Chapter Seven

George, dressed as his character, Sir William Henderson, eased himself into a comfortable armchair opposite Hannah in the staff room.

“Ailsa’s in a foul mood,” he said, raising his coffee mug to his lips.

Hannah nodded. “One minute she’s angry, the next she seems in a world of her own. I think she’s really worried about Mairead. It’s been ten days now and the police have found no trace of her.”

“What about the voicemail?”

“Inconclusive apparently. Their money is on it being Mairead herself. They say it sounds as if she had put a scarf or something over the mouthpiece and faked an accent.”

“So they’re sure it’s a woman’s voice?”

“Not entirely. Their attitude now seems to be that if she wanted to disappear, that’s her prerogative. She’s an adult. No known history of mental illness. As to where she’s been living this past two years…the only address anyone, including her bank, has for her is the one Ailsa visited a few days ago.”

“I suppose in this day and age when everyone does everything online, an out of date street address is no biggy.”

“I suppose.…” Hannah sighed. “It’s so peculiar. I know we had a brief falling-out when I let Ailsa know we’d experienced something weird in the Close, but I’m sure we cleared that up.”

“You had a weird experience?”

She hadn’t meant to mention that to anyone. Her promise to Ailsa....

“Oh, it was nothing really. One of the visitors played a trick on us. Had me going for a minute, that’s all.”

Hannah hoped her casual tone would throw George off the scent. He frowned, seemed about to say something, then thought again and moved on.

“I hope we hear something soon,” he said. “About Mairead. If Ailsa bawls me out once more, I swear I’m jacking it in here.”

“Hang on in there, George. Sooner or later, Mairead will have to draw some money out of her account and then they’ll be able to trace her. Goodness alone knows what she’s been living on this past week or so anyway.”

“Maybe she has a savings account no one knows about?”

“Or maybe—” Hannah stopped short of voicing her ultimate fear. That if, and when, Mairead turned up, she wouldn’t be alive and kicking.

George glanced at his watch and stood. “Better get going before Ailsa gets on the warpath again. You coming?”

Hannah smoothed her dress down. “Let battle commence,” she said, smiling.

The afternoon’s tours went smoothly. One woman swore she could smell garlic around Miss Carmichael’s corner.

“She wasn’t a vampire, was she?”

Hannah restrained herself. “Not that we are aware of, madam.”

Others in her group tittered and giggled. The woman blushed and hung back when Hannah ushered the group on to the next point of interest.

At the end of that tour – the last of the day – Hannah said her goodbyes and accepted the thanks from another set of satisfied customers. The woman who had asked about the smell of garlic was the last. Her awkward expression reflected the embarrassment she must be feeling.

“I’m sorry to be such an idiot,” she said.

“That’s no problem at all. People have all sorts of strange experiences down there.”

“The thing is, I really did smell garlic. I didn’t mention the other smells. Like our herb garden…and the nasty stink of manure as well. The different smells kept wafting over me, but I could see I was the only one, so I shut up. The rest of the group already thought I was a nutter.”

“It’s a very atmospheric place.”

“No, it’s more than that…I felt something down there. Something so dark and rotten…as if someone had opened an old coffin. It smelled of…death.”

Hannah stared.

The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I must go. I’m not making any sense. Thank you. Please be careful.”

She had gone before Hannah could respond.

“Lock up for me, Hannah. Hannah.”

Hannah had been completely unaware of Ailsa approaching her. “Sorry?”

“I said, lock up for me, would you? I’ve got a stinking migraine and I need to get home while I can still see properly to drive.”

“Yes. Of course. No problem. Hope you feel better very soon.”

“I just need my bed.”

Hannah locked the shop door behind her boss and drew an unsteady breath. The last tour had finished early and the builders hadn’t yet arrived, so she was on her own. She opened the door to the Close and started her descent.

The lights were still on. Hannah reached the stony street and began her check of the doors and accessible buildings. Above her, the occasional car horn, the rumble of a particularly large vehicle, a distant police siren, fading as she moved further underground and away from the road above.

As always these days, she approached Murdoch Maclean’s shop with trepidation, then exhaled in relief as she saw everything in order and not a figure in sight. She was moving off when something caught her eye.

She stepped over the threshold and smelled the familiar odor of printing ink and musty paper. But something didn’t feel right. The pile of newspapers against the wall. They looked different somehow. Reordered. She went up to them and picked up the one on the top. The paper was fragile, brown with age. The front page was a mass of advertisements. Carefully, she turned the page. She gasped. A familiar face looked out at her from page two. Quickly, she read the caption underneath.

“An early photograph of Miss Carmichael, who was murdered yesterday on Henderson Close.”

But that’s impossible. It can’t be her.

Hannah closed the paper, folded it once and tucked it under her arm. She half ran round the rest of the site, tested doors, peering in every nook and cranny, finding nothing untoward.

Noisy male chatter came closer. The builders. A smell of cigarette smoke. “You shouldn’t be smoking down here,” she said, loud enough for them to hear. Nobody responded and the smell grew stronger.

She faced the floor-to-ceiling boards that now formed the barrier with Farquhars Close. Here the chatter and smell was at its strongest. “Did you hear me through there?” she called. “I said no one is allowed to smoke down here.”

Still no response. The chatter grew louder. Women’s voices mixed with the men’s. A horse neighed.

Don’t let this be happening.

In front of her, the boards seemed to pulsate, fade in and out. She caught glimpses of another street. Like Henderson Close but open to the sky. In a shop doorway, a shadow moved. It raised its right hand and beckoned to her. Instinctively she stepped back as it emerged from its shadowy doorway.

It was male, tall and thin. Impossibly thin. Skeletal even. But with sagging, dirty skin hanging off its sunken jowls. A filthy, black claw-like hand with yellowing talons beckoned to her. The creature’s eyes blazed. It opened its thin-lipped mouth and exposed long, tobacco-stained teeth. It laughed. Raucous. Its straggly, greasy hair hung limp below its shoulders. It spoke, but its voice was in her head.

“You have no business here.”

Hannah cried out, hitched up her skirt and ran back to the stairs, still clutching the newspaper. She didn’t look back. Maybe it was following her. Maybe not. No time to lose. She had to get out of there.

Back in the shop, panting and trembling, she dropped the keys twice before she could lock the door. She leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. Through the door she swore she heard that laugh.

The scrape of a key sent her reeling across the shop. The door opened and a figure appeared. He saw her. “You all right, lassie?”

Hannah wanted to hug him. It was one of the builders.

“I’m fine.” Her voice said otherwise.

“Didn’t mean to startle ye. Just checking if anyone was still here.”

“I’m OK, really. I wasn’t expecting anyone and it’s a bit spooky here when you’re on your own. I’ll go and get changed and then I’ll be off.”

“I’ll lock this door now.” He moved to go back down to the Close.

“Just one thing,” Hannah said. The builder turned back to her. “Did you see anyone else, or smell cigarette smoke down there?”

The builder looked confused. “No. Only my mates of course. We all arrived together.”

“And no one’s had a crafty cig down there?”

“No chance. Not on my watch. I don’t want to go up like a bonfire. There’ve been too many of those in Edinburgh as it is.” He smiled at her. “But you’re right. It is spooky down there. I thought I heard a horse whinnying once. My mate Pete swore he heard someone yelling. We reckoned it was just noise filtering down from the street above.”

“Yes, probably.”

* * *

The staff almost filled the small office as Ailsa stood in front of them.

“We’ve had a request from a group of paranormal investigators based in Leith. They want to do an all-night vigil.”

Groans echoed around the room. Ailsa raised her hand.

“All right, I know. It’ll be five or six hours of utter boredom and the need to keep a tight lid on your desire to giggle, but it brings in good money and gets us publicity we don’t have to pay for.”

Every nerve in Hannah’s body was twitching. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Ailsa?”

Her boss blinked and looked at her as if she had made an improper suggestion. “Why wouldn’t it be? Without these events, we wouldn’t have the money to keep developing the site. Those builders don’t work for free, you know.”

Hannah looked around at her fellow tour guides. They said nothing, but watched the exchange intently.

She couldn’t help it. She had to speak up. “I know, but some peculiar things have been happening down there lately. And then, Mairead’s disappearance—”

Ailsa seemed to grit her teeth. “I am well aware of the impact of Mairead’s disappearance, Hannah. I’m as worried about her as you are. More perhaps, because I’ve known her longer, but in light of the little we know now, I wonder if any of us ever knew her at all.”

Her voice sounded sharp and her words harsh. Hannah reached for her bag and pulled out the carefully folded newspaper she had retrieved from Maclean’s shop the previous day. She unfolded it and, as Ailsa and her colleagues watched, puzzled looks on their faces, Hannah laid the paper out on her boss’s desk. The team crowded around and peered at the faded print.

George spoke first. “My God, it’s the spitting image of her.”

“What do you mean ‘spitting image of her’?” Hannah demanded. “It is her.”

Ailsa huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. This newspaper is dated November 2nd, 1891. It can’t be her. Besides, look at the caption. It’s a photo of Miss Carmichael, taken a few years before she was murdered, by the looks of it.”

Hannah and the others stared at the impossible photograph. The clear eyes of Mairead Ferguson stared back.

The others muttered among themselves. Hannah got the distinct impression they were as skeptical as Ailsa. All except George. He tapped the picture. “Ailsa, don’t you think it’s remotely possible that there is something in all this? I know there have been all sorts of reports of sightings, people being touched and so on over the years, but the activity does seem to have escalated in recent weeks.”

Ailsa nodded and stared hard at Hannah. “I have noticed that there has been an increase since Hannah arrived and I wondered if she has an explanation for it.”

Now it was Hannah’s turn to stare. Anger brought an edge to her words. “If you’re implying I have had something to do with any of this, you’re wrong. I’ve experienced some unexplained events, not caused them.”

“Nevertheless, it is quite a coincidence, you have to admit,” Ailsa said.

“Mairead had experienced much the same kind of activity as I did. And that was before I came here.”

“If she did, she never reported it.”

“She probably knew this was the reaction she would get. She wouldn’t be believed and would be accused of making it all up.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Hannah.”

“Not much!”

The silence echoed around the room.

George coughed. “May I make a suggestion?”

Ailsa nodded, her lips in a tight white line.

“Let this paranormal group come and do their overnight vigil. Maybe they’ll tap into something. We need a couple of us to be with them. I’ll volunteer. How about you, Hannah?”

Hannah shot him a glance. An overnight séance down in Henderson Close was the furthest thing from what she wanted to do but she was aware all eyes were on her. She couldn’t back out now. Her mind screamed at her to say, “No.”

“OK,” she heard herself say. “I’m up for it.”

A slight smile twitched the corners of Ailsa’s lips. “Excellent. They’ll be arriving on Saturday night at around eleven thirty. I expect they’ll be well bladdered from an evening in the pub, but I understand they’re a pretty good-natured bunch. They’ll be bringing hand-held video cameras and the usual paranormal paraphernalia. I don’t think anyone else need volunteer. I’m sure Hannah and George are more than capable of handling them.” She treated the assembled staff to a broad smile that stopped short of Hannah.

From nowhere, a chill crept up Hannah’s spine. Why had she agreed? Every instinct told her it was the last thing she should have done, but she couldn’t back out now. All she could hope was that she didn’t live to regret it.

* * *

Freezing rain and a biting wind on Saturday had sent the temperature plummeting toward zero by nighttime. Glad that she had chosen to wear a warm, fleece-lined jacket, chunky scarf and thick woolen gloves, Hannah exhaled. Her breath billowed ghost-white. She switched on the shop lights and closed the door behind her. Footsteps approaching made her turn. George smiled at her from the shop doorway.

“Beat me to it, I see,” he said. “You’re keen.”

Hannah grimaced. “Not quite the word I would have chosen. Railroaded more like. I can’t help feeling this is a mistake. If we unleash something we can’t control.…”

“Let’s wait and see, OK? Now, how about a coffee before the hordes arrive?”

“Thanks, George. I had one before I came out but I think it’s worn off.” Hannah followed him into the staff room. Five minutes later, steaming mugs in hand, they returned to the shop to wait for the group.

“What time is it?” George asked.

Hannah peered at her watch. “Twenty past. They’ll be here anytime now.”

“Hope they’re not too wasted. We don’t want any of them falling down those bloody stairs.”

Hannah smiled. In the pit of her stomach, a snake of fear uncoiled itself and shifted. She fidgeted on her stool behind one of the two tills. Sitting a few feet away on the other one, George noticed.

“You really don’t want to do this, do you?”

“How did you guess?”

“You’ll be OK, honestly. I’ve done a couple of these before. They’re just a bit of good-natured fun. People scare themselves and each other. They usually manage to convince themselves they’ve heard something, or that something has touched them. They all have a jolly good time and then at six a.m., they go home completely knackered and ready for their beds. As we will be.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll see. I will be.”

So why did George look so apprehensive? Hannah shivered. “It’s certainly cold tonight.” She patted her hands together in their snug gloves. “I can hardly feel my feet.” The trainers she had selected were more for the practicalities of the uneven surfaces. Even with an extra thick pair of socks, her feet yearned for a long, hot soak. Her toes already throbbed painfully.

Excited chatter wafted in and then faces appeared at the window. Smiling, laughing, some slightly anxious and apprehensive. George opened the door, while Hannah stood to greet their guests.

“Hello, we’re the Phantoms.” A tall, well-built, twenty-something male with black hair and a sunny smile introduced himself. “I’m Rory. This is my girlfriend, Kate.” A shy, slightly younger girl stepped forward. “Then we have Andrea, Dave and Scott.” Each member of the group smiled and waved as they were introduced. A slight but identifiable aroma of beer danced around the group.

“I’m Hannah and this is George,” Hannah said. “We’ll take you down and let you get set up.”

George unlocked the entrance door to the Close. “Now if you all follow Hannah, I’ll lock up the shop and turn off the lights again. Hope you’ve all brought warm blankets. It’s freezing just now.”

From what Hannah could see, they all seemed well-prepared. Each group member had a rucksack, apparently filled to bursting with everything they needed. Rory carried a camera tripod and Dave had a small collapsible card table under his arm. “For the séance,” he explained to Hannah.

“I guessed,” she said, smiling outwardly while the snake of fear reared its head, ready to strike.

“I think Murdoch Maclean’s printer’s shop would be a good place to start,” George said, as they approached it. “There’s room enough for you to set up that table and we can all squeeze in there. It’s also been the site of some reported anomalies, hasn’t it, Hannah?”

Hannah threw him a look, but retained her composure. “It certainly has,” she said.

“Such as?” Rory asked.

“I’d rather not go into detail yet,” Hannah said. “Let’s wait and see if anything happens tonight.”

“Have any of you been on the tour here?” George asked.

Four hands went up. Kate piped up. “Something stroked my arm,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

George smiled. “Probably a spider. It’s a wee bit dusty down here.”

“Oh no. It wasn’t a spider. Definitely not. I felt the fingers. On my bare arm.”

“Creepy,” Andrea said.

Rory put his free arm around his girlfriend. “That’s why we’re here really,” he said. “I was with Kate when it happened. She nearly fainted.”

I don’t doubt that, Hannah thought, then chided herself for being uncharitable.

The group all seemed to know their roles in setting things up. Hannah and George waited on the sidelines and watched them, setting up the table, mounting the camera on its tripod.

Rory spoke up. “I usually get some shots of the place, using night vision, but when it comes to the séance itself, I’ll walk around with the camera and try and capture any table turning or whatever may occur. If we’re lucky we may capture some orbs, or even a mist.”

“I think it’s quite likely you’ll see a bit of mist tonight,” George said.

“Really? How do you know?”

George exhaled deeply. A cloud of breath drifted away from him.

“Oh. I see. Of course. Obviously. Good one, George. You had me going there for a second.”

George grinned. “All part of my job.”

“Right, everyone,” Andrea said, “if you’d like to gather round. To begin with, George – if you wouldn’t mind joining us – you, Kate, Dave and myself will sit at the table. Rory’s on camera as usual. Scott, you take notes and Hannah? Could you observe please? Remember—”

A general chorus. “No one moves the planchette.”

She smiled. “That’s right. If nothing happens, nothing happens. We need to be sure what we experience is the real deal.”

Hannah stood behind Andrea as the four seated at the table placed their right forefingers lightly on the planchette in the center of the Ouija board.

Rory moved slowly and quietly around, his camera running. When Andrea began to speak, he stopped and focused on the board.

“If there are any spirits here tonight, we welcome you. We come in peace and wish you no harm. Is there anyone there who would like to talk to us?”

Silence. The planchette didn’t move.

Andrea tried again. “We’ll introduce ourselves. My name’s Andrea.”

“I’m George.”

“My name’s Dave.”

“I’m Kate. Oh.” She gave a slight start. “Did you feel that? It moved. I swear it moved.”

“I felt a sort of trembling,” George said.

“So did I,” Andrea said.

“Me too.” Dave.

“It didn’t register here,” Rory said. “Maybe when we look at the film later, we’ll see a little movement.”

Andrea took a deep, audible breath. “Is there anyone there who wishes to talk to one of us?”

Nothing happened. Seconds ticked away. Only the sounds of nervous breathing punctuated the stillness.

Until Kate screamed.

“Something touched me. It did. I swear. It touched my arm.”

“OK, Kate, calm down,” Rory said. “I didn’t get anything on camera.”

“I felt it. Only for a second but…oh my God.” She pointed behind Hannah. Everyone turned.

“I’ve got it,” Rory said. “Bloody hell, I’ve really got something.”

At the entrance to the shop, a mist swirled and weaved around itself, as if it were trying to form into something solid. A shape. Human, maybe.

“What are you seeing with the camera?” Dave asked. “Are you getting any more detail?”

Rory peered hard, looked away, blinked and peered again. “It’s a child. A young girl. There’s something…not right. Oh fuck.” He lowered the camera.

“Don’t do that,” Kate yelled. “You’ll lose the footage. This is the first time—”

“She has no face, Kate.”

“What?”

“The little girl in the mist. She has no face.”

The mist dissolved instantly as if it had never been there.

No one spoke. Each of those seated around the table still had one finger on the planchette.

It quivered. A general gasp echoed around the room.

“It’s trying to move,” Kate whispered.

Apprehension tightened Hannah’s throat. The planchette began to move uncertainly, dragging across the board randomly as if trying to orient itself with the letters and characters. It stopped. Hannah held her breath.

Kate coughed. Rory spoke. “Do you wish to speak to someone in this room?”

The planchette started to move again, slowly, uncertainly at first but gaining momentum, until it shot across the board to ‘Yes’.

“OK,” Andrea exhaled. “We’ve made contact. Please could you tell us who you wish to speak to? Is it me, Andrea?”

The planchette immediately shot across to the opposite side of the board. ‘No’.

“Is it Dave?” Again, ‘No’.

“George?”

The planchette shot across the board, almost tearing itself out of Andrea’s reach. Twice more it landed on ‘No’.

“So it’s someone in the room but not at the table.”

The planchette didn’t wait to be asked. It shot across to ‘Yes’, and immediately began to spell out a word.

“Scott, are you getting this down?”

The blond-haired man with a shorthand notepad was scribbling down letters. “Yes. H, then A. N. N. A. H.” The planchette came to rest.

“OK, Hannah, would you join us at the table, please? Kate, please would you step out and observe?”

Kate nodded and bolted out of her chair, clearly relieved to be out of the action.

Hannah’s fear clenched her muscles, tightened her jaw and drained her saliva. She took Kate’s seat and placed her gloved finger lightly on the glass.

“Right,” Andrea said. “Introduce yourself, Hannah, and we’ll see what the spirit wants to talk to you about.”

Hannah tried to moisten her dry lips. Her words didn’t sound like her. Her voice wavered and she cleared her throat. “My name is…I’m Hannah. You have something to…to…say to me?”

The planchette circled around the board, until it came to rest on ‘Yes’.

Andrea nodded at Hannah, urging her on.

“What do you want to say?”

The planchette threw itself off the board. It sailed past Hannah’s left shoulder and suddenly she was somewhere else.

The noise and clamor were almost deafening. Horses, carts, costermongers shouting out their wares. Drunken men singing outside a crowded pub. Inside, someone was attempting to play an out-of-tune piano. Badly.

Hannah looked around. She was standing outside Murdoch Maclean’s printing shop and, as she glanced down at her twenty-first-century clothes, she understood why she was drawing some unwanted, curious attention.

Behind her, Murdoch Maclean spoke. “Ye’d better come in, lassie. That’s if ye dinnae want tae get yersel’ mugged.”

Hannah caught the eye of a man of indeterminate age, face blackened with grime, leaning against a railing across the street. His trousers were tied at the waist with a piece of filthy twine and were more rags than whole. He leered at her, showing blackened teeth. Hannah hastily retreated into the shop and banged the door shut.

“Dinnae do that. Ye’ll have me hinges off.”

“Sorry.”

“Now what can I dae for ye?”

How could she answer that? Ask him to point her in the direction of the twenty-first century?

“I seem to be a bit lost.”

Murdoch Maclean tossed back his hair and laughed. He wiped his ink-stained hands on his apron. “Ye can say that agin, lassie. In those clothes, ye certainly dinnae belong here. Where are ye frae?”

Might as well tell a little white lie. Being a Scot he probably hated the English anyway. “I’m from Wiltshire. England.”

“Aye. English. I guessed as much. The accent. So what’s a Sassenach lassie doing in the erse-end of Auld Reekie?”

“Erse-end?”

The printer tapped his backside.

“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t the faintest idea?”

Murdoch Maclean carried on wiping his hands and his eyes never left hers. Finally, he reached for a clay pipe and tobacco pouch. “Aye, lass, I would. I dinnae ken where ye come frae, but I do ken ye were in my shop not two weeks back. Dressed like ma auld granny.” He looked Hannah up and down. “Now I dinnae what to make of ye.”

“You remember me being here? I almost believed I’d dreamed it.”

“No, lass, ye were here awreet. Now, where was it ye wanted to go? Maybe I can tell ye how to get there.”

Hannah wished she could tell him. She wanted to be where she was, but apparently more than a hundred years into the future.

“I’m sorry…I.…” The room darkened, as if a total eclipse had blocked out the sun. The cacophony of street noise grew muffled and faded as rapidly as the daylight.

“Hannah. Hannah.”

She realized her eyes were tightly closed and opened them. A sea of concerned faces studied her closely.

“Where were you?” Rory asked.

“You mean I wasn’t here?”

“You were physically here, but as for where your mind was.…” He shook his head.

“Why? What happened? What did I do?”

George touched her hand. “You were talking to someone. You seemed to be answering questions. Something about being lost, not having the faintest idea about something and believing you’d dreamed it – whatever it is.”

“But I was here all the time?”

“Of course,” Dave said. “We’ve all been sitting or standing around this table for the past twenty minutes. It’s been fascinating listening to you. Best trance I’ve ever seen.”

“Trance?”

“Something like it,” Andrea said. She indicated the planchette, which had been replaced to its central position on the board. “Now let’s try again. Hannah, ask it what it wants to say to you.”

Hannah pushed her chair away and stood. “No, I’m sorry. I really can’t. I’ll stay and watch, but I’m not going to participate anymore tonight. Not after.…”

Andrea frowned. She looked as if she was about to reprimand Hannah but thought better of it. “OK. Let’s see if anyone else wants to talk to us tonight. Kate, come and sit back down.” She did so, hesitantly, and the four who were now seated placed their forefingers on the planchette. Andrea called out.

“We welcome any spirits who are with us here tonight. Is there anyone who wants to talk to one of us?”

Slowly the planchette began to move. Scott had his pen ready and started to write as it quickly made its way around the board, stopping at letter after letter, until it finally came to rest.

Andrea cleared her throat. “What have we got, Scott?”

“Just deciphering it now. Got it. It says, ‘Tell Hannah to come and find me.’”

“Find who?” Hannah said. “Mairead?”

The planchette stirred and moved again. More rapidly this time. Scott seemed to struggle to keep up. Once again, it stopped.

“Did you get that?” Andrea asked.

“Think so. OK, it says, ‘In the graveyard. By my plaque. Come tonight.’”

“What?” Hannah’s heart was racing.

“Do you know who this is, Hannah?” Rory asked.

“I think she does,” George said. “I think we both do. It isn’t Mairead, is it, Hannah?”

Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“OK, you probably don’t know. Maybe some of you do. Anyone here familiar with Greyfriars Kirkyard?”

A few murmurs and nods.

“Well, you’ll all be aware of the ghost of old George Mackenzie, who persecuted the Covenanters when he was alive and takes great delight in frightening unsuspecting tourists now he’s dead?”

A little nervous laughter this time.

“What you probably don’t know is that not too far from the prison where he incarcerated all those people is a plaque on a wall. All it says is ‘Miss Carmichael’. No dates. No first name and no one knows who commissioned it, or what their connection might have been to the lady of that name.”

“Is that the same Miss Carmichael who was murdered here?” Rory asked.

“It’s generally assumed so, although no one can actually say for certain.”

“And you think Miss Carmichael has been in touch with us tonight,” Hannah said. “And that she wants me to go to her plaque tonight?”

The group exchanged glances with each other, as George nodded.

“You’re not going on your own though,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

The planchette shot out from under their fingers and landed on ‘No’. Then it moved again.

“Alone,” Scott said. “It wants you to come alone.”

“No chance!” Hannah stared at the now-still planchette. “I never believed in those things before. I always thought people used magnets or something to make them fly across the table.”

Andrea’s voice was harsh. Indignant. “I can assure you no one interfered with that planchette. I don’t ever remember it doing that before.”

The others murmured their agreement.

“And what about that mist?” Andrea was in full flow now. “And the child with no face Rory caught on camera?”

“I’m the resident skeptic in this group,” Dave said. “If that was a special effect, hats off to you guys. It’s the best I’ve ever seen. Most convincing.”

“I can assure you that was nothing to do with us,” George said. “We don’t do that kind of special effect.”

“It was real,” Kate said. “Why do you find it so hard to accept, Dave?”

“After tonight, I doubt that I shall. It’s the first time I can honestly say I’ve been scared, and I’ve lost count of how many vigils I’ve been on.”

“I’m sorry, Andrea, I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Hannah said. “I’m still trying to rationalize what’s going on here.”

George stood up. “I think we should stop this. Now. This has moved on from being a harmless bit of fun into something none of us understands. I’m sorry but as the most senior member of staff here, I’m taking the decision to end this séance right now. Maybe another night and without Hannah present.”

“Then nothing will happen,” Dave said. “It doesn’t usually. This is the best manifestation I can ever remember. That mist. The child with no face.…”

“I’m not risking Hannah’s welfare.”

“And what about the graveyard?” Rory asked. “Are you going there tonight?”

Was she? A part of Hannah desperately wanted to go – but alone? Surely that was asking for trouble. She knew none of these people, except George, and she didn’t know him particularly well. What if someone here had an ulterior motive for getting her alone in a deserted graveyard in the dead of night? No, it was far too risky.

She shook her head. “Not tonight. And certainly not alone.”

“Wise decision,” George said. “Now folks, if you don’t mind, I think we’d better call it a night. We’ll refund your money. I’ll talk to Ailsa tomorrow.”

The group muttered and took their time packing up their equipment.

* * *

George walked Hannah home through the deserted streets. A chill wind whipped up Hannah’s hair and her cheeks and nose tingled. Occasional icy raindrops splattered onto her coat and face.

“Dreich tonight, isn’t it?” George said.

“Dreich? Oh yes. Very wet and cold. I hate this time of the year. Everything is so grey and dead.”

Their footsteps echoed on the silent street.

“Do you want to go to the graveyard?” George asked.

Hannah thought again before speaking. “On a fine night maybe. Daytime would be better though.” She stopped. A strand of hair blew into her mouth and she brushed it away. “Has anything like this ever happened to you before, George?”

He faced her and laughed. “Not as such. But since I’ve been working at Henderson Close, I’ve become used to odd things happening. People tell me strange tales. One visitor swore he was possessed by the spirit of Miss Carmichael for about thirty seconds. He said she showed him who her murderer was. The one they never caught. I asked him who it was and he said she had left his body before revealing his identity. I could have simply dismissed the man’s story, but he was white-faced, shaking, and swore he wasn’t making it up. His wife assured us all that he wasn’t given to flights of fancy. Rather the reverse. He was a total skeptic about ghosts and such things. That was a couple of years ago and I’m still not sure whether he was telling the truth, having a hallucination or it really did happen to him. These days I keep an open mind. I find it’s the best way. But if you want to go, and you’re going at night, promise me you’ll let me know. You’ve got my number, text me or give me a call.”

“Thanks, George. I will.” They carried on a few more yards. “This is me.”

He nodded at the café. “Handy if you want a coffee.”

“I could murder one. But they’re closed. I’ll have to make do with instant, at home.”

“I’d invite myself in to join you, but it’s late. Not as late as it would have been if that séance hadn’t imploded, but I’m away to my bed now.”

“Thanks for shutting it down tonight. It was getting a bit too intense. I’m still not sure what really happened.”

“Beyond going back in time to visit the real Murdoch Maclean.”

Hannah smiled. “Who knows?”

“’Night, Hannah.”

“’Night, George.”

Hannah unlocked her door, ran up the stairs to her apartment and felt grateful for the warmth of the central heating that greeted her at her door. No smell of lavender tonight and she found she missed it in an odd sort of way.

She undressed and put on pajamas and a warm fleecy dressing gown before making herself a comforting mug of hot chocolate. She would be warm and snug on the sofa. She curled up on it, her feet cozy in her sheepskin-lined slippers.

Picking up the remote, she turned on the TV, and rapidly became increasingly irritated by the trashy shopping channels and endless re-runs of ancient programs best forgotten. Late night viewers and chronic insomniacs had little to cheer them from the hundreds of channels available.

She switched off, closed her eyes and sipped her delicious chocolate. Her tension released and her mind wandered back a few years. Like a series of snapshots, she remembered her wedding day. So young and pretty in her long white dress and veil.

Their reception. Her father had always been a traditionalist. He slipped her hand into Roger’s at the altar, a tear in his eye. Her mother had wept copious tears ‘of joy’ she insisted, while drenching a pretty, but useless, lace handkerchief. Roger’s best man gave a funny speech. In her mind’s eye, Hannah could see him now, standing, smart in his grey suit, telling outrageous stories of his and Roger’s exploits when they were teenagers backpacking in Europe. Hannah couldn’t remember his name. Strange how daft things like that simply wiped themselves from your memory when they were no longer needed.

The years flashed by in her memory. Jenna’s birth. The smell of her as she lay, all pink and chubby-cheeked in a soft blanket. Tiny fists pumped the air, commanding the attention of anyone within sight or sound of her. Her legs kicked and bucked like an excited kitten.

Her baptism. The poor young vicar almost dropped her in the font when she suddenly let out a plaintive wail he hadn’t expected at that moment. Maybe she had already decided her stance on religion even at that early age. She certainly hadn’t shown any inclination to attend since.

Jenna growing up. Her early love of reading put her well ahead of the rest of her class when she began school. Between games and books, Jenna had not been a difficult child to please. Only if the weather turned nasty in the summer holidays and she had run out of reading material. Then she would be under everyone’s feet until a trip to the local library was forthcoming or the sun came out.

Hannah sipped her hot chocolate and allowed her mind to drift further. She and Roger had done better than many and enjoyed fifteen or more years of a mostly happy marriage before things started to go wrong. She never saw it coming although she probably should have done. But she had been too wrapped up in her own career and Jenna.

Roger seemed self-sufficient. Absorbed in his own career, which started to go from strength to strength right at the time Jenna was studying for GCSEs. He was promoted and began to work later at night. Sometimes his job would take him to London and he would stop over there for a night or two. Jenna achieved eight good GCSEs, followed by a clutch of A Levels and a degree in English. Then followed training as a teacher, and her unexpected decision to emigrate to Australia.

“I’ve landed this amazing job in a school in Brisbane, Mum. You’ll be able to come and visit and I can come back over here for holidays. Please be happy for me. It’s the sort of opportunity I’d probably never get in this country.”

Hannah refused to be one of those clingy, whining mothers – she had seen enough of that already – so didn’t question why her daughter could only apparently get a decent teaching post thousands of miles away from home. Instead, she stiffened her backbone and plastered a beaming smile across her face. Jenna went off happy, excited at her new life. Hannah dried her tears. At least she still had Roger. And her career. She too had achieved promotion and the pressures of teaching and an increasingly heavy workload of administration kept her occupied day and night.

Looking back now, she couldn’t understand how she could have missed all the obvious signals. With Jenna gone, enjoying her new life, she and Roger had nothing left in common. They were two individuals sharing a house. Sharing a bed they never even cuddled in anymore. Going through the motions of a marriage that, in truth, had been dead for years.

Then it changed. At first, she enjoyed the flowers, the unexpected bottles of champagne. In all their years of marriage, he had never been one to shower her with gifts. Always something nice at birthdays and Christmas and he never forgot an anniversary, but spontaneous bunches of flowers? Never. Now, whenever he came back from a trip away for more than a day or two, he would arrive back home and shower her with gifts. Hannah would be amazed and thank him. She told colleagues at work. She saw them exchange glances and she knew what they were thinking. But she knew better. Not her Roger. He would never betray her.

“I want to show my appreciation for everything you do for me,” he would say, always managing to just avoid her eyes. “You’ve always supported me. Financially in the early days.”

That was true. He had been a struggling accounts assistant, studying for his full accountancy qualifications while working at a low-paid, monotonous job. She, on the other hand, had taught Drama in a large Comprehensive School. His career had blossomed, as had hers.

Then she achieved a further promotion. She became Head of Drama. No sooner had they celebrated that, than Roger decided the time was right to give her some news of his own. But instead of telling her, he left her a note. She read it and re-read it countless times and could still remember every word even though she had long consigned it to the flames of the wood-burning stove in her former home.

Dear Hannah, I know this will come as a shock to you, but it really is the best way. I’m sure you know things haven’t been right between us for a long time now. Ten years or more maybe. I stayed because of Jenna. I didn’t want anything to disrupt her education. But now she is off our hands and happy in her new career – and you have your exciting new role to occupy you – the time has come for me to admit what has been in my heart for so long. I met Liz at the London office about eight years ago. She’s an accountant too and we hit it off immediately. We’ve been together ever since and now we feel is the right time to put things on a proper course. I’ve picked up my things today while you were at work and I’m moving in with her in London. My solicitor will be in touch about all the legal stuff. Sorry about the letter, but I thought it was best this way. It must be a huge shock for you and this way we can avoid a scene and maintain our dignity. Thank you for everything. I wish you all the very best for the future. Roger.

And that was it. All she got for twenty-five years of marriage. Oh, and the house if she wanted to buy him out. She didn’t. The house was duly sold and she moved into a rented flat. When the school had to make cuts, the Drama department was the first to go – officially merged with English. ‘Efficiencies’ they called the savage reductions in both staff and resources. According to the last Ofsted report, those so-called ‘efficiencies’ had left the school under-resourced and understaffed to the point where it was now in ‘special measures’. Hannah gave a light laugh at the irony.

She put down her empty mug and wandered over to the window. Drawing back the curtains, she peered out over the glistening street. The rain twinkled in the streetlights. A steady, heavy drizzle. Down below, a lone figure stopped to look up at her.

Hannah gasped. The figure beckoned to her.

In one sweep, she closed the curtains and turned her back on the window. It couldn’t be her. Miss Carmichael. But as the light had caught her and illuminated her face, Mairead Ferguson’s eyes had met Hannah’s. Mairead…but not Mairead. A dead woman who looked the image of her.

Hannah knew what she had to do. Tomorrow night she would go to the graveyard.