River of Destiny. Barbara Erskine
had the benefit of a view across country towards the distant woods. Beyond she could see the roofs and upper storey of neighbouring Timperton Hall, beautiful on the hilltop in the emerging sunlight. Their barns had been part of the home farm when the Timperton estate still existed.
Glancing round as she sat down, she noted the beams overhead, not so large as theirs or so gracefully arched, but still beautiful. ‘Does your barn make a lot of noise in the wind?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Creaks and groans?’
Rosemary shook her head. ‘Not really.’ She passed Zoë a cup and then stared at her anxiously. ‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re hearing things over there already.’
Zoë felt a cold draught whisper across her shoulder blades. ‘I know our predecessors heard strange noises. Leo told me.’
‘Sarah was a bit of a silly woman,’ Rosemary sniffed again – it was her version of a punctuation mark, Zoë realised – ‘but I have to say she did have a point. It’s because your place is so old – much older than either of the other buildings. I think someone told me it was fifteenth century or something like that. It is bound to move. You take no notice, dear. I’m sure you are a sensible person. She was hysterical, that one. Completely unstable. I’m surprised they stayed as long as they did.’
‘You never heard anything?’
‘Good Lord, no. And if I thought there were any ghosts here I would soon have them chased out. They are nonsense anyway. People with too much imagination see ghosts.’
Zoë stifled a smile. Privately she doubted if any ghost would have the courage to shack up with Rosemary.
‘What about ghost ships?’
The question was out of her mouth almost before she had thought of it.
‘Ah.’ Rosemary hesitated and then topped up Zoë’s cup. She hadn’t taken a sip yet, and the unnecessary gesture made the liquid slop over into the saucer. Rosemary didn’t look up and Zoë realised suddenly that her hand had started to shake. She put down the pot and finally glanced up with a hesitant smile. ‘I don’t believe it, of course, but there are plenty of people round here who would tell you about it.’
‘A ghost ship?’
Rosemary nodded.
‘A Viking ship?’ It was a whisper.
Rosemary’s eyes widened. ‘You haven’t seen it?’
‘I’ve seen a Viking ship. Twice. Yesterday morning, I could see it through the window. Then last night when we came back from sailing, we heard it. Ken saw it through the
mist, or at least he saw something.’ She paused for several seconds. Rosemary said nothing. ‘I thought maybe it was people coming for a regatta or something – re-enactors, you know …’ Zoë’s voice trailed away.
Rosemary was staring at her, her blue eyes intent on her neighbour’s face, concentrating as though trying to decide whether or not to believe her. She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen it. Nor has Steve. There’s an old legend about it. Pete, the man who comes to mow our grass, told us about it. You should ask him. Loads of people have seen it over the years.’
Zoë stared down at her cup. The coffee in the saucer looked disgusting; there were several drops on the table as well, a splatter trail leading to Rosemary, who had her hand still on the handle of the coffee pot. Neither woman said anything for several seconds, then Rosemary released the pot and stood up, and went back into the kitchen with Zoë’s cup. She poured the contents down the sink, hunted for a cloth to wipe the table and returned with a clean cup and saucer.
‘It’s all superstitious nonsense, of course,’ she said at last. ‘The river can be quite sinister sometimes in the dark and when it’s foggy like it has been these last few nights.’ She poured the coffee once more, this time with a steady hand, and then put the pot down with a sharp bang. ‘What did you see?’
‘A sail. A huge sail, bellied out in the wind, though there was no wind. We went out under power. There wasn’t enough to sail.’
Rosemary sat forward, her eyes still fixed on Zoë’s face. ‘Leo has a book which has a picture of the sail. It is some old book about Suffolk he found. You should ask him to show you.’
Zoë nodded. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to see it.
‘It was a sketch made by one of the farmhands who worked here, in these barns in Victorian times. Very rough, but it showed the pattern on the sail. He saw it a hundred or so years ago, but Noddy Pelham at the golf club told us lots of people have seen it over the years. He reckons that to see it is a portent of doom.’ She laughed and then covered her mouth with her hand, looking stricken. ‘Not that I believe any of it. Steve says it’s probably the shadows of the pine trees falling on the mist. Or a mirage, like in the desert, reflecting sailboats out at sea somewhere.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Are you all right, dear?’
Zoë nodded. ‘I think Steve is probably right. But it did feel,’ she hunted for the right word and found one which was totally inadequate for the weird, panicky sensation she had felt, ‘odd.’ She thought back suddenly to the night before, the creak and squeak of the oars, the sense of a huge vessel so close to them that even Ken was frightened for a moment, and she felt once more the prickle of fear across her shoulder blades. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ she went on weakly. ‘But a bit intriguing. As long as the guys on the boat don’t come ashore.’
Both women laughed a little uncomfortably and both almost involuntarily glanced towards the window. There was no view of the river from here. All they could see was the spread of the lawns, some distant trees and a hedge beyond which the fields rose gently up towards the crest of the hill where the eighteenth-century Hall, now converted into flats, sat in elegant repose in the sunlight.
Mr Henry Crosby sent for Daniel the following morning. ‘My wife has complained that you were insolent to her,’ he said. They were standing in the study at the Hall. Dan had his cap twisted between his hands.
‘I’m sorry to hear her ladyship had reason for complaint, Mr Crosby.’ Daniel felt a surge of anger which he was careful to hide. ‘If I gave offence it was unintentional, sir. Did she say in what way I was insolent?’
‘She brought her horse to you and you told her there was nothing wrong with it.’
Daniel was speechless for a moment. ‘But there was nothing wrong, sir. She said the mare was lame.’
‘Because of your incompetent shoeing.’
‘There was nothing wrong with my shoeing, sir. Nor with the horse’s feet either. I checked carefully.’ He could feel the heat rising up his neck.
‘Are you calling my wife a liar?’ Henry Crosby’s voice dropped dangerously.
‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ Daniel looked down at his boots, biting his tongue.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crosby walked across to stand behind his desk. He leaned on it, his hands flat on the blotter, fixing Daniel with an angry glare. ‘Take the mare back with you and see to her. Make sure there are no more mistakes if you want to keep your job, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Daniel hesitated for a moment, then he turned away. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Outside the door he stood still for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper under control. Then he began to walk slowly down the passage. There was no one in the kitchen or the servants’ hall. He made his way out to the yard and round to the stable block where Bella was tied in her stall. He walked to her head, making crooning noises, and was surprised when she backed away from him, her eyes rolling. She was sweating profusely. Glancing down as he ran his hand down her shoulder, his eyes widened at what he saw and he swore viciously under his breath. Her front legs were a mass of cuts and bruises; blood was pooling on the straw.