Reginald Hill - The Stranger House

This dampened the mood again and they began their meal in silence. Eventually Thor made an effort at conventional conversation which the others joined in, rather stiltedly at first, but soon it began to flow and eventually it was possible to think for half-minutes at a time that they were just a group of friends enjoying a snack in the sunshine.

Dessert was tangy cheese, apple pie and strong black coffee.

After half an hour, Thor excused himself and went back inside. When he returned he looked very serious once more.

He said, “I rang the hospital again. They confirmed the poor bastard was dead on arrival. Then I asked about Laal. Normally they’d be very cagey talking about the living, but they were worried enough about him to be glad there was someone outside taking an interest. It was like I’d forecast. They had a hell of a job getting him to take it in. They had to let him see the body. For a while he just sat there in a stupor. Then suddenly he stood up and left.”

“Didn’t they try to stop him?”

“Would you try to stop a Gowder? Anyway, they had no cause. But the way he looked, they were worried.”

“So where’s he gone?” asked Mig. “Did he say anything at all?”

“Just three words as he got to his feet,” said Thor. “They did it. That’s all. As for where he’s gone, he’ll head for home, where else?”

“Shouldn’t there be someone at Foulgate to meet him?” said Sam.

“Yes. I’ll go myself,” said Thor. “But no hurry. He’s got no vehicle, public transport in these parts is irregular and round the houses. And only a very saintly or shortsighted driver would stop to give a Gowder a lift. I rang Edie at the Stranger too. She’ll pass the news on in the bar which, as I forecast, is absolutely packed. That means everyone will keep an eye open.”

“What will they do if they see him?”

“Why, help him, of course,” said Thor, surprised. “He may be a monster, but he’s our monster.”

Thor resumed his seat. Mig stood up and said, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“If you mean bog, there’s one downstairs, through the kitchen, turn left.”

As Mig disappeared inside, Thor said, “Incidentally, Sam, I should have thought sooner, if you want to use the phone, feel free. You might want to talk things over with someone back home.”

Sam glanced at her watch. It would be easy to say that it was too late, they’d be in bed, but she knew that would be just an excuse. Some time she was going to have to ring Vinada and tell them what she’d discovered. Part of her wanted to put this off till she’d had her face-to-face with Gerry Woollass. She’d no idea yet what she was going to say, but her awareness that it was her choice that had brought her to this point made her reluctant not to see it all the way through before reporting back home.

At the same time, her father was entitled to have an input. How he would react she couldn’t guess. He’d spent all his adult life thinking it was probably some randy priest who’d forced himself on the young girl in the nuns’ care, and he’d found a way to deal with that. After that first excursion, age sixteen, he had made no further attempt to solve the mystery of his parentage. She’d heard his reasons, but maybe he simply feared what he might do if he came face to face with the man.

Now he would have a name and an address and the whole sordid story.

Ma would be there, of course. Ma with her unique blend of common sense and semi-mystic insight.

The simple truth was she longed to hear their voices. Going round like the wrath of God was a lonely business.

She said, “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

As if sensing her hesitation, Thor said, “Won’t it be quite late down under?”

“Yeah. But what the hell! Pa’s the hardest guy in the world to knock off-kilter. He’ll probably listen to what I’ve got to tell him, then turn right over and go back to sleep!”

She rose and strode toward the house, leaving Thor grinning with affection and admiration.

“Phone’s in the hallway just outside the kitchen door,” he called after her.

As she came out of the kitchen, she noticed the living-room door was open. Something glinted on the floor. She identified it as one of the lager cans she and Thor had tossed aside on her previous visit. Then the glint died as a shadow moved over it.

She advanced to look inside the room.

Mig was in there, standing in front of Thor’s painting of the smiling youth in riotous spring, holding out the nest of fledglings.

“Striking, isn’t it?” said Sam, entering the room. “And it’s about the only thing in this place it’s safe to admire. Anything else could cost you dear, but that’s definitely not for sale. That’s my namesake, Sam Flood, the curate. Mig? Are you OK?”

He had turned his head to look at her as she spoke and she was shocked to see how drained of color his face was. Perhaps, she thought, he’d asked to use the bathroom because he was feeling ill.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This painting… who did you say it was?”

“I just told you! The Reverend Sam Flood who drowned himself in the Moss. Why? Hey, you’re not having one of your ghostly turns, are you?”

“No! Yes. I mean, in a way…” he said agitatedly.

It was to some extent a relief to hear even such a confused answer if it meant his condition wasn’t physical. On the other hand, she felt she had enough on her mind without Mig being away with the fairies once more.

She said, “Maybe if you could be a bit more precise…”

“I recognize him,” said Mig. “Is that precise enough for you. I recognize him!”

She swept the clutter of books and papers off one of the chairs which faced away from the portrait and by main force made Mig sit down. Then she perched herself on the arm beside him, took his left hand in both of hers, looked straight into his eyes and said lightly, “Don’t see how you can do. He was dead before you were born.”

“That, I think, is why I am able to recognize him,” said Mig. His hand felt deathly cold, his eyes though fixed on hers didn’t seem to be properly focused.

She said, “OK, Mig. I can do codes, but not this one. Let’s hear it straight.”

He said, “Do you remember me telling you about my childhood? Of course, you do. You remember everything. I told you of the time I was accosted by what I now think was the wraith of Father Simeon in the cloisters of Seville cathedral, and a young priest led me back to my mother. Then I saw the same young man again on my sixteenth birthday. He held out his hands to me like the boy in the painting. The very same posture. And in his hands he was holding some eggs.”

“So, a coincidence,” said Sam. “Which in mathematical terms can often turn out to be more probable than…”

“To hell with mathematics!” he interrupted vehemently. “It’s not a coincidence! I don’t just mean the posture and the eggs. What I’m telling you is that this is the same young man! The very same face, the very same smile, the very same everything. Beyond all doubt, this is him!”

Sam’s heart sank. She felt the gap between them opening up once more. Ghosts and ghouls and things that went bump and apparitions of all kinds had nothing to do with the world she wanted to spend her life in. Truth was her goal in all things, and if the absolutes of mathematics were sometimes hard to reconcile with the uncertainties of diurnal existence, at least you could give it your best shot, which meant you didn’t just pile up the detritus of mythology and superstition under the window, you opened the window wide and tossed it out!

“Come on, Mig!” she said. “Get a grip. Ask yourself, even if you believe all that supernatural stuff, why the hell should the spirit of an English Protestant priest have traveled all the way to Spain to haunt a Catholic cathedral?”