It was in the bar of the Old House at Home that the next piece of information emerged. Later I realised how crucial it was, but at the time it scarcely appeared to be evidence at all.
‘Mind if I join you?’
A large shadow had been cast in front of me. I looked up at Barry Whitelace. ‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘but I’m just planning to finish this half then I’m heading home. I still have a house guest to look after.’
‘I won’t offer to buy you another, then,’ he said, sitting down. I doubt that he was planning to do anyway.
‘It’s getting a bit warmer,’ I ventured.
He looked at me vaguely. Something other than the weather was on his mind. ‘Have you seen Catarina lately?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘It’s just that I’m still not sure now what she’s planning to do about this wind farm business. The first time I spoke to her I got the impression she wasn’t following up on it. But I’m worried that my earlier discussion with her has simply alerted her to a business opportunity that she’s missed.’
That sounded like Catarina.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘when I walked past the Herring Field today, what do you think I saw?’
‘No idea,’ I said.
‘Notices pinned up about planning permission for exploratory drilling on the site.’
‘Do you need to drill before you put up a wind farm?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re testing to see what sort of foundations they would need in that marsh? I’m going to phone the council anyway. I’ve said nothing to Jean, of course. No point in upsetting her. But I wondered if you’d heard anything.’
‘Catarina’s said nothing to me about reviving the plans,’ I said. ‘But it’s Gittings’ land, as I told you.’
‘Maybe she’s done a deal with him? Bought the land from him? Derek wouldn’t start drilling there.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know Catarina’s plans for anything. I don’t even know if she intends to stay in the village. The house is a bit big for her on her own.’
‘Haunted too,’ said Whitelace with a smile.
‘Is it? I hadn’t heard that.’
‘Well, of course it isn’t – not unless you believe in ghosts, which I certainly do not. But that’s the rumour.’
‘Whose ghost?’
‘Lancelot Pagham.’
‘Who says?’
‘She’s actually seen it?’
‘Yes, walking in the garden, clear as day.’
‘She’d recognise Lancelot Pagham, then?’ I asked.
‘Apparently. She’s seen a picture of him.’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘I agree – it’s a bit odd – maybe there’s a drawing in one of the local papers – the trial or something.’
‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘Nor have I,’ Whitelace conceded reluctantly. ‘Of course, she can’t have seen anything so it can’t have looked like anything. Rum business, though.’
We both sat and thought about this. Then Whitelace said: ‘There’s a queer story associated with the Gittings’ house too.’
‘Ghost?’ I asked.
‘No, supernatural abduction.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s in an old book I found. They don’t name it, but it’s pretty obvious which house it is.’
‘I’d like to read that.’
‘I’ll drop it round. Sure you won’t have another?’
Whitelace suddenly looked anxious, fearing that his rash offer might cost him half of bitter.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I look forward to reading the story.’
I hadn’t expected Whitelace would remember to let me see the book. Perhaps the strangest thing of all the strange things was that it actually dropped through my letter box later that evening. The book was called Curious Tales of Old Sussex. It had been published in Chichester in the early 1900s and most of the stories, of witches and elves and pixies, stretched the reader’s credulity a little more than a modern audience would have tolerated. Some seemed to have been lifted, with a few names changed, from similar volumes on Devon or Essex. There was a slip of paper marking the place of the story that I was to read. It was entitled The Murderer and the Devil.