Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine
did surprise him. ‘You saw her?’
She shrugged. ‘Not quite. But I know it was a woman, and I smelt her perfume. I thought at first it was Alison messing about, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it was a friend of hers.’ She paused. ‘Or of yours.’
He did not rise to the remark. ‘Is anything missing?’
‘No. At least, nothing of mine.’ She took a sip from her glass, not looking at him. ‘Did you mean to leave those pictures upstairs?’ she asked after a moment. She sat staring at the wood-burner. The fire inside roared like a wild beast.
Greg raised his foot and kicked the damper across. ‘I did. There’s no more space in the farmhouse. Why, don’t you like them?’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite her. There was a challenge in his eyes.
‘Not much.’
‘Too strong for you, eh?’ He looked puzzled suddenly. ‘Did you mean to imply that one of them is missing?’
‘No, they were all there, I think. And yes, I suppose so,’ she conceded. ‘They are disturbing.’
‘They depict the soul of this place. The cottage. The bay. The land. The sea. The sea will drown all this one day, you know.’
‘So I gather.’ She refused to be rattled by the dramatic declamation. ‘And sooner rather than later if that digging is anything to go by.’
He frowned. ‘It’s strange. None of us knew that was there. Allie found it a while back – the signs of the dune having been dug by men and not just being natural – then only a few weeks ago a great section split off like a ripe rotten fruit and it started spewing out all these bits and pieces.’ His voice was quiet, but his choice of words was deliberate. He had not taken his eyes off her face. ‘It exudes evil, this place. It’s in my paintings. I’m amazed Allie can’t feel it. But she’s an astoundingly insensitive kid. Perhaps it’s because she anaesthetises herself all the time with that noisy crap she calls music.’
Kate smiled. ‘I saw the scarlet machine this morning.’
He was right. She had felt it. The evil. She gave an involuntary shudder and was furious to see that he had noticed. He smiled. Pointedly he put down his glass and, standing up, he went to the stove. Opening the doors he loaded in another log. ‘Do you want me to get in touch with the police about your visitor?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing was taken. I’m sure it was a schoolgirl prank. I’ll bolt the door in future.’
‘And you’re not worried about staying here alone?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a burglar at all. Perhaps the woman you saw was a ghost. I told you this place was haunted. Haunted and evil. The locals won’t come near it.’
Was that it, then? Was this all a ploy to frighten her away? She laughed. ‘Being a writer of history I’m happy to live with ghosts.’
‘I trust you’re not tempting providence with that remark,’ he said. Throwing himself down in his chair again he crossed his leg, left ankle on right knee and sighed. ‘I used to find it very oppressive here after a while. My paintings would change. They would grow more and more angry. Whilst I am by nature quite a sunny chap.’
She was watching him closely.
‘At the farmhouse I paint differently. With more superficiality,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘If I ever paint a masterpiece it will be in this cottage.’ For a brief moment it was as though he was talking to himself. He had forgotten she was there; forgotten he was trying to scare her. Remembering her again he glanced at her. ‘Art, it seems, must wait for commerce.’
Straight from the hip. She took it without flinching. ‘Don’t you sell your paintings then?’
‘No.’
The reply, loaded with scorn, was succeeded by a long silence. She did not pursue the subject. Studying his face as he stared morosely into the flames she was conscious suddenly of the lines of weariness around his eyes and the realisation that Greg Lindsey was a very unhappy man. The moment of insight struck her dumb. The silence dragged out uncomfortably as she, too, stared into the flickering fire.
The crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet. ‘Shit! What was that?’ Greg put down his glass.
She swallowed. She had heard a crash like that before and her investigation had found nothing. ‘The wind must have blown the door shut,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better look.’ She did not move. The room seemed suddenly warm and safe. She did not want to climb the stairs.
The noise seemed to have shaken him out of his introspection. He looked at her, noting her white face and anxious eyes and was astonished at his own reaction. He should have been pleased that she was scared but his studied hostility wavered and for a brief second he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him. ‘I’ll check.’
Taking the stairs two at a time he went first into the spare room. The room was empty save for her cases and boxes, and his own pictures, standing where he had left them behind the door. He noted briefly that they still faced the wall, then he ducked out of the room and switched on the light in the main bedroom. After the stark businesslike aura of the living room downstairs with its computer and books, the bedroom – his bedroom – shocked him by its unaccustomed femininity. He glanced round. Nothing was out of place. Both doors had been open. Nothing appeared to have fallen – he checked the painting on the wall. One of his, it was uncharacteristically pretty, depicting the bluebells in Redall Wood. He scowled at it. His mother must have brought it over, for it used to hang in the spare room at the farmhouse. Having ascertained that there was no reason for the bang that he could see, his gaze travelled more slowly around the bedroom for the second time, noting her towelling bathrobe, thrown across the bed, her slippers near it, both a bright flame which would suit her rather mousy colouring. He found himself picturing her in the robe for a moment. On the chest of drawers lay a heap of silver bangles – she had been wearing them the day she arrived, he remembered – and next to them a glass filled with winter flowers she must have gathered in the wood. The naturalist in him noted periwinkle, small velvety-red dead nettles and a sprig of daphne she must have found in what was once the cottage garden. Continuing his quick perusal, he studied the small collection of cosmetics. On neither occasion that he had met her so far had she been wearing any makeup at all, but obviously when the occasion demanded she was happy to gild the lily. He turned to the low windowsill where she had put several paperbacks – poetry and social history, he saw. No reader of fiction, this author.
‘Have you found anything?’
Her voice behind him in the doorway made him jump guiltily.
‘Nothing. Both doors were open. Nothing seems to have fallen over. The windows are closed.’
‘Could it have been outside?’
‘The chimney, you mean?’ He smiled. ‘I think we would have noticed if it had fallen through the roof.’
‘What was it then?’ Her voice betrayed her irritation. From the landing she had seen him studying her things. His interest made her feel vulnerable and angry.
‘Perhaps it was the ghost of Marcus. I’ve often heard things here.’ When she did not rise to the remark, he headed back towards the stairs, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, Kate, I should be going back. There’s nothing here. Nothing to worry about. I’ll take a look at the roof as I leave, and get a few more logs in for you. It was probably out in the trees – a branch coming off or something. Acoustics are often unaccountable.’ He descended the stairs ahead of her. ‘If you’re worried, give us a ring and Dad or I will come back and check things for you.’
‘There won’t be any need. I shall be all right.’
Marcus
She shivered at the name which had floated unbidden into her head, watching as Greg pushed his feet into his boots and reached for his jacket. Half of her wanted him to go. He had been perfectly polite, but