Fifteen minutes after leaving home, Jason steered the BMW up a residential street with substantial houses set well back from the road, all displaying festive lights in their windows or porches. Then he reached the contrasting stark, forbidding Victorian walls of Lewes prison, before entering the narrow high street of the county town of East Sussex.
He parked then made his way along to his framer, where David handed him the two bubble-wrapped and taped packages. After wishing him a happy Christmas and a great holiday, Jason walked back to the car park and placed the pictures in the boot of the car, intending to drop them into the two clients on his way home, then made his way to the library.
It was a while since he’d last been in a public library, but that smell seemed exactly the same in each one he’d ever visited. It was a smell he wished he could capture with paints. The smell of books, of paper seeped in knowledge, learning, information, fun. He glanced at rows of shelves, the spines of countless volumes. So many books, and he’d only read a tiny fraction of the ones he wanted to. And he knew, sadly, he only ever would.
During these past couple of years, apart from a week’s holiday in Tuscany when he’d devoured all four novels of the Alexandria Quartet – a treat he’d been promising himself for years – he’d barely read anything, or watched any television either. After painting late into the night, pretty much every night, he would tumble into bed too exhausted to think of picking up a book. But as he stared around now, he felt a twinge of guilt, and determined to work harder at making time to read.
Approaching a middle-aged woman at the front desk, who was looking up at him, he said, ‘Hi, I’m after local newspaper archives.’
‘Mr Danes, is it?’
He blushed. ‘Yes.’ He liked being recognized, but at the same time, it always slightly embarrassed him, because he never knew quite how to respond, and whatever he said always sounded a bit lame to him.
She gave him a smile that was much less stern than her glasses. ‘I just want to say I’m a big fan of your work.’
‘You are? Thank you so much!’
Lame again, he thought.
‘We have two of your early pictures in our home. One from your “Pub Bores” series – my husband says he’s sure it’s a man in the pub he drinks in! And we have one of your spaniels – we have a King Charles who could be its double. They give us so much pleasure.’
‘Well – um – thank you.’
‘So, local newspaper archives. How far back do you need?’
‘How far do you go?’ he asked, relieved to get down to the business he was here for. But pleased by her enthusiasm for his work, nonetheless.
‘Well, we have the Sussex Express, Argus and the Mid-Sussex Times – but we only keep hard copies for a month. We do have the Sussex Express on microfilm, but only as far as 2010. Eastbourne Library will have the Sussex Express and the Argus, but the same as us, microfilm only going back to 2010. They also have the Eastbourne Herald. If you need to go further back you could try the British Library – they have a comprehensive newspaper archive. Pretty much everything, going right back in time.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Could I take a look at the Sussex Express files?’
‘Can I help you with anything specific that you’re looking for?’ she asked.
He hesitated. ‘Well, we’ve just moved into a village near here, Cold Hill. I’m interested in anything I can find about its recent history.’
She looked pensive. ‘OK, I’ll see if I can find anything while you’re looking through the archives.’
Five minutes later, set up at a microfilm reader, Jason began scrolling through the 2015 issues, until he reached September. Then he slowed.
Finally, he reached his goal: 28 September 2015. The report on the deaths of the Harcourt family.
DOUBLE TRAGEDY STRIKES COLD HILL FAMILY
Brighton solicitor, Caroline Harcourt, who was involved in many Sussex charities, was killed alongside her daughter, Jade, a pupil at St Paul’s College, Burgess Hill, in a road traffic accident on the B2112 Haywards Heath to Ardingly road last week. In a bizarre twist, an hour later her husband, Oliver Harcourt, was found dead at their family home, Cold Hill House. Inspector Chris Smith from Sussex Police Roads Policing Unit said that despite the extraordinary circumstances, there appeared to be no link between the two, and the events were just a very sad coincidence. This was later confirmed in a statement released by Detective Inspector Sarah Reeves of Sussex Police, who said the post-mortem on Mr Harcourt revealed he had died from a heart attack.
He looked again on his phone at the photograph of their headstone in the graveyard. Then he searched for the family online and clicked on ‘images’.
A very posed-looking family photograph, clearly taken by a professional, appeared. He barely glanced at the laid-back looking man in his late thirties, or the rather stroppy girl of about twelve who clearly wanted to be anywhere but in the saccharine, happy families snapshot.
It was the woman who had his complete focus.
The attractive, slightly hard-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with short, dark hair, immaculately dressed. She was staring at the camera, or at whoever was behind the lens, with the same don’t-give-me-any-nonsense-and-I-won’t-give-you-any-back expression that he recognized. Exactly the way she had looked at him.
It was her, without any shadow of doubt. The woman he had seen in the house. The woman he had sketched, the photograph of whom he’d shown to Lester Beeson and Albert Fears yesterday.
Caroline Patricia Harcourt.
He’d been to her grave and seen her name and dates on the headstone, just as he had seen the vicar’s.
17 April 1979–21 September 2015.
And she was just as dead as the vicar.
He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, thinking, trying to make sense of any of this.
Emily had seen the woman, too. Seen a ghost.
But not the vicar?
He was feeling scared, really scared. Who could he talk to about this? The logical person would be the rector, Reverend Whitely, the gardener in the graveyard had told him about. But from the gardener’s description of him as a useless bugger, like a blooming skeleton with rattling teeth, he didn’t sound much cop.
He continued thinking, eyes shut, weird images filling his head.
Two ghosts?
He stood up and walked over to his librarian fan. ‘Do you know where the Bishop of Lewes lives?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But it’s bound to be on his website. I’ll have a look for you.’
She tapped her keyboard, then waited for some moments. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We still have a pretty antiquated connection here.’ Finally, after another gap, she said, ‘Right, I’ve got it.’
She read the address out to him, he wrote it down and thanked her. Then he added, ‘I’ll have to do a new series, “Folk in Public Libraries”!’
‘Please do,’ she said.
He promised he would seriously consider it.
Another theme for his forthcoming exhibition, he thought!
Then she held up an ancient, dusty, leather-bound volume. ‘I found this; it’s the only thing that I can see has a mention of Cold Hill in it. It’s from the reference section, so I shouldn’t really lend it out, but –’ she gave him a conspiratorial wink – ‘as it’s you, I’m sure I can trust you to return it.’
‘Wow, thank you. Of course!’
It smelled old. Probably full of germs.
The faded, gold, embossed print read, Sussex Mysteries – Martin Pemberton.
‘You might even find some inspiration in it for future pictures.’
‘I’ll guard it with my life!’
‘It was down in the stacks. The last time anyone looked at it was twelve years ago, so I don’t think it will be missed for a few days!’
Thanking her, he left, and when he reached the car park, he placed the volume safely in the boot of his car. Then he squirted hand sanitizer on each palm and carefully rubbed his hands together.