The House on Widows Hill Read online

  Penny and I walked over to the tall gates, the only break in the featureless stone walls surrounding the property. The spiked black iron bars looked strong and sturdy. Made to keep the world out or hold something else in. I deliberately turned my back on the gates and looked out at the view over Bath. From the top of Widows Hill the brightly lit streets of the city lay spread out before me, looking so far away they might have been another world. A blaze of light, defying the darkness. Penny moved in beside me and slipped her arm through mine.

  ‘I think we’d better ask the Organization to send its own car to pick us up in the morning.’

  ‘I have to wonder why they hired a taxi at all,’ I said. ‘And why they chose Dennis to be our driver. Did they know what had happened to him, and wanted him to tell us?’

  ‘That does sound like something they’d do,’ said Penny.

  We turned back to the gates, taking our time, to show we weren’t in any way impressed or intimidated, and peered through the bars at Harrow House. Alone and isolated, it had been built at the very top of the hill, its nearest neighbours some distance away. Cut off from people and the rest of the city – presumably by choice. The gates had no particular style or ornamentation; they’d been designed to be strictly functional. A barrier between the house and the world.

  But tonight someone had left them standing ajar. Almost invitingly.

  ‘It does seem like we’re expected,’ I said.

  ‘You say that as though it’s a good thing,’ said Penny.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you having second thoughts, now you’re faced with an actual haunted house?’

  ‘I did think it would be more fun,’ Penny admitted. ‘But just looking at Harrow House makes my skin crawl. It feels like being watched, by a monster in a cave. Where’s the Scooby Gang when you need them?’

  I pushed the gates all the way open and we walked through, into the grounds. Which turned out to be an even greater mess than Dennis had described, the rioting greenery more like a jungle than a garden. But the single gravel path leading to the house was still completely clear, an open way to where Harrow House stood waiting for us. A large blocky Victorian pile, grim and dark and brooding, it had the look of one of those old mansions you used to see on the covers of Gothic romance novels. The kind you just knew weren’t going to end well.

  ‘I can’t say I’m impressed,’ I said finally. ‘It’s just a house.’

  ‘But it does have an atmosphere,’ said Penny, frowning. ‘As though there’s more to it than just a house.’

  ‘I’m not feeling anything,’ I said firmly.

  Penny shrugged, almost angrily. ‘I’m picking up … something. But that could just be me.’

  ‘Perhaps the full dread and horror doesn’t kick in until we’re actually inside the house,’ I said.

  ‘Then let’s go check it out,’ Penny said firmly. ‘I am just in the mood to kick some supernatural arse.’

  ‘Never knew you when you weren’t,’ I said gallantly.

  We set off along the gravel path. And if Penny’s arm pressed a little more tightly against mine, neither of us said anything. There were no lights showing in any of the house’s windows, but a small group of people were standing together before the closed front door. They watched us approach in silence.

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘Team Ghost are here to welcome us.’

  ‘Give them a chance,’ Penny said sternly. ‘They might know all sorts of useful things.’

  ‘And if not, we can always use them as human shields.’

  ‘You’re so practical, darling,’ said Penny.

  She waved cheerfully to the waiting group with her free arm, but not one of them responded.

  ‘Not exactly friendly, are they?’ said Penny, her eyes narrowing just a bit dangerously.

  ‘For all we know, they might be the ghosts of Harrow House,’ I said.

  Penny sniffed. ‘I can’t help feeling real ghosts would put on more of a show.’

  We continued along the gravel path, deliberately not hurrying. It wasn’t as though I was looking forward to meeting Team Ghost. A celebrity psychic, a ghostbuster, a white witch and a reporter … I was having a hard time deciding which of them was most likely to get on my nerves first.

  ‘Play nicely with our new colleagues, sweetie,’ Penny murmured. ‘We have to get along with these people if we’re going to make any progress.’

  ‘I think they should put some effort into getting along with us,’ I said. ‘If only because we’re far more likely to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on here than any of them.’

  ‘So you do think something is going on?’

  ‘I don’t like the feel of the house,’ I admitted. ‘As though it’s hiding something from us.’

  ‘Are you feeling anything specific?’

  ‘Nothing I can put a name to. Not dread or horror, just … a general feeling of being watched, by unseen eyes.’

  ‘I am definitely feeling all of that,’ said Penny.

  ‘Remember the ink blot,’ I said. ‘It’s more than likely we’re only feeling these things because the file told us we would.’

  ‘But we’re professionals,’ said Penny. ‘You are space boy, I am spy girl; we’re used to walking into dangerous situations. We don’t get nervous; we make other people nervous. And yet … it does feel as if something in that house is waiting for us, and rubbing its hands together in anticipation.’

  I had to smile. ‘Like we’re walking into a trap?’

  Penny grinned and squeezed my arm against her side. ‘Nothing new there, darling. In fact, that’s pretty much our job description.’

  ‘One supernatural arse-kicking coming right up,’ I said cheerfully.

  We finally reached the small group of people standing before the door. They looked more impatient than scared, and didn’t make any move to greet us; they just studied Penny and me with open suspicion. So I made a point of giving all of them my most charming smile.

  ‘Good evening to one and all,’ I said. ‘I am Ishmael Jones, and this is my partner, Penny Belcourt. We are here to represent the party interested in buying this property, who for the time being prefers to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell us their name? Is there some reason why we aren’t allowed to know?’ The interrogation came from a surly young man in faded jeans and a shabby Black Sabbath T-shirt. He was tall and gangling, with a face that was trying for character when it should have settled for handsome. ‘I’m Arthur Welles, reporter for the Bath Herald.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you already know the buyer’s name?’ Penny said sweetly. ‘After all, it’s your family that’s selling this not particularly desirable property.’

  Arthur scowled. ‘According to them, the sale was arranged entirely through intermediaries. Which, of course, isn’t the least bit suspicious.’

  ‘There are security aspects to the buyer’s identity,’ I said smoothly. ‘Which is why he prefers to keep his identity secret, for the moment.’

  Arthur perked up at that and looked ready to launch into a whole new series of questions, so I turned away to meet the others.

  I sort of recognized Lynn Barrett from her publicity photo. The celebrity house-cleanser was actually a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall, wearing a black dress that managed to be both severe and stylish. Her shoulder-length hair was equally dark, and her face was almost buried under industrial-strength Goth makeup: pale skin, black lips, so much mascara and heavy false eyelashes I was amazed she could see anything through them. Surprisingly, her fingernails had been painted a shocking pink. She carried a heavy wicker bag slung over one shoulder, and clutched it to her protectively.

  ‘I’m Lynn Barrett. Spiritual advocate,’ she said, in a soft but compelling voice. She favoured me with a warm but mysterious smile, which she probably practised every day in front of a mirror. ‘Your connection between everyday life and all the wonders of the hidden world.’

  ‘How nice for you,’ I said.


  Her smile widened. ‘Ah … a sceptic. Good. I enjoy converting people like you. I love the way they thank me afterwards for opening their minds to the truth.’

  I smiled back at her. ‘Not going to happen.’

  Lynn made a point of shaking my hand, and held on to it for so long that Penny started to bristle. I retrieved my hand with something just short of brute strength, and Lynn smiled again as though she’d proved something.

  ‘It’s my job to help people through times of spiritual disturbance,’ she said calmly. ‘Can’t you just feel the atmosphere? It’s like the whole house is trying to speak to me, and we haven’t even gone inside yet. We are definitely not alone here.’

  I glanced quickly around at the rest of the group. None of them looked as if they were buying anything Lynn was selling, but they didn’t say anything to challenge her. Perhaps someone had given them the speech about playing nicely with others. And Lynn was a celebrity, after all. She turned to Penny, considered her for a moment and then frowned dramatically.

  ‘Oh, my dear … I sense an old horror hovering over you, weighing down on your life. You’ve suffered a loss in your family, haven’t you?’

  ‘Hasn’t everyone?’ said Penny, entirely unmoved.

  Lynn turned back to me, still frowning hard to show us all how much she was concentrating. ‘And you … have travelled a very long way to be here.’

  ‘Could you be any more vague?’ I said.

  She grinned suddenly. ‘If you like.’

  The man standing behind Lynn decided he’d had enough of her performance and shouldered past her to thrust out a hand to me.

  ‘Tom Shaw. Ghost-hunter. Part-time, of course. I’ve spent years searching for hard evidence of genuine afterlife phenomena. If there’s anything going on here that shouldn’t be, I have the technology to search it out and record it. When it comes to the weird stuff, science is our friend.’

  A medium-height, middle-aged man, with a waistline he wasn’t even trying to control any more, Tom was wearing a good suit that looked as though it didn’t get out much. He had a square face, a stubborn look, and he was almost entirely bald. He shook my hand hard, to make it clear which one of us was in charge, and seemed a little surprised when I didn’t even blink. He took his hand back, not even bothering to offer it to Penny, and fixed both of us with an accusing glare.

  ‘It’s about time the two of you got here. We’ve been standing around here for ages. I was assured we’d be inside Harrow House by eight o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Life is full of little disappointments,’ I said calmly.

  Penny moved in quickly. ‘Nice to meet you, Tom. I’m afraid our taxi ride took longer than we expected.’

  ‘You were lucky to find someone prepared to bring you here,’ said Lynn. ‘All the drivers at the railway station turned us down, once we told them where we wanted to go. Some were quite rude about it.’

  ‘I had to raise my voice to them,’ said Tom.

  ‘They really appreciated that,’ said Lynn.

  ‘In the end, my newspaper’s connections got us a ride,’ Arthur said smugly. ‘I had my editor phone the owner of the local taxi firm and remind him just how much business we put his way, through advertising and mentions in our stories. One hand always washes the other in local papers.’

  ‘We still had to crowd into the back of one taxi,’ said Lynn. ‘People around here have no idea how to treat a celebrity.’

  ‘Pretending to put people in touch with their dead relatives in the back rooms of church halls does not make you a celebrity,’ said Arthur. ‘You only get your face in the paper because you’re photogenic.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lynn. ‘At least no one’s ever going to accuse you of that.’

  Arthur looked very much as if he wanted to say something, but Tom was already speaking again.

  ‘We finally had to settle for a taxi whose driver had half a dozen crucifixes hanging off his steering wheel, and every window plastered with dangling chicken feet and voodoo charms.’

  ‘You can never have too many protections,’ Lynn said firmly. ‘Especially when you’re not sure what it is you’re protecting yourself from.’

  ‘He made me store my cases in the boot,’ said Tom, with the air of someone still harbouring a grudge. ‘I don’t like being separated from my equipment.’

  He gestured at two large suitcases, leaning against his legs like faithful dogs.

  ‘What do you have in them?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Useful items,’ said Tom, not giving an inch. ‘It’s important to have accurate readings in cases like this. Sometimes it’s the smallest changes in your environment that can turn out to be the most significant. And there’s nothing like a good early warning system to help you feel more secure.’

  ‘But have you actually seen a ghost on any of your cases?’ said Penny. ‘Or recorded any evidence of one?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Tom, just a bit defensively. ‘It’s all about being in the right place at the right time. With the proper equipment.’

  ‘You can’t rely on technology when it comes to the mysteries of the hidden world,’ Lynn said serenely. ‘You’ll always need someone like me to provide spiritual help, for when science fails you.’

  Rather than take part in an argument I just knew wasn’t going anywhere helpful, I turned to the final member of Team Ghost, who’d been watching all of this and grinning broadly.

  ‘Winifred Stratton!’ she said loudly, before I could say anything. ‘Call me Freddie! Everyone does!’

  She strode past Tom so forcefully he actually fell back a step, displaced as much by the sheer force of her personality as anything else. Or perhaps he was just worried he’d get trampled underfoot. Freddie was a large and cheerful presence, a statuesque middle-aged woman with a handsome face and greying hair scraped back in a bun. She wore a shapeless tweed suit and a chequered waistcoat with food stains down the front. She seized my hand and pumped it hard.

  ‘Good to meet you, Ishmael! I do love a good literary name. So – ready for the fray, are we?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Can’t wait to get stuck in.’

  ‘Good man! That’s the spirit!’ She flashed me a wide smile, dropped my hand as though she’d lost interest in it and turned to Penny, who already had both hands safely tucked behind her back.

  ‘Are you really a white witch?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Freddie said happily. ‘Got a diploma and everything. Bought it off the internet. Been checking up on me, have you?’

  ‘We like to know who we’re working with,’ I said. ‘I understand you’re also a local historian. How does that tie in with the spook-chasing?’

  ‘Once you start digging into local events, you can’t help but uncover all kinds of interesting stuff,’ said Freddie, crossing her arms over her large bosom. ‘The kind of things My Little Goth here likes to call the hidden world. I’ve been fascinated by the strange and uncanny ever since I was a nipper. And once I started reading the original sources, I became intrigued with the kind of weird happenings that never make it into the official records. What dear old Charles Fort used to call damned data: all the inconvenient and contrary facts that have to be ignored by established historians, because they raise far too many questions that can’t be answered.’

  ‘But what does that have to do with being a white witch?’ said Penny.

  ‘Fight fire with fire – that’s what I say,’ Freddie said cheerfully. ‘When science can’t protect you, and logic is off in a corner having a panic attack, magic is right there kicking arse and taking names. It’s a much bigger world than most people realize, and magic can be very handy when it comes to making sense of things that would otherwise defy human comprehension.’

  ‘But have you ever encountered anything unusual yourself?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve seen a few things,’ said Freddie.

  Something about the matter-of-fact way she said that impressed everyone. Apart from Arthur, who just scowled even mor
e heavily.

  ‘I don’t believe in any of that stuff.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ said Tom.

  ‘Because I wasn’t given any choice,’ said Arthur.

  He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, trying to look stern and determined, and hide the fact that he was shivering from the cold because he hadn’t given enough thought to what he should be wearing.

  ‘I was told you insisted on being here,’ I said. ‘In fact, that your being included in the investigation was a condition imposed by your family, so they’d have someone on hand to represent their interests.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Arthur loudly and bitterly. ‘I’m only here because my editor insisted. He wants the inside story on how a group of local celebrity ghost-botherers spent the night in the most haunted house in Bath. Our readers eat that kind of thing up with spoons. And my family went along because all they care about is finally selling this dump. It’s been hanging around the family’s neck like a millstone for generations.’

  ‘Bit of a big millstone,’ I said.

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve had to put up with this crap ever since I was a kid. Once anyone finds out I’m part of the family that owns the notorious Harrow House, that’s all they ever want to talk about. Ghosts … Hah! Give me a break.’

  ‘Have you ever been out here before?’ said Penny.

  Arthur looked at her as though she was mad. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Weren’t you even curious?’ I said.

  ‘I am a reporter,’ said Arthur, with as much dignity as he could manage. ‘I deal in facts, not fairy stories.’

  ‘So … you’re not feeling any atmosphere of dread and horror right now?’ Penny said carefully.

  ‘No,’ said Arthur emphatically.

  ‘Then why do you have goose-bumps?’ I said.

  ‘Because it’s cold!’ Arthur looked very much as though he wanted to stamp his foot, but settled for glaring at everyone impartially. ‘This is all just a waste of my time!’

  ‘Then open the door and we’ll get started,’ I said. ‘You do have the keys, don’t you?’