The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Read online

  “Easy tiger, that's not very noble behavior!”

  “I think you'll find it is,” he replies. “My ancestors were a pretty disgraceful lot. How do you think the family ended up broke?”

  “Okay, so you're going to play the wicked lord from now on?”

  “Yes! And I think this is another great opportunity for you to write one of your 'It's real quaint in little old England' pieces for your millions of American fans.”

  “So, we're going to have a holiday in the country? But what about your training duties?”

  He reaches inside his uniform jacket and takes out another letter. This one, does bear a government crest.

  “It's finally happened. They're downgrading me again for health reasons and putting me in an office at the Ministry of Defense.”

  “So that's why you looked worried! You don't want to be a desk jockey. But honey, you've done your bit for the war effort. More than most, maybe!”

  “I know I'm being silly. I mean I should be pleased I'll be able to spend more time with my lovely wife. In fact, my current duties end in a few days, then there's going to be a bit of a hiatus between postings and I'll have a couple weeks to myself. So, if you can get a little time off as well, shall we go up to Furniss? Take a look at the old homestead?”

  Rachel is delighted. None of her fears have come to pass.

  “Of course, honey, it'll be great to have some time away together! And I'll finally get to see the North of England. Isn't it an amazing coincidence, though, these two things coming together?”

  “Isn't it just?” he says. “Maybe somebody up there is looking out for us.”

  He gives her a hug.

  “Now, your ladyship, what sort of day did you have?”

  She tells him about the young soldier she helped to pass on.

  “And that's another reason why I'd like to get out of London for a while.”

  ***

  A few miles away from Rachel's apartment, five people are sitting round a table in a dark sitting room. A lamp, with a tinted shade, casts a reddish glow, and the air is heavy with incense from a burner. Three women and two men, their hands linked for a séance, are seeking knowledge, but not all are here for the same reasons.

  The medium, Madam Castanos, is a large, Spanish, dark-haired woman in an old-fashioned, low-cut black dress. Her impressive bosom is heaving as she tries to go into a trance and one of the male participants, Bill Rolt, obviously finds this distracting. His wandering eye is noted by his girlfriend, Charlotte Marsh, who administers a deft kick to his shin. Bill jumps, almost breaking the circle. Charlotte catches his eye and gives him a reproving look.

  “Please!” demands Madam Castanos. “We must have perfect tranquility or the spirits will not manifest!”

  “Sorry everyone,” says Bill, resisting an urge to break the circle and rub his bruised shin. “I thought I felt the touch of otherworldly fingers. Or possibly toes.”

  The medium gives him a hard stare, then throws her head back again, closes her eyes, and begins to breathe deeply.

  “Is there anybody there?” she asks. “Are there any spirits that wish to make contact with those present?”

  The two other clients lean forward, eager for news from, what spiritualists call, the ‘Other Side.’ The Parkers are a wealthy couple, and their eldest son is missing in action. They have made a generous present of money to Madam Castanos, who has become one of London's most fashionable mediums since the war began. Her clients include newspaper tycoons, generals, Members of Parliament, and even – it is rumored – minor royalty. Like most psychics, she does not charge a set fee, but accepts gifts for her services. No sum too small, or too large.

  “There is a spirit here who wishes to speak to someone,” declares Madam Castanos.

  “Who is it?” asks Charlotte. Like Bill, she is there as an observer. He is a psychic investigator; she's a news reporter. She's been told she can ask questions, within reason. Bill, a notorious skeptic who has unmasked several fake mediums, has been asked to keep quiet.

  “It is the spirit of one who passed over unexpectedly. One who is lost,” says the medium.

  “Is it Henry?” asks Mrs. Parker.

  The woman clutches Bill's hand more tightly. He feels sympathy for her, a mother desperate to hear from her boy. But he's also seen so many frauds exploiting the bereaved during this long war.

  “I cannot tell,” says Madam Castanos. “It is vague. The spirits are troubled. There is much confusion.”

  Then, she says something in a low voice. Charlotte almost makes out the word.

  Maybe it's furthest? Or furnace? she thinks.

  Madam Castanos gives a gasp and her head falls forward. At the same time, Charlotte, seated to the medium's left, feels the woman's fleshy hand grow limp.

  Has she fainted?

  “Oh god, what's that?” exclaims Bill.

  All four guests flinch in disgust. A terrible stench fills the room, overwhelming the powerful incense. It's as if a sewer suddenly opened up right under the table. The reek is so nauseating that Charlotte is afraid she might throw up. Madam Castanos springs to life again and shouts, “The Sorcerer's Tower! The Garden of the Cosmos! The cycle begins again!”

  Everyone is startled and Mrs. Parker releases Charlotte's hand and breaks the circle.

  Madam Castanos gives a cry of agony and yells,

  “The undead one! He must not break free!”

  She then collapses face first onto the table, and the vile stink is instantly gone.

  “Well, I think that's it for today,” says Bill, breaking the circle and standing up. He opens the curtains while Charlotte tries to revive Madam Castanos with smelling salts. The Parkers are unhappy. There will be no message from Henry this evening.

  ***

  Detective Inspector Herbert Croft pushes his hat back so he can scratch his head, which exposes his bald patch to the chill air. At least the cold has preserved what's left of the body.

  I hate the weird ones, he thinks. You just know them when they come along, the ones that never get sorted out. And this one's a classic.

  The corpse of an unknown man, possibly a vagrant, has been found slumped against the pedestal of a statue in the extensive grounds of Furniss Manor. The body looks as if it's been mummified, according to the local doctor who doubles as the county coroner. The clothes on the corpse are several sizes too big. The crumpled form is not only empty of blood, it also seems to have been somehow stripped of almost all muscle and fatty tissue. Yet the skin, though grayish-brown and shriveled, is intact.

  Marlow, the elderly caretaker, who found the body at first light, has told Croft that only one stranger has been seen near Furniss in recent weeks, and he was a very stocky man. No one from any of the nearby villages is missing. So how could this man have ended up here? The doctor thinks that before the mystery man died, he was too weak to walk without support.

  Croft looks around, seeking inspiration. He sees nothing but a big country house with an oddly-proportioned tower at one corner, an old chapel nearby, large ornamental gardens studded with Greek-style statues, and surrounding woodlands. The whole scene is covered with deep snow, but there are no footprints unaccounted for. He looks up at the bronze statue, which is of a young man carrying a staff. The figure is wearing winged sandals and very little else, which makes Croft shiver in misplaced sympathy. The inscription on the pedestal reads MERCURY. Croft vaguely recalls that mercury is a poison, but presumes that's not what's portrayed here.

  No clues there, worse luck.

  “Take it away,” says Croft to the waiting ambulance team.

  He turns to the doctor.

  “So, was he beaten? Stabbed? Shot?”

  “No to all three,” replies the medic. “But it's hard to see how he got this way by accident. Even with food rationing, nobody can lose that much weight unless deliberate starvation is involved.”

  “Could he have done it to himself?” asked Croft, clutching at straws.

  “P
ossibly, but why? Starvation's a very inefficient way to commit suicide. No, I think someone held him captive for weeks, if not months, and starved him to death.”

  “So we've got nothing but a body with no identification, and a face his own mother probably wouldn't know?”

  The doctor hesitates. “Well, there is something odd. Hang on a minute, lads.” He stops the ambulance men and uncovers the body on the stretcher.

  “See these?”

  Following the doctor's finger, Croft looks at the corpse's scalp. There are faint, round marks just visible under the straggling hair.

  “I thought you said there were no signs of assault?”

  “Those aren't bruises,” replies the doctor. “I'm not sure what they are. But if I didn't know better, I'd say they were made by fingertips.”

  Croft looks closer.

  “So, if those aren't bruises, what are they?”

  “Best guess? Burns, but don't quote me,” replies the doctor.

  Croft straightens up and waves on the stretcher bearers.

  “Great. Red-hot fingerprints left on a starved, bloodless, nameless corpse, left near a house that's been empty for years, in the middle of winter. The Chief Constable is going to love this. I'll never get into the bloody golf club at this rate!”

  “Maybe you should just arrest the caretaker and see how it goes?” suggests the doctor.

  Inspector Croft's reply is unprofessional, but comes straight from the heart.

  Chapter 2: Ghosts and Horrors

  The next day, Rachel and Tony meet Charlotte Marsh for lunch at a restaurant in Fleet Street, Charlotte brings Bill Rolt along to meet her two friends for the first time. When she learns that Bill is a self-styled 'ghost hunter', Rachel is wary. Her strange experiences at Duncaster have become the stuff of rumor. Despite the blanket of secrecy imposed by the British intelligence service on events in the ancient village, she's been contacted by eccentrics of various kinds. But Rachel soon warms to Bill, who has a good sense of humor and only asks her general questions about her work as a journalist. Besides, it's clear that Charlotte likes Bill a lot, despite the obvious contrast between the balding, middle-aged man and the voluptuous young woman.

  “So, what's up with you guys?” asks Rachel as they settle down to eat.

  “Well, we've been investigating spiritualism.” says Charlotte and she gives a brief account of the séance.

  Tony, who's been listening without much interest, stops eating. “What was that bit about the tower?”

  Charlotte repeats what she and Bill heard.

  “Why, is it familiar?” asks Rachel.

  “Well, yes, it does ring a bell,” he admits. “Something to do with Furniss Manor. There's definitely a tower with some sort of legend attached to it.”

  “Furniss?” asks Bill. “Are you sure that's the name?”

  “Well, I should be – I seem to have inherited it.”

  “I thought Madam Castanos said the word 'furnace', but perhaps she meant the place,” explains in Charlotte.

  “Good grief,” says Bill. “I remember reading somewhere that Furniss is one of the most haunted houses in the country. Which, given how many haunted houses we've got, is quite something.”

  Oh, great, thinks Rachel, sharing a meaningful glance with Tony. Like I need more ghosts in my life.

  “This sounds like a great new lead for my series on spiritualism in wartime!” says Charlotte. “Maybe, with your lordship's permission of course, we could go up there and investigate, some time?”

  “Yes, why not make it a party of four?” asks Bill. “I've investigated dozens of haunted houses, and I've never found a thing that couldn't be explained by science and common sense.”

  Charlotte slaps him playfully. “You're such a cynic!”

  “I'm just a realist, Charlie! Ghosts are largely down to the psychology of witnesses. People see what they want to see!”

  Tony looks at Rachel with concern. She wants to take a break from ghosts, after all.

  “Well, I'm not sure if–” he begins.

  “No,” Rachel cuts in. “I think that's a great idea! We could all do with a holiday, and I'm sure the ghosts up there can't be any more demanding than the ones round here.”

  Bill looks puzzled and it's clear that Charlotte hasn't told him about Rachel's 'second sight'.

  She's a good friend, Rachel thinks. Good to know I can trust her.

  To break an awkward silence Tony says,

  “Well, if we're agreed, I can sort out the arrangements. The thing is, can Madam Castanos give us any more information? Would it be worthwhile to ask her?”

  “Why not?” replies Charlotte. “She's clearly tapped into something.”

  “I'd better not go again, though,” says Bill. “I think I upset her a bit yesterday.”

  “Too skeptical, eh?” asks Tony, smiling.

  “Well, yes. But the thing is, I have to be rational in my line of work.”

  “Oh? What line is that?” asks Rachel.

  “Don't even ask!” warns Charlotte, in mock outrage. “If he told you, he'd have to kill you!”

  Bill rolls his eyes at a joke he's clearly heard many times before. “It's war work, in technology, and yes, it’s officially secret. But, it's also quite dull.”

  “Ah, you're an engineer, too?” asks Rachel.

  “In a way, why?”

  “I'm being discharged from the Royal Engineers on medical grounds,” explains Tony.

  “Really?” asks Bill. “Seen much action?”

  Tony smiles ruefully. “Well, I was wounded, yes.”

  “Something else that's officially secret,” puts in Rachel, quickly. She feels it's too soon to share the truth with Bill, even if he is a nice guy.

  “Now,” she continues, “tell me more about this Madam Castanos. How do we get in touch with her?”

  ***

  Maisie Warburton treks up the snowy byroad to the gates of the Big House, as all the locals here, call Furniss Manor. Maisie is sixteen, honest, and eager to please. So when Mrs. Marlow, the new housekeeper at the Manor, advertised in Furniss Village Post Office for a 'reliable girl who's not afraid of hard work', Maisie's mother kindly volunteered her.

  “Now look 'ere my girl! You're not the sharpest knife in the drawer, my girl,” her mother said. “You're strong and 'ealthy and all, but what with you 'avin a face like a slapped arse, I can't see no young man pitchin' 'is cap at you! So you'd better learn to cook and clean proper, so's you can at least be a servant if you can't be a wife. You're lucky that Mrs Marlow's willin' to take you on and teach you 'ow to keep 'ouse!”|

  Maisie's nearing the end of a long walk on the first day of her job. She squeezes through the half-open gates and trudges up the path that winds towards the house. A breeze plays among leafless winter trees, and some wild creature screeches in the distance. Maisie speeds up a little, almost jogging now. She's never been here before because, like all the village children, she's been warned that the Big House is haunted by a particularly nasty phantom.

  But, as her mother pointed out this morning, ghosts don't come out in the daylight.

  This gives her some comfort.

  “Maisie!”

  The voice might almost be the sound of snow falling from bare branches. Almost.

  “Maisie, over here!”

  The words are followed by a flurry of distinctly humorless giggles.

  The voice is coming from behind me, Maisie thinks. Or is it in the woods to the left? It's hard to judge direction, or distance.

  The speaker hissing the words could be close. Maisie stops and turns, but she can't see anyone. Might they be hiding behind a tree? Could it be one of the village lads, playing a joke? She's been the butt of humor before. She ignores it and carries on. But she's only walked a few more paces when the voice resumes, much louder now.

  “Maisie, you are so beautiful! Come to me, Maisie, come and be loved!”

  She is upset, now. It's clearly a nasty joke by some boy, keen to make
her cry. But she won't.

  Instead, Maisie starts to jog up the path, hoping the next turn will bring her within sight of the Big House.

  “Oh Maisie, don't run away! Come back, my darling Maisie, my one true love!”

  She's running now, panic rising, as the hissing voice echoes around her. It seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, perhaps even from above.

  Maybe ghosts do come out in daylight!

  The thought is so terrifying that Maisie starts to weep with terror, her mind starting to lose its grip as she slips and stumbles on the treacherous path. She searches wildly around in panic, while running, but can see nothing moving.

  “Please stop!”

  She nearly runs into a child, skidding to a halt at the last moment.

  Gasping, she asks, “Who are you?”

  The child is a little fair-haired girl in a pale blue dress. She looks a bit like Alice in the books Maisie likes, the ones about the clever girl who went down the rabbit hole and then through the looking glass. She notices that this Alice has bare feet, and her old-fashioned dress is shabby and patched.

  “You must go back! Go home, quick, or he'll catch you!”

  Maisie looks around again, but once more, she sees nothing except stark winter woodland. When she turns back to speak to the child again, the barefoot girl has vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared. Maisie hears footsteps in the snow, and this time she can judge the direction of the sound. Someone is coming through the trees off to one side, slightly behind her. Dismissing the lesser worry of the vanishing girl, Maisie starts to run in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps, coursing between the black, leafless trees.

  The noise of her own clumsy progress through deep, virgin snow, masks that of her pursuer. She catches a glimpse of a shape in the distance, a pale form moving between the trees. She can't make out any details, but something about the way the figure moves sends an extra chill of fear through Maisie and she gives a scream of horrible terror.

  Maisie finally catches sight of a looming shape; it's the Big House, and it’s too far away. She's already tired and she knows she will have to stop and rest before she can make it. But now, she sees something else; a promise of sanctuary just ahead of her. It's a round building with a domed roof, and its door seems to be half open. The girl runs from the forest and into the building, clutching a stitch in her side. She drags the heavy wooden door shut behind her, bolts it, and then stands with her back pressed against it, listening. She hears heavy footsteps in the snow getting nearer, then they stop and start to move away. She relaxes, still breathing heavily. The pain in her side starts to dwindle slowly, along with her fear.