he was struggling with himself. “See Dr Hall, see what he says.”

  Carswell nodded and then said, “I will, but I think we should leave here.”

  “You are not in a fit state to go anywhere, surely?”

  “I cannot stay here,” he said. “I cannot think.”

  Giles thought for a moment.

  “Then perhaps you might go to Holbroke? I understand that Lord Rothborough is due back tomorrow. They will take care of you there.” Carswell twisted up his face as if in pain, considering the point, and then nodded. “Holbroke it is, then. I will go over there myself and see to it. Holt is a better nurse than I am.”

  Carswell nodded again, and sat there with the covers drawn up over him, shaking with cold, but with sweat beading his forehead. His condition would be a very poor welcome back for Lord Rothborough, but it could not be helped.