would find what you’re going through much easier if you would let go of your anger.”
“There you’re wrong. You’re really, really wrong.” He told Hudson about the paralyzing grief and the anger that had freed him. As he spoke, he saw his friend’s brow furrow with concern.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Why not?” Gray asked.
“Because anger doesn’t work that way. It imprisons. It doesn’t liberate.”
“Mine did.”
“That’s my point. Whatever it was you experienced, it wasn’t healthy. It definitely wasn’t normal.”
“You should talk to this idiot woman who thinks the place is haunted.” When he saw Hudson looking thoughtful, Gray added, “That was a joke.”
“I know.”
“You’re not taking it as one.”
Hudson didn’t reply for a moment. Then he asked, “Is that the only strange thing you’ve experienced at the Hall?”
Gray hesitated, and that was enough.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Hudson went on. “You should be really careful.”
“I didn’t think ghosts fit in with a properly understood Christianity.”
“I’m not saying there are ghosts in the Hall. I’m saying that it sounds to me like there is something wrong with the place. I don’t know what it is, only that it’s wrong.”
Gray buried his head in his hands. “Let me guess how the rest of this goes. You want to stay there with me and check this out.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“You’ll have to stand in line. Everybody but Greenpeace has been on my case to have access to the Hall.”
“You might want to consider at least some of these requests.”
“No. I want to be alone.”
“Go back to London, then. Open the Hall up, and when everything’s over, come back down. If the place turns out to be safe.”
The thought of the leaving the Hall was acute and painful. His heart pinched. He wanted to be there now. Run away to London? Unimaginable. The strength and irrationality of his need worried him. There was something wrong. But his need to be back at the house was stronger. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told Hudson.
“Will you at least think about letting me hang out a couple of days?”
“I’ll sleep on it.”
Most of the reporters were gone by late afternoon. There were other stories to chase, and deadlines to meet. Gray knew the reprieve would end the next morning, when he would begin his starring role in the papers. He could imagine the pictures and the accounts. He’d given them plenty to work with. He expected a wide-eyed, slavering gargoyle described as a selfish lunatic bought and paid for by the CIA. He tried to tell himself this would all be entertaining.
Porter drove him home and helped carry bags of groceries inside. The kitchen was the former butler’s pantry, off the courtyard on the north-east side of the ground floor. The colours were lighter here than in much of the Hall, the wood and paintwork a weathered blond. The room wasn’t big, but it was a perfect adaptation for a single person living in the Hall. It had been at least fifty years since there had been more than one permanent resident.
“Thanks,” Gray said as he and Porter unloaded the last of the bags. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Porter shuffled his feet. He looked antsy, a man wrestling with conflicting discomforts. “I really should be off. The pub can’t mind itself.”
“Your staff seems pretty competent.”
“That they are. They are. But no, must be going.”
Curious, Gray asked, “Does the house make you uncomfortable?”
Porter began to protest. “Oh, it isn’t that. I didn’t mean to suggest —”
“It’s all right,” Gray reassured him. “I’m not offended. I’m just interested. I’ve heard enough wild stories about the Hall today, never mind what happened to Pete Adams. Do you dislike the house, John?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just ...” He groped for the words. “The fact is, I would like to stay. I want to stay.”
“Then why don’t
“There you’re wrong. You’re really, really wrong.” He told Hudson about the paralyzing grief and the anger that had freed him. As he spoke, he saw his friend’s brow furrow with concern.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Why not?” Gray asked.
“Because anger doesn’t work that way. It imprisons. It doesn’t liberate.”
“Mine did.”
“That’s my point. Whatever it was you experienced, it wasn’t healthy. It definitely wasn’t normal.”
“You should talk to this idiot woman who thinks the place is haunted.” When he saw Hudson looking thoughtful, Gray added, “That was a joke.”
“I know.”
“You’re not taking it as one.”
Hudson didn’t reply for a moment. Then he asked, “Is that the only strange thing you’ve experienced at the Hall?”
Gray hesitated, and that was enough.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Hudson went on. “You should be really careful.”
“I didn’t think ghosts fit in with a properly understood Christianity.”
“I’m not saying there are ghosts in the Hall. I’m saying that it sounds to me like there is something wrong with the place. I don’t know what it is, only that it’s wrong.”
Gray buried his head in his hands. “Let me guess how the rest of this goes. You want to stay there with me and check this out.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“You’ll have to stand in line. Everybody but Greenpeace has been on my case to have access to the Hall.”
“You might want to consider at least some of these requests.”
“No. I want to be alone.”
“Go back to London, then. Open the Hall up, and when everything’s over, come back down. If the place turns out to be safe.”
The thought of the leaving the Hall was acute and painful. His heart pinched. He wanted to be there now. Run away to London? Unimaginable. The strength and irrationality of his need worried him. There was something wrong. But his need to be back at the house was stronger. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told Hudson.
“Will you at least think about letting me hang out a couple of days?”
“I’ll sleep on it.”
Most of the reporters were gone by late afternoon. There were other stories to chase, and deadlines to meet. Gray knew the reprieve would end the next morning, when he would begin his starring role in the papers. He could imagine the pictures and the accounts. He’d given them plenty to work with. He expected a wide-eyed, slavering gargoyle described as a selfish lunatic bought and paid for by the CIA. He tried to tell himself this would all be entertaining.
Porter drove him home and helped carry bags of groceries inside. The kitchen was the former butler’s pantry, off the courtyard on the north-east side of the ground floor. The colours were lighter here than in much of the Hall, the wood and paintwork a weathered blond. The room wasn’t big, but it was a perfect adaptation for a single person living in the Hall. It had been at least fifty years since there had been more than one permanent resident.
“Thanks,” Gray said as he and Porter unloaded the last of the bags. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Porter shuffled his feet. He looked antsy, a man wrestling with conflicting discomforts. “I really should be off. The pub can’t mind itself.”
“Your staff seems pretty competent.”
“That they are. They are. But no, must be going.”
Curious, Gray asked, “Does the house make you uncomfortable?”
Porter began to protest. “Oh, it isn’t that. I didn’t mean to suggest —”
“It’s all right,” Gray reassured him. “I’m not offended. I’m just interested. I’ve heard enough wild stories about the Hall today, never mind what happened to Pete Adams. Do you dislike the house, John?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just ...” He groped for the words. “The fact is, I would like to stay. I want to stay.”
“Then why don’t
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