Haunted by the Past Read online

  Table of Contents

  ChaPter One

  ChaPter TWO

  ChaPter THrEE

  ChaPter Four

  ChaPter FiVE

  ChaPter Six

  ChaPter Seven

  ChaPter EigHt

  ChaPter Nine

  Haunted

  By the Past

  SIMON R. GREEN

  Baen

  Haunted By the Past

  SIMON R. GREEN

  NEW ISHMAEL JONES NOVEL FROM NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING URBAN FANTASY NOVELIST SIMON R. GREEN. SUPERNATURAL DETECTIVE ISHMAEL JONES IS BACK IN THIS LATEST INSTALLMENT OF GREEN'S POPULAR SERIES.

  Ishmael Jones knows all there is to know about solving mysteries. Together with his love and partner in crimes, Penny Belcourt, he specializes in cases of the weird and uncanny.

  Lucas Carr went to Glenbury Hall, an old country manor house turned hotel. He signed in at reception, took his key, and went upstairs to his room. But he never got there. Somehow he vanished along the way, with not a single clue to suggest what might have happened to him.

  Lucas belonged to the same mysterious organization that employs Ishmael and Penny, so they are sent in to solve the mystery. But when they arrive at grim and isolated Glenbury Hall, they discover it has a reputation as one of the most haunted old houses in England. None of the usual headless monks or walled-up nuns—just stories of lost souls that dance with the statues in the grounds; doors that won’t stay shut, and rooms that aren’t always there; and something that prowls the house in the early hours, endlessly searching. They say . . . it crawls.

  Does Lucas’ disappearance have something to do with the organization or the Hall’s haunted past? Ishmael and Penny have to work their way through a series of mysterious clues and misleading suspects, uncovering secret after secret, before they finally arrive at a truth that no-one suspected.

  BAEN BOOKS

  by SIMON R. GREEN

  ishmael jones mysteries

  The Dark Side of the Road

  Haunted by the Past

  Dead Man Walking (forthcoming)

  Jekyll & Hyde Inc.

  For Love of Magic (forthcoming)

  Haunted

  By the Past

  SIMON R. GREEN

  Haunted by the Past

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed

  in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

  is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Simon R. Green

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-9821-9228-0

  EISBN: 978-1-62579-884-8

  Cover art by Kurt Miller

  First printing, December 2022

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Green, Simon R., 1955- author.

  Title: Haunted by the past / Simon R. Green.

  Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen Books, [2022] | Series: An Ishmael Jones

  mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022035881 | ISBN 9781982192280 (hardcover) | ISBN

  9781625798848 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR6107.R44 H38 2022 | DDC 823/.92--dc23/eng/20220728

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022035881

  Printed in the United States of America

  Electronic version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

  In nineteen sixty-three, a star fell from the heavens and landed in an English field. Or, to be more precise, an alien starship came howling down from the outer dark with its superstructure on fire, and crashed outside a small country town. The ship hit hard, and all of its crew but one died. This sole survivor was rewritten by the ship’s transformation machines, changing its shape right down to the DNA so it could pass as human until help came. But the transformation machines were damaged in the crash, and they wiped away all memories of who and what I used to be, before I was human.

  I might have thought it was all just a dream or a delusion, if it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t aged a day since nineteen sixty-three.

  The night sky is an ocean full of ships, sailing forever unseen and unsuspected by all the people down below, walking the Earth with their heads bent, intent only on the world before them. They don’t know they share their world with monsters and angels, the unfamiliar and the uncanny, and all the dark wonders that lurk in the background of everybody’s lives. They have no idea of how large this world really is, and how many weird menaces watch hungrily from the shadows of the hidden world.

  That’s why the world needs someone like me, the monster who hunts monsters. The alien who learnt to be human and found he loved it. I stand between Humanity and all who would prey on them, and if I do my job right, no one knows I was ever there.

  I have spent most of my life working for secret underground groups, because only they possess the necessary resources to hide me from an increasingly suspicious and surveillance-heavy world. These days I work for the Organisation, a group so mysterious that even I’m not entirely sure who they are. But they respect my secrets and allow me to do good work, so we get along. Together with my partner in crimes, my true love Penny Belcourt, I investigate mysteries and check out the stranger corners of the world.

  Because sometimes it takes a real outsider, to see what’s really going on.

  The problem with history is that it’s not always content to stay in the past. The sins of yesterday have a way of sneaking up on people and ambushing them in the present. Murder, in particular, always has its roots in the past.

  ChaPter One

  No One Goes TheRe

  All old country taverns have one thing in common: they don’t give a damn what outsiders think about them. Inns that have served generations of local people happily embrace traditions that go back centuries, even if some of them are frowned upon in these more civilised times. They still cling to the old ways, that have sustained them through any number of modern fads and fancies.

  All old country taverns have their roots in the past, and so do the people who drink in them.

  Penny Belcourt’s latest acquisition, a vintage car possessed of more style than comfort, carried us deep into the ancient green dream of the English countryside. Trees and fields flew past in a pleasant blur, as we followed the long winding roads and the polite but firm instructions from the sat nav. Eventually we arrived at a quiet little drinking hole, The Smugglers Retreat, on the outskirts of a town called, for reasons best known to itself, Under Farthing.

  The tavern actually stood some distance outside the town, perhaps so its patrons could relax and be themselves, and not who their families and relations thought they should be. The small sturdy building was half hidden in a copse of tall leafy trees, and I only spotted the stone-walled car park at the last moment. I stabbed a finger at the narrow opening, and Penny spun the steering wheel with hearty bravado, sending the car flying through the gateway with barely an inch to spare on either side. We screeched to a halt in a spray of gravel, and Penny shut down the engine with a flourish. It was suddenly very quiet, and very peaceful, and I unclenched my hands from the seatbelt as though I hadn’t been worried at all.

  The Smugglers Retreat was a slumping stone-wall
ed structure with tiny windows and a grey-slate roof, the kind of tavern that has been around for centuries and has no intention of going anywhere. No obvious frills or fancies, just a home away from home where local people could go to get some serious drinking done, and complain about the kind of things local people have always complained about. The hanging sign over the front door showed a stylised skeleton with glowing eyes, astride a rearing black horse.

  “Not exactly a welcoming image,” said Penny. “Nothing to say Here is rest and comfort to the passing traveller.”

  I considered the image carefully. “A skeleton on a black horse could represent all kinds of perfectly innocent rustic interests.”

  Penny looked at me. “Name three.”

  “Could be a famous local haunting,” I said. “A well-loved folk song...Or a call to all those interested in a little quiet devil worship.”

  “You’ve been reading Dennis Wheatley again,” said Penny.

  “You can learn a lot from the classics,” I said.

  “Even so,” said Penny. “All the images they could have chosen, and they went with that one?”

  “It must mean something to the locals,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Penny.

  We looked around the car park, taking our time. A dozen assorted vehicles stood scattered across the open space, sprayed with mud and other suspiciously organic country substances. They all looked shabby, well used, and very much the poor relation compared to the gleaming vintage car that had arrived among them like a cuckoo in the nest. I have spent most of my life carefully not standing out or doing anything to make an impression, but I knew better than to say anything. Penny was a deeply practical person, except when it came to her beloved cars. I gave the tavern my full attention, and the tiny windows stared back at me like so many suspicious eyes.

  “Smugglers Retreat,” I said thoughtfully. “Shouldn’t that have an apostrophe?”

  “You ask them,” said Penny. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Maybe they couldn’t afford one,” I said.

  “I could use a drink,” Penny said firmly. “In fact, I could use several drinks and a large drink chaser. Every time we get called in to investigate a mystery in the countryside, I just know things are going to take a turn for the worst. Because the evils in this part of the world have had so much more time to sink in and marinate.”

  I had to smile. “I thought I was the paranoid one.”

  Penny sniffed loudly. “If I see anything that even looks like a wicker man, I am throwing you to the locals and accelerating for the horizon.”

  “Let’s check out the inn,” I said. “And see if we can work out what it is we’re here for.”

  We weaved our way between the parked cars, our feet crunching loudly on the gravel. Birds sang cheerfully in the surrounding trees, and there was a low hum from insects too lazy to bother us. It all seemed very calm and peaceful. The sky was a deep and vivid blue, untroubled by clouds, and the sun smiled warmly on the late afternoon. Penny pushed back her broad-brimmed black hat so she could look up.

  “How can men do evil under such a beautiful sky?”

  Penny Belcourt had sharp striking features under a mass of piled-up night-dark hair, a trim figure, and enough nervous energy to run a small factory. She was wearing one of her favourite outfits: a dress of black and white squares, with knee-high white leather boots. Penny always liked to maintain a glamourous presence, because it helped to distract people from the fact that she had a first-class mind.

  I have always preferred anonymous clothes that allow me to pass as just another face in the crowd. I can’t afford to stand out and be noticed. I have walked the Earth long enough to know how people treat things that aren’t people. I have no intention of ending up locked in a cage or strapped to a dissection table.

  The moment Penny and I walked into the gloomy interior of The Smugglers Retreat all conversation broke off abruptly, as the regulars stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at us. And yet there was none of the usual distrust of strangers, no signs of anger at being disturbed. Instead, they looked more like actors in a play surprised to discover that unfamiliar faces have joined them on stage. It felt as though we had interrupted something that the locals had no intention of discussing in front of strangers.

  Penny smiled around the room, and I nodded easily, just to make it clear we weren’t in any way intimidated. I could feel the weight of the patrons’ massed gaze as I led the way through the crowded tables to the long wooden bar at the rear of the inn, with its impressive choice of real ales. All of which I was determined not to try. There’s usually a good reason why ales with names like Lucifer’s Old Peculiar and Rutting Weasel Delight don’t travel.

  The barman was the size of a bear, in an outfit so determinedly rustic you could have hired it at a costume shop. He had a round red face, and deceptively sleepy eyes that I just knew didn’t miss a thing. He put down the pint glass he’d been polishing, flipped the cloth over his shoulder with a practiced snap, and treated Penny and me to his best professional smile.

  “Welcome to The Smugglers Retreat, sir and madam! Always good to see new faces.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I said, nodding at the regulars sitting stiff and silent in their chairs.

  “Oh, you mustn’t mind them, sir,” said the barman. “It’s just their way. Now, what can I get you?”

  I ordered a brandy, and a g&t for Penny, and the barman quickly went to work. A low murmur of conversation started up again, as the regulars got used to the idea that we were staying. But they all made a point of keeping their heads down, and not looking in our direction. I was half expecting the barman to point out some garlic hanging next to a wall of crucifixes and warn us not to go anywhere near Count Dracula’s castle. He set our drinks down before us, and I handed him the exact change.

  I never use plastic. It leaves a trail.

  “The sign outside made a bit of an impression,” I said. “Why does a place called The Smugglers Retreat have a painting of Death riding a dark horse?”

  “No great mystery there, sir,” said the barman. “This used to be prime smuggling territory, back in the day, and the local gangs would dress up as spooks and skeletons to scare people away. So they wouldn’t see things they weren’t supposed to. Might I enquire what brings you all the way out here?”

  “We’re just passing through,” said Penny.

  The barman raised an eyebrow. “Not often we get to hear that. It’s not like we’re on the way to anywhere. Bit off the beaten track, in fact. And most people around here prefer it that way.”

  Penny hit him with her most charming smile, and the barman visibly relaxed as he basked in the glow. Penny has always been more of a people person than me, but then, it comes more naturally to her.

  “Is there a reason why visitors aren’t welcome here?” said Penny.

  “These days, the only reason people stop off here is because they’re on their way to visit the old manor house,” said the barman. “Glenbury Hall. No one local ever goes there if they know what’s good for them. That house is dangerous.”

  “Really?” said Penny, smiling determinedly. “What makes Glenbury Hall so dangerous?”

  The barman glanced at his customers, and then leaned over the bar. His voice became carefully low and measured, as though everything he was telling us was confidential.

  “People have been known to disappear, in and around the Hall. We’re talking about stories that go back centuries, of men and women who went out there and were never seen again. And as if that wasn’t enough, the dead walk Glenbury Hall, along with the living.” He paused to check our reactions and must have been reassured at what he saw in our faces, because he continued in an even lower voice. “The old Hall is famous for its ghosts. Not the traditional headless monks or walled-up nuns, no Ladies In White or phantom pipers. Just...presences, in the night. Things that come and go, intent on business beyond our understanding. There are all kinds of
stories about the ghosts of Glenbury Hall, but none of them the kind you’d tell for a pleasant scare on a winter’s night. They’re warnings, for those with the sense to heed them. Some say there’s lost souls that dance with the statues in the Hall’s grounds, doors that won’t stay shut and rooms that aren’t always there, and something that prowls the house in the early hours, endlessly searching—”

  “What kind of something?” I said.

  The barman looked at me steadily. “They say: It crawls...”

  And for a few moments, the hairs stood up on my arms. Penny and I glanced at each other. Down the years, we had gone up against all manner of monsters and out-of-this-world weirdness, but I had always been very firm that there were no such things as ghosts. Until we had reason to visit the House on Widows Hill. After that, I wasn’t so sure.

  “And it’s not just the spooks and the spirits,” said the barman, warming to his task of putting the wind up us. “There’s the family that’s owned the Hall for generations. The Glenburys. Everyone around here knows better than to have anything to do with them.”

  I kept my face calm, and my voice carefully even. “What’s so bad about the Glenburys?”

  “Bad blood in that family,” said the barman. “Always has been. The Glenburys have made evil their religion, and they worship it in their hearts.”