Jake Conley Mysteries Collection - Books 5-7

Chapter 2-1

The Land Rover pitched and righted as it swept through Beck Hill Ford, the road crossing the River Rase at one of the two fords in the village. They drove past the village shop, the Vintage Tea Rooms and the King’s Head, the thatched and reputedly haunted ancient public house, out of the picturesque settlement. Their driver, Sir John, pointed out each of the features as they drove by, with a touch of pride in his home county. Jake, having admired the gentle Wolds scenery, could understand the sentiment. He snapped back to attention at the mention of Lord Tennyson, one of his favourite poets.

The barrister was saying, “…and they demolished the manor in the nineteen sixties, a pity, but it was in a dangerous state of neglect and had to go. Lord Tennyson’s uncle Charles owned it. There are some memorials to the family in our church. It’s largely twelfth-century if you’re interested.” Jake was. Among his hobbies, he enjoyed visiting country churches. He made a mental note.

“Ah, we’re here. The lawyer turned into the drive of an immaculate garden belonging to a splendid detached house of indeterminate style. An eminent architect had designed it in the 1920s, more with blending into the surroundings than with modern creativity in mind. The result was a harmonious, airy, well-lit building that hinted at rural tradition whilst offering every convenience.

The large fireplace with oak lintel, delimited by a stone hearth, dominated the spacious lounge. Sitting in an armchair with a tartan rug over his legs, a white-haired wizened-faced figure looked up with rheumy eyes when his son entered with two newcomers.

“My father, Roy,” Sir John indicated the old man. “Father, this is Mr Conley, the gentleman from London I told you about. He’s come to attempt to get to the bottom of the Covenham mystery.”

Roy Robinson gazed at them, Jake suspected without understanding, when the elderly man wheezed a response, “How I wish he would.”

“My father is ninety-four,” the lawyer said, “But his mind is active. This affair has troubled him as long as I can remember. I don’t want to overtire him, so I’ll relate what happened to him since I’ve heard the tale many times and if I err, he will correct me, won’t you dad?”

The senior Robinson chuckled and raised a hand, heavy with blue veins and dark liver-coloured spots. Everyone took this to mean assent, so Sir John pulled three chairs close to the fire, threw another oak log on to add to the others. They settled down to listen.

Sir John began. “His story begins in December 1934 in a village called Covenham St. Mary, beyond Binbrook towards the coast, when he was seven. Father was playing with a tin car and pushing it across the carpet in the living room. He was a sensitive child, and though my grandparents were strict, he enjoyed plenty of affection. His mother, red in the face, came out of the kitchen with a basket full of washing from the wringer. Roy hated washing day because the kitchen was so full of steam from the copper boiler and his mum was so busy that she couldn’t give him any attention. It was worse in winter, of course, with damp, steaming washing on the clothes horse in front of the fire.

“My grandmother told him: Roy, don’t go into the kitchen. I don’t want you anywhere near that boiler, do you hear? I’m just going to peg the washing out, it’s a lovely drying day.”

My father had no intention of going into the kitchen; he imagined he was Frank Clement with a 4.5 litre Bentley winning the Le Mans race at more than 100 miles an hour…it was just at the moment of his triumph, as he crossed the winning line and took the chequered flag that he felt a strange chill penetrate to his bones…”

At this point in the account, the old man by the fire heaved a wheezing sigh that made Jake and Alice stare at him. They both noticed the strange expression and faraway look in his pale grey eyes. Neither of them doubted that he too was following the story with the same attention as they were. Sir John continued, “…It was a sunny day and up to that instant a draught through the open door cooled the room of the steam from the kitchen. But my father felt a different sensation, numbing and disturbing. He looked up and saw an old woman with a big book in her lap sitting in a rocking chair by the hearth. She had lank, white hair around a wrinkled face. Father felt no fear. It was right. The old woman somehow belonged there. She smiled at him as his teeth began to chatter and he wrapped his arms across his chest to warm up. The woman didn’t speak. Instead she raised her right hand and pointed to the stairs. Then she waved him in that direction with the back of her hand. Father stood up and hesitated, still staring into the gentle, reassuring face of the old woman. Smiling, she repeated the gesture and he walked to the stairs, dividing the living room from the kitchen of Rose Cottage. Like an automaton, with no free will, he began to climb the stairs. On the fourth stair he stopped rooted to the spot. He still felt numb and seemed unable to control his body. His head, as if moved by another, turned to face over his left shoulder, until his nose almost touched the wall of the stairs. He didn’t know why he was staring at the wall or for how long.”

“The old lady must have been a ghost,” Jake murmured and as if he could read his mind, the veteran, who was studying his face, nodded in confirmation.

Sir John also looked at Jake and reassured that his guest was following the tale, went on,

“He felt warm again and he turned around and jumped down to the floor. He checked and found his mother still in the garden pegging a linen sheet. Then he skipped back into the living room and found that there was no old woman and no rocking chair. As only a seven-year-old can, he put them both out of his mind at once and concentrated on receiving his cup for winning the Le Mans race.

When his mother came back in, he didn’t tell her about the old woman. But what had happened in those few minutes stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Arthur, my grandfather, and his wife Rebecca had moved to Rose Cottage in Covenham St. Mary in the summer of 1933 because they were poor. Arthur was self-employed as a painter and decorator and he kept his paint, brushes and stepladders in a handcart. This he attached to his bicycle, since most of his work was in nearby villages or thirteen miles away in the town of Cleethorpes, which they’d left because they couldn’t afford the rent on the houses there. One of his clients mentioned that there was a small cottage that had been empty for a hundred and thirty years in Covenham St. Mary, a village with a population of 270. All the cottage needed was some repairs and a coat of paint. It was available for next to nothing because nobody wanted to live there.

Granddad Arthur laughed off the idea that the cottage was haunted. In fact, he wasn’t even interested in hearing about what he called the whys and wherefores of the case. Enrolled in the Lincoln Regiment at 16, sent home as too young, joined up at 17 when there were less scruples, wounded twice in the Great War, won the Military Medal twice and made King’s Corporal, Arthur wasn’t going to be bothered about any ghost nonsense; he’d seen enough c*****e to last several lifetimes, but he’d never seen the ghost of a fallen comrade. Ghosts didn’t exist as far as he was concerned…”

whys and whereforesSir John excused himself to get a drink, “Need to wet the whistle, old chap. Will you join me… and you, Mrs Conley?” Alice declined, but Jake, on spotting the bottle of Aberfeldy single malt, surrendered to one of his weaknesses. The smooth liquor with a hint of smoke, drunk beside the fire, was the perfect accompaniment to a ghost story in Jake’s opinion.

Dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, Sir John, addressing Alice, continued after an apology for the interlude, “…Rose Cottage was suitable for Arthur’s small family, with its two rooms downstairs and the bathroom and bedroom upstairs. Now that a second child was on the way grandmother worried that there might be a problem. Already Roy’s bed was in the corner of their bedroom, but Arthur had made the cottage very attractive at very little cost. The baby was due in three months, in March, and they’d have to manage. Arthur and Becky were very much in love and that made the difference.

It was a crisp December afternoon and Arthur biked the last few yards to Rose Cottage at around twenty-past twelve. He had a job at Utterby about two and a half miles away and he’d come home for lunch. Arthur was grateful when he was close enough to home to have a cooked meal instead of the packed lunch Becky made him when he was further away. He leant his bicycle against the fence and strode through the gate and up the path to his door.

“I’m home, Bubs.” he called, using his pet name for her, because her curls made him think of bubbles. The stairs faced the door and in two bounds he was already mounting them, “I’ll just wash my hands.” He savoured the delicious aroma from the kitchen. About to turn into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, granddad stopped and the smile vanished. The bedroom door was open and what he saw made him rush downstairs red in the face to the roots of his ginger hair.

“Rebecca!” he barked in the tone of his old company sergeant—and he never called her that unless he was furious. She looked up from stirring the gravy with a sweet smile. She was used to his temper bursting as quick as a spring shower.

“What have you done upstairs, woman? Did you move all the furniture?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

Arthur’s face became plum red, “Are you crazy? In your state? You’re six months gone; you could lose the baby like that. Why didn’t you ask me if you wanted the furniture moving?”

Becky moved the gravy to a cold plate on the range and put her arms around her husband. She kissed his burning cheek. “Well, be honest, Arthur, if I’d asked you, you’d have said no, wouldn’t you? Besides, I don’t know why, but it was just something I had to do, like it was a feeling stronger than me.” She squeezed him tight and gave him another kiss. Becky could feel the tension leave him and he pressed his lips against hers.

“Well, don’t have any more of these feelings. Do you hear me? Do you know how much that wardrobe weighs?”

“Oh, come on grumpy, no harm’s done, get those hands washed and sit down at table. I’ve made shepherd’s pie. Roy will be home from school in a minute and he’ll need the bathroom.” At the thought of Roy, she sighed and hoped that her little boy hadn’t suffered any bullying today at the Elementary School. It drew from the villages of Fotherby, Utterby and Little Grimsby as well as from the twin village of Covenham St. Bartholomew. Children were often cruel and they teased Roy because of his sensitivity, he was different from them. It was a constant worry.