tightly that the deformed knuckles were almost white. The pain in those arthritic joints must have been intense. She put an arm around his shoulders and urged him to calm himself, but he ignored her, his pale eyes suddenly piercing as he stared at Ash.
‘And you see, then - right then - I knew she was speaking the truth.’
The investigator stiffened. ‘But you implied earlier that you didn’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No, I asked if you believed you could prove the existence of such.’
‘So tell me why you suddenly decided she was telling the truth.’
‘Because, Mr Ash, I saw the boy for myself.’
10
I’ M SO SORRY .’
Ash was surprised. ‘For what?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid my father’s overwrought,’ Grace Lockwood replied. ‘These headaches …’ She did not complete the sentence, leaving the thought as part of the apology.
They were strolling along the centre path of the lodge’s rear garden, this separated from the rest of the estate by a weathered fence and lush shrubbery. Ahead of them was a white-wood gazebo, and even before they reached it Ash could see that the paint was old and cracked, the frame splintered here and there. Nevertheless it still managed to look attractive with its backdrop of rhododendrons, and plants and other flowers on either side of the path leading up to its step. Although the sun had lost its fierceness, the air was still uncomfortably warm and Ash’s jacket was draped through the loop of his arm, his hand tucked into his trouser pocket. Other perfumes mingled with the honeysuckle - lilac, rose, peony and choisia - and he drew in deep breaths to rid his head of the old staleness.
‘Has he seen a doctor?’ he enquired, the question not quite as casual as his tone suggested.
‘He refuses to. Father has this old-fashioned notion that all ills will fade away of their own accord eventually.’ She paused for a moment, stooping to examine a yellow rose by the path,and her next comment revealed she was not at all deceived. ‘You think he might be neurotic, don’t you?’ she said.
Ash was reluctant to offend, but he was inclined to be frank. ‘He, uh, he seemed quite upset.’
Grace straightened to face him. ‘Upset, yes. Things are happening that he doesn’t understand. I’m a little upset myself, but not neurotic, Mr Ash.’
‘David.’
‘David. And it isn’t only my father and Ellen Preddle who have been disturbed.’
‘Others have seen the boy?’
She resumed walking, less relaxed than a moment ago. ‘Not Simon. But other - what would you call them? - apparitions? - other apparitions have been seen. We’d have told you about them if Father’s headache hadn’t got so much worse.’ She glanced back at the house, looking up at a first-floor window as if she could check on her father from where she stood. ‘His health has deteriorated so much in the past year or so. That’s why I didn’t return to Paris after my mother died; he needs me here with him. He used to be so strong, so full of vigour …’
‘How far advanced is his arthritis?’
She turned away from the house and walked the rest of the way to the gazebo before replying. Inside she sat on an iron bench. ‘He tries not to let me know how much pain he’s in, but often I catch the strain on his face, in his eyes. He still works too hard for the parish, but it’s my fervent hope that the Church will persuade him to retire before too long. Fortunately we have a little inherited money left, enough, anyway, for him to live comfortably.’
Ash sat at the other corner of the seat, his body angled towards her, an arm resting along the curved bench back. ‘Enough to run the Lockwood Estate?’ he asked.
She smiled at his bluntness, and he liked the smile. ‘The Lockwood Estate hardly runs at all. Most of it is now sold off, although we’ve kept the grounds leading to the old manor house. That’s where we spend our money - keeping thosefew acres in reasonable condition. But we’re
‘And you see, then - right then - I knew she was speaking the truth.’
The investigator stiffened. ‘But you implied earlier that you didn’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No, I asked if you believed you could prove the existence of such.’
‘So tell me why you suddenly decided she was telling the truth.’
‘Because, Mr Ash, I saw the boy for myself.’
10
I’ M SO SORRY .’
Ash was surprised. ‘For what?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid my father’s overwrought,’ Grace Lockwood replied. ‘These headaches …’ She did not complete the sentence, leaving the thought as part of the apology.
They were strolling along the centre path of the lodge’s rear garden, this separated from the rest of the estate by a weathered fence and lush shrubbery. Ahead of them was a white-wood gazebo, and even before they reached it Ash could see that the paint was old and cracked, the frame splintered here and there. Nevertheless it still managed to look attractive with its backdrop of rhododendrons, and plants and other flowers on either side of the path leading up to its step. Although the sun had lost its fierceness, the air was still uncomfortably warm and Ash’s jacket was draped through the loop of his arm, his hand tucked into his trouser pocket. Other perfumes mingled with the honeysuckle - lilac, rose, peony and choisia - and he drew in deep breaths to rid his head of the old staleness.
‘Has he seen a doctor?’ he enquired, the question not quite as casual as his tone suggested.
‘He refuses to. Father has this old-fashioned notion that all ills will fade away of their own accord eventually.’ She paused for a moment, stooping to examine a yellow rose by the path,and her next comment revealed she was not at all deceived. ‘You think he might be neurotic, don’t you?’ she said.
Ash was reluctant to offend, but he was inclined to be frank. ‘He, uh, he seemed quite upset.’
Grace straightened to face him. ‘Upset, yes. Things are happening that he doesn’t understand. I’m a little upset myself, but not neurotic, Mr Ash.’
‘David.’
‘David. And it isn’t only my father and Ellen Preddle who have been disturbed.’
‘Others have seen the boy?’
She resumed walking, less relaxed than a moment ago. ‘Not Simon. But other - what would you call them? - apparitions? - other apparitions have been seen. We’d have told you about them if Father’s headache hadn’t got so much worse.’ She glanced back at the house, looking up at a first-floor window as if she could check on her father from where she stood. ‘His health has deteriorated so much in the past year or so. That’s why I didn’t return to Paris after my mother died; he needs me here with him. He used to be so strong, so full of vigour …’
‘How far advanced is his arthritis?’
She turned away from the house and walked the rest of the way to the gazebo before replying. Inside she sat on an iron bench. ‘He tries not to let me know how much pain he’s in, but often I catch the strain on his face, in his eyes. He still works too hard for the parish, but it’s my fervent hope that the Church will persuade him to retire before too long. Fortunately we have a little inherited money left, enough, anyway, for him to live comfortably.’
Ash sat at the other corner of the seat, his body angled towards her, an arm resting along the curved bench back. ‘Enough to run the Lockwood Estate?’ he asked.
She smiled at his bluntness, and he liked the smile. ‘The Lockwood Estate hardly runs at all. Most of it is now sold off, although we’ve kept the grounds leading to the old manor house. That’s where we spend our money - keeping thosefew acres in reasonable condition. But we’re
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