Barbara Erskine - The Ghost Tree

‘And Harry?’ Tom asked. ‘Is he to go to Bath too?’

‘No.’ His father shook his head. ‘He will visit us, when he can, but he will remain here at St Andrews. I have managed to find him somewhere to lodge.’

‘So, what will become of me?’ Tom managed to keep his voice steady. He took a deep breath. ‘I suppose it will be the army, like David?’ Could he imagine himself as a soldier? The idea had never crossed his mind, but that was the traditional destiny of a younger son.

His father gave him a look of deep compassion. ‘Commissions in the army cost money, Tom. But we will face that decision when we must. Anne has many friends and contacts in Bath. I am sure something will turn up. I am praying every day that God will provide for you.’ He smiled at the boy, well aware that Tom was fighting back tears. His heart ached for his precocious youngest son.

On his last day in St Andrews, Tom went back to the castle to look for his friend. A fierce wind had arisen, tearing at his jacket, threatening to push him off the cliffs, screaming through the ruins, streaking the sky with rain. Huge waves rolled in over the rocks, smashing themselves against the foot of the cliffs, hurling spray high into the sky. Tom looked round helplessly. Where was he? Somehow he had thought the boy would be here, but there was no sign of him in the remains of the courtyard or beneath the tower or in the shelter of the remaining walls.

His shoulders slumped with disappointment as he stood looking out at the wild sea, its distances shrouded with bellying cloud. His friend was one of the dead. He had always known that, always recognised that the boy must have drowned in the sea and that his longing for companionship and the life he had so cruelly lost so young had brought him back to the shore. ‘May God bless you,’ he whispered. ‘I shall miss you.’

‘No, of course I didn’t try it.’ When Harriet rang Ruth the next morning, she laughed. ‘This is me you’re talking to, Hattie. I do not, never would, try to summon ghosts.’

She looked round the room with a shiver. Even in the mornings the kitchen was such a gloomy place with its high ceilings and shadowed corners, and she was beginning to hate it.

There was a moment of silence as Harriet considered what to do next. Giving up was obviously not an option. ‘Pity, but don’t worry. I looked up some stuff about Dion and how she contacted ghosts last night. As far as I can gather, she and her companions meditated.’

‘I’m not the right person to try this,’ Ruth said firmly.

‘Yes, you are. You’re perfect. You’re a relation of his. You must have some sort of link. Besides, your father could do it and he didn’t believe in it either and he loathed the man.’ Harriet was not going to be thwarted that easily. ‘Let me read it up some more then I’ll call you back, OK?’

Ruth spent the morning tidying up, going through the drawers in the dining room and the sitting room. Then later she went upstairs. On the first landing she stopped and listened. It was very cold up there and strangely still. It was as though there was a tangible presence in the silence of the house. ‘Timothy? Is that you?’ She knew it couldn’t be, but it felt as though there was someone there listening to the silence with her. She could feel the heavy sadness, the pall of loneliness. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered at last. One by one she went into the rooms, looked round, then moved on. In her father’s room she paused a little longer, her eyes drawn to his empty bed. It was stripped now, but, unable to bear the sight of it with her father gone, she had thrown a tartan rug over it. It did nothing to dispel the emptiness of the room. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered again.

There was no reply.

The top landing was dully lit from the skylight. She could hear the rattle of rain on the glass above her head. Almost reluctantly she went into the back room and pulled open the cupboard doors. There was nothing left in there now except for some old newspapers on the top shelf. She reached up to them, and then, feeling something more substantial underneath them, stood on tiptoe to drag everything down off the shelf.

There were three large brown envelopes beneath the papers, tied together with thin pieces of ribbon. She carried them over to the divan, surprised at how heavy they were and, sliding off the ribbon, teased one open. On the envelope was one word: COPIES. It contained a substantial collection of letters, all in the same handwriting, which was faded, old fashioned, with a marked slope to the right. She felt a leap of excitement. The letters appeared to have been copied from originals addressed to various people over quite a long period. The top one was headed Walcot. She slid the letters carefully back into the envelope and, gathering them all up, turned back towards the stairs.

The radio and some strenuous house cleaning did nothing to dispel the lonely gloom of the house. Even the letters failed to tempt her and at last she reached for her phone.

Finlay was at home. ‘I’ll come and fetch you about five,’ he said at once. ‘Come for supper and stay the night.’

‘I’ve already looked,’ Finlay said, as he pulled away from the kerb. He had noticed the nervous way she glanced over her shoulder. ‘I can’t see him.’

She gave a grim smile. ‘He’s not going to give up that easily, though, is he.’

‘Probably not, but we’re a match for him.’ Finlay turned into the traffic on Morningside Road. ‘I gather he doesn’t know yet that we’re on to him over the forgery?’

‘I don’t think so. James Reid is waiting for my go-ahead.’

‘So, why are you waiting?’

‘I’m afraid he will destroy the things he stole.’ She glanced across at him helplessly. ‘And I can’t prove what, if anything, he’s taken. Catch twenty-two.’

Finlay checked the mirror and signalled left as they headed for the centre of town. He grimaced. ‘I can see that’s a problem.’ He drew up behind another queue of cars. ‘But I would be inclined to act sooner rather than later. He must realise you’re on to him. Why otherwise would you have changed the locks? So,’ he went on, ‘tell me about the conversation your neighbour overheard between your father and Lord Erskine.’

‘There is nothing to tell. Poor Daddy must have been hearing things. That house is so lonely and quiet it would drive anyone round the bend after a bit.’ She shuddered.

‘And you weren’t the littlest bit tempted to try and summon Lord E?’ She had told him about Harriet’s input. He turned to look at her as they waited at the lights.

She laughed. ‘Certainly not. To that extent, I’m my father’s daughter. But …’ her voice faded. ‘But,’ she repeated, more strongly, ‘Daddy wasn’t the sort of man to talk to himself.’

Finlay thought for a minute. ‘My house is haunted.’ He lived in an old mill near the village of Cramond, about five miles along the coast from the centre of Edinburgh. ‘I’ve seen her several times. A lovely wee girl. She plays in the garden and sometimes round the old stable block at the back. Several other people have seen her too.’

‘Ah.’

‘That sounds sceptical? Defensive? Disappointed? You wanted me to be an ally.’

‘No. I wanted the hear the cold light of reason. I expected the cold light of reason.’

‘Sorry. Do you want me to take you back to your father’s?’

She laughed. ‘No way. You promised me supper.’

‘Indeed I have. A soupçon I’ve taken from the freezer, but I’m sure it will please.’ Finlay’s cooking was famous. It was also probably responsible for his somewhat large girth. He was a cookery writer and in a small way a TV celebrity.