CHAPTER THREE

It wasn’t until they had travelled some way through the gardens, which were indeed splendidly full of lupins, roses, sweet williams, love-in-a-mists and climbing clematis, that Amy unbent enough to sigh and sink wearily onto a wooden garden bench.

‘Please, sit down, my dears,’ she said, sounding almost human now.

Val took one swift look at her, noted her rather greyish complexion and stooping shoulders and sat beside her, laying a hand gently over hers. The poor dear really did look, under all her starch and vinegar, as if she was at the end of her tether, and as usual, she felt a flood of determination to help if she could. She was not a vicar’s daughter for nothing. ‘Now, why don’t you tell us what’s really worrying you, Miss Phelps?’ she said encouragingly. ‘Arbie and I will do all we can to help, won’t we, Arbie?’

Arbie nodded. Although Val might think he was a bit of a clod, he could see as well as she could that the old girl was in dire need of some bucking up. ‘Rather,’ he said. Then added, with an acuity that had Val almost gaping at him, ‘It’s not really your family ghost that’s worrying you though, is it?’

Amy Phelps regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You know, you’re not such a fool as everyone thinks, are you, young man?’ she said devastatingly.

Arbie, not sure whether he’d just been utterly insulted, or had been given the biggest compliment of his life, simply blinked.

‘Lost for words?’ Val said, giving him one of her rare affectionate smiles. ‘Not a good thing for an author, eh Miss Phelps? But don’t you worry – between the three of us we can sort it all out. But we do rather need to know what it is that needs sorting out,’ she prompted gently.

At this, the older woman nodded wearily but began to look uneasy. ‘Yes, I know, I know. But it’s very difficult. Sometimes, the things you think in your head sound utterly ridiculous if you say them out loud. And it’s not as if I was sure … It’s not as if I have anything solid to get a hold of, that’s the thing. Nothing I can point to and say, “There, you see? Someone is trying to do me harm.” It’s all so … nebulous. And it really might be Wilbur haunting me after all, you know. That’s the worst of it. I can’t be sure.’

She twisted her hands restlessly in her lap, as Val exchanged worried and puzzled looks with Arbie.

‘Do you honestly believe in the supernatural then, Miss Phelps?’ Arbie asked gently, trying to get some sort of a feeling for what was expected of him.

‘Well – before this, I would have said no,’ the woman said with a somewhat tremulous smile. ‘I mean, it’s all very nice having a family legend and ghost and what have you, but it’s hardly something you give much thought to, is it? But just lately … I’m beginning to wonder. Except of course, common sense …’ She trailed off and sighed heavily.

This time, Val tried to find a starting place. ‘Well, have you seen the ghost? Wilbur, I mean?’

‘Oh no. Well, not seen him exactly. But sometimes, at night, I’m sure I’m being watched … No, this won’t do.’ Miss Phelps stiffened her shoulders, and her head came back. Something of her old iron sparked in the back of her eyes. ‘I’m burbling along like a silly young gel! Young man, I want you to do one of your investigations at my house. One of your ghost-watches. You can do that, can’t you?’

Arbie, thus straight-forwardly challenged, instinctively felt his own shoulders stiffen and said simply, ‘Yes, of course, Miss Phelps, I can do that. If that’s what you really want.’

‘It is,’ she said firmly. And then, in her return to her former and alarmingly uncharacteristic vagueness, added, ‘Then at least I’ll know one way or another where things stand.’

Val caught Arbie’s worried eye and gave him one of her ‘do something’ looks. All his life he’d been the recipient of such looks from Val, and they usually ended in him getting into trouble.

‘It’ll probably all turn out to be nothing but a mare’s-nest you know,’ he said to Amy Phelps gently. ‘Most family ghosts and curses and whatnot turn out to be nothing more than pie in the sky. Do you remember the chapter in my book about the Brighton Banshee? That turned out to be nothing more than—’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Amy interrupted him testily. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, young man. I know it’s probably all stuff and nonsense. But you see, I need to be sure before I act, especially about something so important as … Well, never mind that. I just need to be sure I’m right about things, just in case I’m not, and it really is Wilbur at work. Oh, I know how silly that sounds.’ The older woman broke off, looking from one to the other and silently daring them to agree with her. Naturally, Arbie and Val remained tactfully silent. ‘But believe me – there is something going on in that house, Mr Swift,’ she said, glancing over at the Old Forge. ‘I can feel it. All this summer, I’ve felt … uneasy. And I don’t like it. And I mean to see to it that it stops,’ she added, going so far as to slam the palm of her hand down on the wooden armrest of the bench. ‘One way or another – ghost or no ghost – I won’t be bullied!’

‘Bravo,’ Val said. ‘That’s the spirit!’ Then, realising that her choice of words might not have been the wisest, added hastily, ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Phelps, we’ll hold a ghost-watch this very night. Won’t we, Arbie?’

Arbie shot her an appalled look. ‘Look here, what’s with this “we” business all of a sudden, Val?’ he protested. ‘You oughtn’t be involved at all. And tonight might not be—’

‘Oh, I’d be so grateful if you could,’ Amy broke in, not wanting to hear any excuses Arbie might make. ‘And of course, Miss Coulton-James, you’re welcome to stay the night too. I’m sure the presence of myself and Cora in the house will act as an adequate chaperone, should your dear papa be in any way concerned.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Val said, clearly pleased with her afternoon’s work. She understood that whilst the reticent older woman wasn’t willing to discuss what was truly bothering her with outsiders, it was as plain as a pikestaff that something needed to be done. And besides – she was intrigued. She sensed adventure in the air and shot Arbie an arch look. ‘Isn’t it, Arbie?’

Arbie looked at Val’s sparkling eyes and Amy’s unhappy ones and knew when it was time to resign himself to the inevitable. ‘We’ll see you later then, Miss Phelps,’ he said helplessly, ruminating morosely that his uncle would probably laugh himself sick when he had to confess to the old reprobate just what he’d let himself in for now.

When they returned to the salon, it was to find Reggie benevolently fending off the teasing barbs of Murray Phelps whilst petting an enormous and astonishingly beautiful cat which sat on the man’s lap. The fluffy cat, predominantly black with a few tiger-ish ginger stripes, raised enquiring turquoise eyes to watch them as they stepped in from the garden, and Arbie immediately went over to it.

‘What a beauty,’ he said admiringly, but without making any move yet to touch it. Although cats, dogs and horses (in fact, most animals) took to him on sight, he’d learned some of his lessons the hard way when it came to being overfamiliar with members of the animal kingdom. Ever since Mr Jupp’s donkey had taken a chunk out of him when he was still in short trousers, he maintained a healthy respect for their privacy. ‘Can I pet her? What’s her name?’

Reggie beamed. ‘Of course. Empress Maud adores adoration, don’t you, darling?’ he drawled at the cat, who proved her master true to his word by setting up a purr that almost vibrated the rafters as Arbie ran his hand along her luxuriant fur.

‘She’s taken to you! You don’t want a kitten or two by any chance, do you?’ Reggie asked eagerly.

Phyllis half-laughed and half-shook her head in warning. ‘Be careful what you say, Mr Swift. Reggie re-homes unwanted animals with a panache that can leave you reeling,’ she said, with obvious affection. ‘Why, I’ve seen him rehome copious amounts of white mice with the most timid of old ladies.’

‘Yes, just how many waifs, strays and lost causes does that little outfit of yours cater to now?’ Murray asked him with a laconic grimace.

‘Oh, hundreds I expect,’ Reggie said with a shrug and a smile. ‘I lose count. Of course, our volunteers in the village are simply marvellous – we wouldn’t be able to do it without them. Mrs Possett alone has been known to take ten kittens into her own home at a sitting, and eventually pass them on to friends and family. Then there are the youngsters – teenage girls simply adore looking after broken-down ponies and all our other equine casualties. It’s just as well they do – there’s no way I could afford to pay them anything. It’s as much as we can do to feed them all.’

‘Ah, but it’s such a good cause,’ Amy Phelps said, taking a seat and looking with benign bemusement at the antics of Empress Maud, who was now reaching out her chin so far in quest of Arbie’s tickling fingers that she looked in danger of tumbling off Reggie’s knees and onto the floor. ‘I got my dear Hamish from Reggie, remember? Alas, he’s no longer with us – but I did keep him until he was nearly eighteen.’

‘Ah yes, and a dear little chap he was too, Amy,’ Reggie said with a fond, reminiscent smile. ‘Which reminds me – I have another West Highland terrier just come in that needs a good home. Do you think …?’

Murray shook his head. ‘You’re shameless, Reggie old man.’

Reggie sighed theatrically. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

Everyone smiled, but Murray seemed to be in a bullish mood. ‘You know, instead of confining yourself to good works, with a bit of effort you could turn your little hobby into a viable business. Selling pedigrees and so on. Might help you out with keeping the tax man from your door. Who knows, you might even be able to stay on in the summer at your own place instead of leasing it out to those dreadful Norwegians, or Swedes, or whoever it is gullible enough to take on that crumbling hovel of yours. You’re going to have to keep the wolf from the door somehow. It’s not as if you have dear old Uncle Francis to help you out anymore,’ he added smoothly.

At this, there was a tense silence, and their hostess drew in a swift breath. She had gone a little red-faced, whilst Reggie had gone pale.

‘Leave him alone, Murray,’ Amy reprimanded. ‘You know all the best people nowadays have to tighten their belts and letting out their homes for the summer to discerning people is a respectable way of doing so,’ she said, deliberately ignoring his last words.

‘Speaking of unpleasant things,’ Amy said sharply, ‘I’ve had to ask Mrs Brockhurst to have a word with Doreen again.’ This had the effect of making Cora and Phyllis shoot quick, knowing glances at each other, whilst this time it was Murray Phelps’s turn to go slightly red-faced. ‘It’s simply not good enough. That’s twice now I’ve seen that young madam loitering about the vicinity when she knows she has no business here now.’

Arbie and Val, sensing the uncomfortable turn in the atmosphere, tactfully chose that moment to start making their farewells, and gave their promise to return later that night. At this, everyone in the room looked surprised, but Amy seemed disinclined to satisfy their curiosity, being in no mood to explain the situation.

Once outside in the lane, Arbie let out a long breath. ‘Phew. That was all a bit fraught, wasn’t it?’

‘It was a bit,’ Val agreed, stepping with Arbie to one side and onto the grass verge to let a horse and farm cart pass by. The horse, a big white mare, plodded on placidly, whilst the group of farm labourers, on their way to the fields, touched their caps and looked at Val with open enjoyment.

Val took no notice.

‘What was all that about this Doreen person, do you suppose?’ Arbie asked, once the road was clear and they set off again towards their respective houses. ‘I thought Murray Phelps looked like he’d swallowed a caterpillar at the very mention of her.’

‘Oh, you know Doreen Capstan. Her family live in one of the terrace cottages opposite Cooper’s yard,’ Val said brusquely.

Arbie nodded. He had a vague image of several Capstan youngsters running about the place – predominately red heads if his memory served him well.

‘Well, she used to work as a maid at the Old Forge, but left under something of a cloud, according to village gossip,’ Val swept on. ‘I thought everyone knew that.’

Arbie sighed. ‘It seems to me someone or other is always being picked apart by village gossip. It’d be nice if all the old moggies in this place minded their own business once in a while.’

Val didn’t disagree with him, but since the village thrived on drama, the likelihood of Arbie’s dream coming true was about as likely as she herself growing a pair of wings. ‘So what do you think has got Miss Phelps in such a tizz then? The old bean really is in a flap about something, though she’s determined not to let on of course. Too stiff upper lip for words, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is, and I’ve no more idea than you have. But I doubt it’s got anything to do with the family ghost,’ Arbie said dampeningly. ‘And I do wish you hadn’t let us in for this ghost-watch tonight, Val. I had to do enough of that last summer.’

‘But you need more material for the next book, don’t you?’ Val said bracingly, looking at him closely as he muttered something indistinct. ‘You are going to write another book, aren’t you?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Everyone’s expecting one. The whole village, all your many readers, not to mention your publisher.’

Arbie muttered again.

Val stopped and stared at him. ‘Arbie Swift, you can’t let that poor mope Walter Greenstreet down. Isn’t he supposed to be a pal of yours?’

Arbie nodded gloomily. ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘And didn’t he go out on a limb to help you get The Gentleman’s Guide published?’ Val continued. ‘And isn’t the family firm on at him to get you to sign another contract? You simply can’t let him down, you cad!’

‘What’s he been saying?’ Arbie cried, stung at the insult. ‘Don’t tell me the blighter has been crying on your shoulder, Val?’

‘What else can he do? He knows how lazy you are as well as I do,’ Val said with her usual lack of tact. ‘He has to do something to kick your lazy bones into action, and I promised to help him.’

‘Val!’ Arbie protested feebly at this rank treachery.

‘Well, he was really down in the dumps, poor old thing,’ Val muttered, feeling a little abashed now and not liking it at all. Trust Arbie to give her one of his ‘kicked puppy’ looks and make her feel all guilty! ‘Come on, Arbie, buck up do. You can’t laze around doing nothing all your life. I know you come into your parents’ money soon, and you’ve no need to do another day’s work and all that, but it’ll do you good to write another book.’

Arbie, who had been invited by an old school pal of his to do some fly-fishing in a very nice chalk stream on his estate next weekend, followed by a bit of boating on the Broads, courtesy of yet another acquaintance who was looking for someone to help him crew his large yacht, muttered something unintelligible. He’d been looking forward to lazing around on the water with no particular agenda, and bitterly resented being forced into a corner by his friends and neighbours.

Val simply glared at him. ‘I’ll see you tonight then,’ she said firmly. ‘What time do you start ghost-watches by the way?’ They had now turned into Church Lane, which housed only the church, vicarage and at the very end of the no-through lane, the Old Chapel itself. Beyond that, an old five-barred gate led onto the water meadow, currently being grazed by cattle, that dipped down to the river, where Uncle had had a jetty built. Nobody knew why – Uncle didn’t own so much as a canoe.

‘When it gets dark of course,’ Arbie answered her question sulkily.

‘Right-oh,’ Val said. ‘You’ll pick me up around ten then?’ And with that, she turned off into the vicarage, a pleased smile lighting her face.

It wasn’t until Arbie had almost reached the entrance to his own home that he realised the fact that she didn’t know when ghost-watches started proved that she’d never read a single line of his book!

Uncle was in the shed when Arbie passed and called out to him cheerfully. ‘Oi there, boy, just the one I want. Come here and stick your finger on this thingamabob, will you, while I crank it? Don’t fret, it won’t kill you.’ He offered this addendum automatically now, ever since an incident nearly eight years ago, whereby he’d inadvertently given Arbie an electric shock which had made his fingers go numb for nearly two hours.

With these typical and alarming words, Arbie reluctantly entered his uncle’s domain. The ‘shed’ was, in fact, a light stone outbuilding with tall windows, its own generator, cold running water and a reassuringly weather-proof tiled roof. In one area nearest the largest set of windows, a raised dais had been added and was set up as his uncle’s painting studio. But it was to the far long wall, where his nearest relative kept his workshop, that he was led.

Although Uncle had a given Christian name it had somehow become lost over the mists of time, and in the way that sometimes happened in villages, his identity had become subsumed, until he was known by one and all – and not only his legitimate nephew – simply by the sobriquet of ‘Uncle’.

In his early sixties, he was of average height, neither fat nor thin, with receding grey hair and grey eyes. He was usually to be found dressed in something reprehensible – either his painter’s smock, so stiff with oil paint it could probably stand up on its own – or oil-besmirched overalls the smell of which had been known to frighten the horses. Or worse yet – in some old Victorian relic of a black-tie-and-tails if he was forced to attend a theatre or dine out.

Today he was in the overalls and working on something that looked like a cross between a stationary engine and a knife-grinding machine. Arbie didn’t dare ask what this latest invention of his was, lest his guardian attempted to explain it. The properties of mechanics, in Arbie’s case, tended to flow in one ear and then pass straight out of the other without bothering to put his brain to any unwanted trouble. ‘Put your finger on this and don’t take it off until I say,’ Uncle muttered now, placing Arbie’s unwilling digit on a greasy lever.

Arbie sighed and stood there patiently, holding the lever firmly down, whilst his uncle tinkered for a bit, but Arbie’s general air of gloom didn’t go unnoticed for long.

‘So, what’s biting you then, boy?’ Uncle finally asked with a grin. ‘You’ve got a face like a wet weekend.’

‘Women,’ Arbie said truculently.

‘Ah. Say no more,’ Uncle said.

So Arbie didn’t.