Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXI

The police spent a long time searching the spare room at the cottage and it was after four before the tired men climbed into their vehicle and drove along the bumpy track back to Redall Farmhouse followed by the Lindseys’ Land Rover. Kate stood for a moment watching the taillights of the police vehicle as it disappeared away into the woods, then she followed the others back inside. Her head was spinning and she was exhausted. She had grown to love Redall Cottage, she realised, in the short time she had been there, in spite of her occasional nervousness, and suddenly what confidence she had in the place had been smashed. It was as if a new friend had turned round and kicked her in the teeth.

Diana had paused to wait for her in the entrance hall. ‘You can sleep in Greg’s room, Kate. He’s gone straight upstairs to make up the bed for you.’

‘But what about him?’ Kate followed her into the warm familiar room. The fire had died to ash but it was still cosy, still redolent with coffee and wine and the faintest suspicion of oregano and garlic from their supper so many hours before.

‘He will be perfectly all right,’ Roger put in sternly. ‘He has appropriated my study through there as his studio.’ He indicated a room off the entrance hall which she had not so far seen. ‘He can camp in there. You look completely exhausted, my dear. I suggest you go straight upstairs and sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

In spite of her tiredness Kate found herself staring around Greg’s bedroom as she sat wearily down on the bed, but if she was looking for some clue to his personality amongst his belongings she was disappointed. The room had obviously been – and still looked like – the spare room of the house. The furnishings, though comfortable and charming, had that strange air of not belonging to anyone in particular which spare rooms acquire. The style was too feminine to be Greg’s; too masculine to be a woman’s room. She looked down at his things on the table by the window. In front of the small, square Edwardian dressing mirror lay a scattering of belongings. Besides the obvious brush and a comb there were cufflinks – so, he dressed up formally when he wanted to – somehow she couldn’t quite picture it. There was a paintbrush, seemingly unused, several pencils of differing hardness, a pile of small change, a crumpled train ticket issued at Liverpool Street, a chain of paper clips, some Polo mints in a scruffy remnant of silver paper and an exquisite enamelled snuff box. She picked the latter up and stared at it for a moment, enchanted, then she continued her weary scrutiny of the room. The walls were covered with a pretty flowered wallpaper and criss-crossed with beams, the ceiling was low, the furniture mainly Victorian. It was small and comfortable and safe.

It took her only two minutes to undress, donning the cotton nightshirt she had stuffed into her shoulder bag with her toothbrush, and slide gratefully into the bed.

Pulling the duvet up over her head Kate closed her eyes. Minutes later she opened them again. She was too tired, too stressed, her brain too active to sleep. Hugging the pillow she lay looking towards the window at the blackness of the sky and the tears began to run down her cheeks. Outside, across the grass, the mud gleamed in the starlight as slowly the tide crawled in across the saltings.

It was daylight when she fell at last into a fitful doze and well after eleven before she awoke, rocketed out of her uneasy dream by the sound of loud pop music from the room next door. Sitting up slowly she swung her feet to the floor, rubbing her face wearily in her hands. From downstairs, as Johnny Rotten paused momentarily to draw breath, she could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

Ten minutes later, her face washed in cold water, her hair brushed and fully dressed in her skirt and blouse of the night before, she ran downstairs. The sitting room half of the large living area was deserted – even the cats were missing. Peering through the oak studs which divided the room she saw that Roger sat alone at the kitchen table. He was reading The Times. The sound of the vacuum had shifted to the furthest recesses of the house as he looked up and saw her. He smiled. ‘Coffee is on. Come and have a cup. You look as though you could do with one.’

‘Thank you.’ She sat down opposite him. She wondered for a minute how he had managed to get hold of a newspaper so early – surely they weren’t delivered out here – then she remembered the time. It was already nearly midday. Time and plenty for any of her hosts to have gone out, half way round the county and returned if they had wanted to.

He pushed a cup towards her before folding his paper and setting it neatly beside his plate and leaning forward on his elbows. ‘I had a long talk with the police this morning on the phone. After due reflection overnight they seem to think as you did that Greg probably did it himself, or at least that he was responsible. There was absolutely no sign of a break in and he is the only person besides Di and myself, and you of course, to have a key to the cottage.’

Kate stared at him. ‘But surely, he wouldn’t destroy his own pictures.’

Roger sighed. ‘It’s difficult to tell sometimes what is going on in my son’s mind, Kate. I often think he hates his talent.’ He poured some more coffee into his own cup. ‘My dear -’ he paused, searching for the right words. ‘I would of course understand if you decided that you wanted to leave, and I would be more than happy to return your rent. All of it. I am extremely embarrassed by everything that has occurred. But if you still want to stay -’ He hesitated. ‘If you still want to stay at the cottage I shall get someone over there today to change the locks, and I will see to it myself that no one has a key but you for the rest of your tenancy. I can’t apologise enough for all the distress this must have caused you.’ He smiled. He looked exhausted. His face, beneath dry, paper-thin skin was drained of colour.

Impulsively Kate reached over and put her hand over his. In the daylight her fear had evaporated. ‘I think I would like to stay. It’s so lovely here and my book is going so well.’ She glanced at the window, framed in blue gingham curtains. ‘Of course, it’s easy to say that now, with the sun shining outside and the house busy with people.’ She looked down into the depths of her coffee. ‘I’m not sure how I will feel in the dark, on my own.’ She shrugged apologetically.

‘Give it a try.’ He turned his hand over to take hers for a moment. ‘You can change your mind any time. And if you’re nervous, you know we can be there very quickly. One of us will always come if you call, I promise.’ He stood up. ‘Greg is out. Come and look at his pictures.’

She followed him towards the study and paused in the doorway looking round as Roger made his way towards his chair behind the desk and threw himself down in it. ‘He has talent,’ he said tiredly. ‘It does not excuse him, but maybe it helps us to understand him a little.’

Kate walked slowly round the room. She had already formed a view of Greg’s talent from the paintings at the cottage, but this selection reinforced it tenfold. He was very good indeed. ‘Who is this woman?’ Curious, she held out a small portrait. It was one of several of the same subject.

Roger shrugged. ‘I don’t recognise her. They are all recent, though.’

Kate stared down at her. The woman had large, oval, grey eyes, too large for her face – they were the same in each painting – and looped chestnut hair. In every case she was dressed in blue, but there was no detail of what she was wearing, just a blur, a hint of shoulders, arms, no more. She shivered and put the painting down. ‘He’s good.’

Roger nodded. He gave a small conspiratorial smile. ‘Don’t tell him I showed you. Come on. We’ll start on the potatoes and after lunch we’ll take you back to the cottage.’

She couldn’t help a feeling of slight trepidation as she let herself into the cottage later, but the presence of both Roger and Diana at her heels reassured her, as did the arrival twenty minutes later of the locksmith. While he fixed the door, the others worked upstairs with her, tidying the spare room and cleaning it.

Roger checked the two windows. ‘Do you want him to fit window locks while he’s here?’ he asked doubtfully examining the window frame. There was no sign of a forced entry anywhere in the house.

Kate shrugged. ‘It seems a bit like overkill – ’

‘Perhaps they could be screwed down. It would be less expensive,’ Diana interrupted. ‘I think we should take every precaution. And there should be a larger bolt on the front door as well as a dead lock.’

It was nearly dark by the time they had all gone. Kate looked round. Strangely she was relieved to see them go. Comforted that the house was now defended like Fort Knox and reassured that her strange experiences were in some way due to Greg she had found herself longing for them to leave; after twenty-four hours without writing she was suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

Taking a cup of coffee to her desk she sat down and pulled the pile of typescript towards her. Pen in hand she began to read.

Outside, the winter day had sunk into a cold sullen night. Once or twice she looked up towards the windows, listening. She had decided against having them screwed shut in the end. It seemed so sad to have to lose the reassuring noise of the sea and the fresh air.

At this moment however there was no sound from outside at all. No wind, no sea. A total silence enveloped the cottage, broken only by the quiet hum of her computer and the pattering of the keys beneath her fingers. The shrill ring of the phone from the kitchen made her jump violently.

It was Jon. His voice was light and sociable again, casual, as though he had no real reason to make a transatlantic call to her at all. ‘How are you?’

‘So, so,’ she replied. She sat down on the high stool. ‘Actually, not so good. I’ve had a burglary.’

‘You’re not serious. Oh my God, Kate, are you OK?’ The real concern in his voice made her wish for the second time that she hadn’t told him her news.

‘Yes, I’m fine. They didn’t take anything except -’ she paused, ‘- do you remember last time you phoned I was cleaning a torc?’

‘Belonging to an ancient Brit?’ Superficially light-hearted though the words were, she could still hear the worry in his voice.

‘They took that. And they smashed up some paintings.’

‘Kate, you can’t stay there – ’

‘No. No. I’m fine. I have the phone, and they’ve changed all the locks. I am bolted and barred like someone in Holloway, except that I am the only one with a key. It was probably local kids who thought the cottage was empty. I don’t suppose they will be back.’

‘Have the police been? Are you sure you’re all right? Oh God, Kate, I wish I were closer.’ The warmth of his voice filled the kitchen. ‘Take care, my darling, won’t you.’

She hung up thoughtfully. My darling, he had called her. My darling. He still loved her.

She was aware suddenly that the wind was getting up outside. She could hear the soft moaning of the tree branches from the wood, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly nothing mattered any more. Feeling unaccountably happy, snug, knowing there was a good supply of firewood in her box, and with a brand new lock and a bolt top and bottom on the front door, she smiled. The sound made her feel all the more secure and cosy.

She went back to her book. It was hard to concentrate; her mind kept wandering back to Jon, but eventually the narrative captured her again and she was drawn back to the childhood of her poet. Catherine Gordon was something of an enigma in her relationship with her son, her love as twisted and deformed as the poor club foot of her child. Kate leaned back in her chair, chewing the end of her ballpoint. A squall of wind hit the cottage. She felt the walls shudder and heard the sudden crack of rain against the window as she sat forward, her hands on the keys and began writing again. A minute later she stared at the screen in horror.

May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus, and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day…

Christ! she whispered. Oh Christ!

Another squall hit the windows and she flinched as though the wind and rain had hit her. Quickly, as though afraid it would burn her, she switched off the computer and pushed back her chair. Her hands were shaking.

I didn’t write that.

But she had, like some robotic amanuensis, taking down dictation. She stared round the room. It was very still. The squall had retreated as fast as it had come and the night outside was silent once again. All she could hear was the pumping of her pulse in her ears. She grabbed her cassette player and inserting a cassette with trembling hands, she switched it on. The sound of Sibelius filled the room as taking a deep breath, she moved over to the stove and bending down, opened the doors to stare at the warm glow of the smouldering logs.

‘I am tired, that’s all,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It’s been a long day. I need sleep. A lot of sleep.’ She poured herself a small whisky with a hand that was still far from steady. Sipping it slowly she stood for several minutes in front of the stove.

Only very gradually did she become aware that there was someone standing behind her. Her knuckles white on the glass, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with fear she held her breath, not daring to move. ‘Alison?’ Her voice was hoarse with tension. It was a woman. She was certain it was a woman. ‘Alison, is that you?’ Slowly she turned round.

The room was empty. She stared at the closed door. It had warped slightly over the years and already she had learned the sound of its squeak as it opened or shut. It was distinctive; loud. And she had not heard it.

‘Come on, Kennedy. Pull yourself together.’ She took a gulp of the whisky, feeling the heat of it burning her throat and creeping through her veins. It gave her the courage to walk over to the door and pull it open. Outside, the hall was deserted. The front door was still barred and bolted as she had known it must be. There was no one there. Resolutely, her glass still in her hand she climbed the stairs and flicking on the lights she peered into her bedroom. It was empty. The room was tidy. For a moment she hesitated in front of the spare room, then taking a deep breath, she flung the door open and switched on the light. The room was as they had left it earlier. Tidy, neat, almost empty, her cases stacked against the wall. The remnants of Greg’s paintings were gone – retrieved to the makeshift studio in his father’s study. Both windows were shut. The bluebottles had disappeared. Of the torc there was still no sign.

With a sigh of relief she went heavily back downstairs and into the living room.

Oh God, it was there again! The smell of earth and with it that sweet, indefinable scent. Shaking her head wearily she went over to the stove, piled in as many logs as she could and slammed the doors shut.

‘Go to hell, Marcus, wherever you are, and leave me in peace!’ she said out loud.

She turned round to switch off the desk lamp and let out a scream, knocking her empty glass to the ground.

A woman was standing in the corner of the room.

In the fraction of a second that she was there Kate saw her auburn hair, her stained, torn, long blue gown, and she knew that somehow, somewhere, she had seen this person before. And then she was gone, leaving only the scent of earth and with it the cloying, flowery perfume.

A taste of acid in her mouth, Kate backed towards the door. She reached it and backed into the hall, her eyes on the spot where the woman had stood. She didn’t believe in ghosts. No one sane believed in ghosts. Only to joke with the Lindseys. It was her imagination; she was too conscious of the black stormy night outside the windows and it had created this vision inside her head. That was it. Who was it who had said we are all mad at night? Was it Mark Twain? She shook her head. Whoever it was was right.

Or it might be the whisky. Perhaps she had been drinking too much. And the rest of the bottle was in the living room where – it – had been standing. Too bad. She could do without it. She took the stairs two at a time and running into her bedroom she slammed the door. She was still shaking, but not so much she couldn’t drag the Victorian chair, heavy for all its neat smallness, across the room and wedge it under the handle. Why, oh why hadn’t she insisted on having a bolt fitted to her bedroom door as well while the locksmith was about it this afternoon?

It was only as she pulled off her clothes and dived into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, that she remembered that ghosts can walk through walls.