The Dream Weavers Page 7

  Bea laughed. ‘How did you guess? No, it’s nothing to do with Mark, bless him. It’s …’ she hesitated, ‘to do with the cottage. Do you happen to know how old it is?’

  But even as she asked, she knew how irrelevant the question was and Simon had already answered it. The building itself wasn’t old enough to feature in her visions – Offa had lived twelve hundred years ago. But the ground on which it stood, the ground from which she had picked the stone, was a different matter. That stone could have been lying there, parted from its bedrock, for thousands, millions, of years; it could have been part of some old walls. And perhaps, just perhaps, Eadburh herself was the contact. Could she have touched it? Maybe she had picked it up, held it in her hand long enough for it to assimilate something of her emotions. Thrown it at her officious bodyguard.

  Chris pushed one of the glasses towards Bea and sat down next to her. ‘Sorry, this might be a bit manky. We opened it a couple of days ago. And no, I’ve no idea how old the cottage is. A hundred years or so, I’d guess. I can’t remember what it said on the deeds when we bought it. Nothing very exciting or I would have put it on the website. Come on, darling, spill the beans. What happened when you were up there on your own?’

  Bea looked at her friend doubtfully. Chris seemed genuinely concerned, and interested. She had never mocked Bea’s unusual talents, unlike some. ‘I heard the voice Simon complained about and then I saw her, just vaguely, in the garden at the back.’

  ‘Flipping heck!’ Chris reached for the bottle and topped up her own glass. Then, almost as an afterthought, she poured some more into Bea’s as well. ‘Are you sure?’

  Bea gave a rueful nod.

  ‘It was your imagination.’ Chris folded her arms. ‘It must have been.’

  ‘No,’ Bea whispered. ‘It wasn’t.’

  9

  ‘Hello, Mark. Did Bea find you earlier?’ Seeing Mark heading purposefully away from the cathedral office in the College Cloisters, a file of papers under his arm, Sandra Bedford hurried to catch up with him. ‘I thought she looked very tired,’ she said. ‘And worried.’

  Mark suppressed his irritation. People like Sandra were the backbone of the cathedral. Without them, the place could not run as smoothly as it did, he reminded himself sternly, but this particular woman was a busybody he could well do without. ‘I haven’t seen her since I left home. I must have missed her. I’ve been in meetings all morning.’

  ‘Perhaps she left you a message?’

  The slight query in the remark seemed to imply he should reach for his phone and then tell her what Bea had wanted. He sighed. His smile was strained and he hoped she didn’t notice. ‘I’m on my way home anyway.’ Already he was on the move again. ‘I’ll catch her there. Thanks for letting me know.’ He missed the look of frustration and disappointment on her face; another group of visitors was arriving, heading towards her, and he was able to escape.

  ‘Bea?’ he called as he let himself into the house.

  There was no reply. He walked through the hall and glanced into the kitchen. She wasn’t making lunch and she wasn’t in the snug either. With its cosy open fireplace and a window overlooking the narrow strip of side garden, the snug was their private space, once probably one of the pantries in the days when the house had staff. It was somewhere he and Bea could relax and watch the TV and hide from the world. Turning back into the kitchen, he grabbed an apple from the wooden bowl on the table and headed towards his study.

  An hour later she still hadn’t appeared. He pushed aside his keyboard and went back to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There was still no message on his phone and her own was switched off. Only then did he check to see if she had left a note. Usually she did if she was going out anywhere, in case he needed her urgently. In the past, when he was a parish priest, that had been often, but now with his job change she was far less involved and had more time for her own activities. Sandra had said she looked worried. He sighed, full of misgivings.

  He had often wished he didn’t disapprove so profoundly of her dabbling, as he couldn’t help thinking of it, in the paranormal. He knew it was her passion and, face it, her calling. She had never made a secret of it, and had been clear that she could never give up her interests. They were part of her as much as his own faith was a part of him. It was, in some ways, her profound spiritual beliefs that had attracted him back to her when they had met again after their separation, but in other ways they still slightly repelled him. And since they’d come here to the cathedral, he had found himself begging her, perhaps, if he was honest, almost demanding that she give it up. Not her beliefs. He could not interfere with those; nor her ability to see things beyond the normal, but to stop going to people’s houses, stop exorcising spirits. She had been furious when he had used that word. Exorcism had connotations of force and banishment while she dealt in gentleness and understanding and persuasion, but the fact remained he did not want her to go out and deal with other people’s problems. Not those sort of problems, the sort that could and had put her in extreme danger. The very thought of what had happened to her in that old house with the poltergeist made him angry and if he was honest with himself, afraid.

  She had left no note.

  ‘Bea?’ he went to the foot of the stairs. Perhaps she was up in her study.

  ‘Bea, darling?’ He headed upstairs, glanced into their bedroom, and out of the window, through the unfurling leaves on the lime trees outside in the Close, towards the bulk of the cathedral with its massive tower, the four Gothic pinnacles rising into the sky, lightning conductors for sacred energies, as she had mischievously pointed out.

  He very seldom went up to her private study. It was an understanding between them that this was her retreat. Perhaps he avoided it deliberately, not really wanting to know what went on up here. She had never told him not to come, but he still felt an intruder as he pushed open the door and looked in. The window faced onto their small walled back garden two storeys below, with its gate out into one of the town’s hidden courtyards and the alleyway between a cluster of old houses that jostled towards the town centre. There was a vase of tulips on the low table, a couple of colourful cushions on the floor, a bookcase overflowing with volumes. There was a small Celtic cross on the wall. His eye rested on it, reassured. Though she was a Christian, her interests brought her so often into the vicinity of pagan enthusiasts who vociferously loathed the Christian faith that he wondered sometimes just how liberal her beliefs were. The room was comfortable, a little sitting room, a sewing room perhaps. He smiled ruefully to himself. Get real, Mark! Not a stitch of sewing had ever been done in here. Or at least not since the Victorians had left. He had to admit it had a delightful atmosphere, light, friendly, safe. His eyes slid quickly over the tray of tea lights, little bottles of essential oils, jars of dried herbs, crystals and he found himself growing more and more anxious.

  Whatever else the room showed, there was nothing to give a clue where she was. But suddenly he knew. She had told him in her own oblique way, sidestepping his questions the night before. Chris had said there was a problem at the cottage. This was not a leaky tap or a rattling window frame. It was a voice. A mysterious knocking at the door. She had gone back there.

  With a quick look at his watch, he ran downstairs two at a time. He had no more meetings scheduled for today; he could catch up with his reports later.

  He knew where the cottage was. They had been there several times together when Chris and Ray had been doing it up, sharing drinks and picnics with them, listening to the banter between the two women who had been close friends for years. Naturally she had not been able to resist going to help when Chris had asked.

  Parking next to a distinctly old, mud-coloured Volvo, Mark climbed out of his car. The view was stunning, the air cool and sweet with grass and that ubiquitous softly pungent smell of sheep dung. There was no sign of Bea’s car, so perhaps, please God, he had been wrong about where she was. The car must belong to the author who had rented the cottage, the aut
hor who even now was emerging on to the doorstep.

  ‘Hello. I heard a car.’

  Mark felt the man’s eyes stray to his dog collar, always the first part of him people noticed. He rather wished he had taken time to change into mufti before setting out. ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced but I was …’ Passing? Hardly! ‘I was looking for Bea. I thought she might be here, but obviously not.’

  ‘Are you part of her team?’ The man looked puzzled. He held out his hand and introduced himself.

  So, she hadn’t mentioned she was married to the Church. He didn’t confirm or deny the team bit. ‘The husband. Mark.’

  A buzzard was circling overhead and both men looked up as it let out a plaintive call, flying lower across the valley beyond the gate. ‘She was here earlier.’ Simon was still watching the bird. ‘She didn’t stay long. She only came to return my key. I’m afraid she didn’t say where she was going.’

  Elise!

  The woman’s voice was distant, plaintive, like the cry of the bird.

  Mark saw the other man’s face blanch. ‘Was that – was that someone calling?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I thought Bea had sorted it.’ His lips tightened.

  Mark felt himself shiver. ‘That was your ghost?’

  Simon nodded again. ‘Do you want to come in?’ He turned abruptly and led the way inside the cottage.

  Mark followed him. The man was scared, Mark could see that clearly, and he had to admit he was uneasy himself.

  The room was busy, lights on, papers strewn across the table, the laptop switched on, a low fire smouldering in the hearth. There was a half-empty cup beside the laptop.

  ‘I’ll make more coffee.’ Simon walked straight across the room and led the way through the door in the far wall into the kitchen. As he reached for a jar of instant, Mark saw his hands were shaking.

  ‘Have you actually seen this ghost?’ he asked. His voice was calm and he hoped he sounded matter of fact.

  Simon shook his head. He screwed the lid back on the jar and slammed it down on the counter. ‘I am a rational man. I’ve been writing history books for fifteen years. I do not get spooked by the subjects of my study. This house is perfect for my needs! I do not believe in ghosts and I will not be chased away!’

  Mark swallowed his anger with Bea and concentrated on the man opposite him. There had been more than a touch of desperation in his voice. ‘Did Bea suggest you leave?’

  ‘No. No, she didn’t. I told her I wasn’t afraid, and I’m not. She came to give me the key back because I thought that the problem was sorted, and it seemed to be, ’til a minute ago when you arrived.’

  ‘You think it’s something to do with me?’ Mark felt unaccountably aggrieved and at last Simon smiled. ‘No, sorry. No, it’s got nothing to do with you. And what could be so scary about a voice, for goodness’ sake?’ He picked up his mug and headed back into the sitting room.

  Mark gazed thoughtfully after him, then, topping his own drink up from the bottle of milk Simon had left on the table, followed to find him squatting in front of the fire.

  ‘You heard it, didn’t you,’ Simon went on. ‘I’m not imagining it. It’s that note of desolation I can’t cope with, and that echo. It comes from so far away.’

  ‘She’s a lost soul,’ Mark said softly. It was the first time he had ever encountered a ghost and he was amazed how certain he was. Strangely he wasn’t afraid. All he felt now that he had heard the voice was intense sympathy and the overwhelming need to help. ‘I know this is Bea’s department, but it’s mine as well. Would you mind if I prayed for her?’

  ‘Mind?’ Simon looked up. ‘Of course I don’t bloody mind!’ He looked shocked at his own words. ‘Sorry. Forget I said that. Please. Pray away. I don’t think Bea has done anything yet. At least she told me she hadn’t. She seemed to imply sorting this problem was something she needed to go away and think about before she did it. Whatever it is she does. Then I had a night’s blessed silence and I thought, well, her coming here must have been enough, the wretched woman has gone. But I obviously spoke too soon.’ He threw himself down into the chair and closed his eyes. Distancing himself from whatever was to come next. Mark knew the signs. People uncomfortable with prayer weren’t sure how it worked or what they should be doing while it happened.

  Putting down his mug, he went to the door. The troubled spirit was outside. He would start there. He noticed he still wasn’t feeling scared; uncomfortable perhaps, but not scared. Leaving Simon sitting by the fire, he stepped out onto the terrace.

  He thought he could sense her listening, sense that she knew he wanted to help her in her distress. He talked to her gently, as Bea had told him she did, as he would counsel a living person. Then, closing his eyes, he prayed. He used the words of the old prayer book for the sick and dying, then he recited the words of the Nunc Dimittis: ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace’ and then he switched to Latin, sensing it might be more appropriate. A modern Church of England man, he didn’t know many Latin prayers, but he had heard enough sacred music in the cathedral to know this one. ‘Requiem aeterna, domine.’ When he opened his eyes at last he saw she was standing there near him on the terrace, an indistinct figure, a plait of silvery hair slipping from beneath a black veil, her dress long and homespun, a wooden cross hanging from her girdle.

  She was a nun; an elderly nun.

  Raising his right hand, he made the sign of the cross. ‘Requiescat in pace, domina,’ he whispered.

  He didn’t move for a long time after she disappeared. The terrace was totally silent. The birds had gone. Even the sheep were quiet. The only sound was the soft moan of the wind soughing through the trees on the sides of the valley below them.

  ‘You addressed her as domina. Lady.’

  Mark turned to see Simon standing in the doorway. ‘It seemed appropriate somehow.’ He wondered how long Simon had been there watching.

  ‘Poor woman. She’s at rest now?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Mark sat in the car for several minutes before he reached forward to turn on the ignition. He had seen a ghost, spoken to a ghost, prayed for a ghost. Suddenly what Bea did made more sense. He had always kept an open mind about her stories, believed that she believed in what she did, but always he had had that niggling kernel of doubt. Up to now. But even so, the fact remained that she had lied to him; or if not lied, at least let him believe she was not going to get involved with Simon and his ghost.

  Simon, having watched him walk down the path and get into his car, had gone back indoors and closed the door. He too had seemed thoughtful.

  ‘Requiescat in pace,’ Mark murmured again as he let off the handbrake at last. ‘Rest in peace.’

  Now he needed to find his wife.

  10

  ‘Don’t be silly! Of course I’m not drunk!’

  Ray had insisted on driving Bea home that evening after he found his wife and Bea giggling in front of a TV sitcom.

  ‘No, I can see you’re not drunk, Beatrice,’ Ray persevered patiently, ‘but I don’t think you should drive. You can fetch your car tomorrow!’ he added firmly as she protested. ‘You will have to get Mark to bring you over to collect it.’

  ‘We only had a couple of glasses each at lunchtime!’ She was feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself.

  Ray had been quite shocked when he returned home from the golf club. Chris and Bea had finished the bottle and then opened another.

  ‘It was my fault, Ray,’ his wife called out. ‘Being washerwomen is hard work.’ They had finished the laundry between them and made up the B & B beds in the house ready for Chris’s next influx of visitors.

  Ray had shaken his head tolerantly as he dropped Bea off in Hereford.

  Mark was not finding it quite so easy to be understanding. ‘You could at least have left me a note. I was worried sick not knowing where you were. After Sandra’s message this morning I thought there was something really wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t leave any message w
ith Sandra. I barely spoke to the woman!’

  ‘She said you were looking for me. She was concerned.’

  ‘No, it was her idea that l was looking for you. I was looking for someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Bea was silent for a moment. This was not an interrogation she wanted pursued. ‘Look, I only wanted to be alone for a few minutes and the wretched woman pounced on me. It was none of her business!’

  ‘I’m sure she thought she was being helpful,’ he reprimanded. He was finding it difficult to contain his anger. ‘I know where you’ve been.’

  ‘With Chris.’

  ‘Before that. I went up to the cottage. I met Simon Armstrong.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘Mark, I—’

  ‘You promised me you would give up doing it!’ Suddenly he was shouting.

  ‘I didn’t make any promises! I just didn’t tell you everything, and that was only because you weren’t in the house long enough for us to have a proper conversation! You seldom are, these days!’ She pushed past him into the kitchen. ‘Back off, Mark! If you remember, you promised not to interfere! Chris asked me to go up there to help, you know she did. I told you. I didn’t lie!’ She faced him defiantly, her eyes sparking with anger. ‘You had no right to ask me to give this up. I know I agreed to stop, but I can’t stop being me. I’m not going to make a habit of going to people’s houses, I know that would reflect on you if anyone found out, but this was different. Very different!’

  ‘Different in what way?’ He had followed her. He sat down at the kitchen table and folded his arms.

  ‘It wasn’t in Hereford, and it involved a stranger. No one was going to find out.’

  ‘And when you got there you couldn’t do it.’

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘What do you mean I couldn’t do it?’

  ‘You didn’t remove the ghost.’

  ‘I did. Simon told me it was sorted and I needn’t go back. Mark, I was—’