did. We think we do. We think he murdered Claudia and now his conscience is making him pay the ultimate price, but we don’t know.’
Susie screamed so loudly that both Greg and Cissy shrank back, releasing her hands, staring down at her in fear and horror as she sat up, her body rigid, clawing at her eyes.
Greg recovered first, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘He’s using her in some way. The only way we can stop it is to find out what it is he is trying to say. And the evidence must be in that grave. We have to go and see as soon as the weather has improved enough to have a go ourselves. Never mind the archaeologists. This is between us and Marcus and Claudia. We need to know the truth. For all our sakes.’
‘He’ll try and stop you,’ Diana put in softly. ‘He wants whatever is in that grave to stay hidden.’
‘Tough. It’s not going to. Besides, he’s tried to stop me before and he failed,’ he grinned bitterly. ‘I defeated him, remember? And I mean to get at the truth.’ He climbed awkwardly to his feet, swearing softly as a shaft of pain shot up his leg from his throbbing foot. ‘Do you hear that, Marcus Severus Secundus?’ Like his mother, he was shouting at the ceiling. ‘I’m not afraid of you, and I mean to have the truth!’
In answer the wind screamed ever more loudly down the chimney, scattering sparks.
‘Where are you, Roger? Oh, please help us!’ Suddenly Diana was crying. ‘Fight him for us. Make him go away.’
‘Ma -’ Greg put his arms round her.
‘No. He promised. He’s there. I’m sure he’s there. Help us Roger. Please.’ She was trembling violently.
There was a long silence. Greg bit his lip. Wherever his father had gone, he had not lingered here. The silence thickened around them. He could feel the skin on the nape of his neck prickling.
There was a presence in the room. But it was not his father. It was a female presence. Greg shivered, staring round. Claudia. He could sense her near him, the woman in blue, the woman whose image he had so often conjured up with pencil and brush. ‘Claudia’s here. Speak to her.’ He seized his mother’s arm. ‘Go on. Tell her we mean to find the truth. Tell her we will avenge her.’
‘Greg – ’
‘Go on!’ He turned round slowly himself, as if expecting to see the woman somewhere concealed in a corner. ‘Do you hear me, Lady Claudia? We are going to learn the truth about your death. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about.’ He paused, panting, half expecting to hear a voice answering his, but the only response came from the wind. ‘Claudia!’ He shouted the name again.
Surely he could smell it: the jasmine scent she wore.
And something else.
Tobacco.
He bit his lip with a glance at his mother. Had she smelt it too? It was two years since his father had given up smoking – the day his cancer had been diagnosed – but suddenly he could smell his tobacco in the room. Was he here, after all, fighting for them as he had promised or was it wishful thinking, this strange blend of scents? Ashamed at the sudden tears in his eyes he moved a few paces towards the window and looked out, trying to control his emotions.
In the space of an hour the scene out there had changed. The snow had turned to rain. The garden, so recently locked in a brittle, short-lived frame of ice had become a living, dripping sea of water. From trees and bushes the soft snow slid in lumps or melted as he watched, desperately trying to swallow his tears. The rain, sliding down the window was carrying the premature winter away with it as swiftly as it had come. The flowers of winter jasmine had freed themselves from a frosting of ice and drooped, yellow and orange from slender green stems.
Somehow he managed to get a grip on himself.
He was turning back towards Diana when out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the trees. He stiffened, a shot of adrenalin flooding through his stomach. Marcus? Claudia? His father? He waited, holding his breath.
His relief when he saw the small group of figures emerge from the trees, carrying between them what looked like a stretcher, was enormous. ‘It’s Kate and Paddy,’ he called, trying to keep his voice steady. He limped to the door and, fighting the bolts, he pulled it open. The blast of cold air carried the sweet, clean smell of melt water before it, as the soaked, exhausted figures staggered across the lawn. He did not question who the two unknown men were as they trooped in; enough that they were all safe.
He stared down at his sister’s face and he grew cold, his relief stillborn.
‘What happened, Kate?’ He looked up and met her eyes.
‘We found her at the grave again,’ she said wearily. ‘Marcus had her.’ She flung herself down on the sofa beside Anne who had collapsed there as soon as she walked in. It was only then that she saw Susie lying in front of the fire. ‘Oh no?’ Her plea turned to a sob.
‘They’ll be all right.’ Diana was cradling Alison’s head against her breast, kneeling beside the stretcher where Pete and Jon had lowered it to the floor. Behind them Paddy bolted the front door again and then subsided where he was onto the mat, sliding down to sit with his back against the wall, staring into space. He had reached the limits of his endurance.
Blowing on his freezing fingers Jon went quietly over to stand behind Kate and put his hands on her shoulders. It was a reassuring gesture and she leaned back, grateful for his strength. Raising her eyes wearily she found Greg staring at her. His white face was stiff with shock.
‘This is Jon Bevan, Greg,’ she said slowly, beginning to grapple with the zip on her wet jacket. ‘He and Pete came to look for us. They went straight to the cottage. They found Allie.’
‘Jon Bevan?’ Claudia, Marcus, even his father were forgotten as Greg, oblivious suddenly of everyone else in the room, focussed his attention on Jon’s face. ‘The poet?’
‘That’s right.’ Jon stepped round the sofa and held out his hand.
Greg stared at it. He did not make any attempt to take it. ‘So, you’ve come to play ghostbusters with us, have you?’ he said coldly. ‘And what are your qualifications for sending Marcus Severus Secundus back to the hell he surely came from?’
Jon lowered his hand. Slowly he began to peel off his sodden jacket. ‘Perhaps a poet can communicate with the dead; I’m sure he can do it at least as well as a painter,’ he replied stiffly. ‘We are supposed to speak a universal language which transcends the ages.’
‘I thought you and Kate were finished,’ Greg pressed. He was shaken by the sudden arrival of this man whom he had thought long gone from Kate’s life.
‘Greg!’ His mother interrupted, her voice sharp with anxiety. ‘Help me with Allie! Quickly!’ Alison’s head had fallen back on Diana’s arm and her eyes had rolled open.
Unnoticed by any of them the smell of tobacco in the room strengthened.
‘Christ!’ Greg helped his mother lower her to the floor. Bending low he put his ear to her mouth. ‘She’s still breathing.’ He swivelled to face Jon, his face growing hard again. ‘Well? What do we do, poet?’
Jon ignored him. He like the others, was staring down at the two girls lying near one another on the floor. Only the occasional terrified sob from Cissy punctuated the silence of the room. Diana’s eyes had filled with tears. She was drained, too tired even to speak. With Alison’s hand in hers she sat helplessly on the floor gazing at her daughter’s face.
There was a long silence. Kate looked at Jon. She had not noticed the hostility between the two men, nor the electric atmosphere as the tension between them flared, but she could feel the cold in the room which was suddenly palpable. It was swirling clammily round them. He was there. He hadn’t gone. She could feel the strength of the alien mind reaching out, the tendrils of anger and hatred threading through the air, feeding on the energy of hate.
‘NO!’
She didn’t realise she had cried out loud until she saw the others staring at her, their faces full of fear. ‘He’s looking for someone else – ’
‘Fight him. Don’t let your mind go empty. Fight him hard. Recite something. Concentrate.’ Anne caught her arm. ‘Fight him. He’s drained those two like… batteries…’ She spluttered with anger. ‘And he needs energy from somewhere else. Fight him.’ She looked round. ‘Where’s Paddy?’ Her voice sharpened with fear.
‘Oh God! Don’t let him have gone into the study! Don’t let him have found his father -’ There had been no chance to tell them Roger was dead, no way of breaking the news gently. Diana scrambled to her feet and pushing
