Free Watching the Ghosts by Kate Ellis Page B

his night of fear; faulty plumbing maybe, or someone playing a practical joke. But as he watched the computer screen he experienced an unfamiliar feeling of dread.
    After a while he tapped his keyboard to bring up his list of email addresses. He’d been in touch with the clergyman who dealt with the diocese’s deliverance ministry several times before. Canon George Merryweather was a down-to-earth character. Self-effacing, balding and a little tubby, George seemed like some comfortable country doctor or solicitor rather than a seeker of ghosts. But even so, Karl felt slightly embarrassed about asking for his opinion.
    And yet he’d experienced something strange down there in that basement so he sent the email anyway. A chat would do no harm.

NINE
    E borby Rowing Club took their sport very seriously and the two boats were neck and neck as they sped along the glittering surface of the water, the coxes yelling their instructions to the sweaty rowers. The rowers were too preoccupied to notice the onlookers watching lazily from the banks where the Museum Park swept down to the water’s edge. Nor were they aware of the corpse caught up in the overhanging branches of a large willow tree until one of the rowers hit it with his oar, letting out a flow of expletives which were drowned out by the cox’s amplified orders.
    Soon the cox, realizing something was amiss, abandoned his megaphone and peered over the side.
    She was floating face down in the shallows, her naked flesh pale against the dark water and her hair spread out like dull gold snakes.
    And she was definitely dead.
    When Lydia arrived home she made herself a cup of tea, although she was longing for something stronger, and she stood staring out of the window as she sipped the hot liquid from her mug. She could see small white clouds scudding across the blue sky like boats on a river driven by invisible oarsmen, and the thick foliage of the surrounding trees shifted as the breeze disturbed the branches. She could see one corner of the graveyard from her window, the headstones standing at crazy angles, black like rotted teeth. Memorials to the dead; memorials to the mad . . . or the supposedly mad. The plan had been to remove the graves and rebury the occupants elsewhere but recently nothing had been said, probably because of the halt to the renovations. She’d heard that the developers had run out of funds, although she suspected that the existing residents would be the last to learn of any problems.
    Now she knew that the clock had actually come from Havenby Hall, that it had once stood ticking the hours away in the Medical Superintendent’s quarters, somehow it made everything worse. Judith Dodds’ father, a Dr Pennell, had lived and worked there tending to the physical sicknesses of the inmates, although Mrs Dodds had been keen to point out that he had nothing to do with their psychiatric treatment. But he’d been there and he must have sent some of the inmates on their final journeys to that neglected graveyard. At least now it seemed more likely that her nightmares weren’t the result of some suppressed childhood memory. This was a building she’d never have entered back then. Why would she?
    The sound of knocking on her front door made her jump, spilling a little of her tea on the wooden floor. The burglary and the discovery about the clock had taken their toll on her nerves. She put her mug down and hurried to the door
    She’d hardly had anything to do with Alan Proud, apart from the occasional nod of acknowledgement when they met in the corridor, but now he was towering over her, smiling a smile that made him look vaguely menacing.
    â€˜I thought I’d call to see how you were after . . .’
    â€˜I’m fine. Thank you.’ She prepared to shut the door.
    â€˜Would you like to come round for a coffee . . . or something?’ The suggestion in the words made her uncomfortable.
    â€˜Sorry. I’ve got