right, though, Libby. He’s never gone into that room. This old house has plenty of other places he prefers.’
Mandy’s eyes glowed. ‘Did it happen again?’
‘Every time I sit in there, to tell the truth.’
Libby grinned at Mandy. ‘Come on. We have to investigate this, even though I don’t believe a word of it. There's nothing to beat a good ghost story. Let’s go into the drawing room, right now, and see what happens.’
Max led the way down the corridor. Bear padded beside Libby, as far as the door. Max pushed on the wood. Slowly, it creaked open and Mandy gasped. Bear stopped; his legs rigid. Mandy whispered, ‘He doesn't like it here, does he?’
The dog barked, once. His tail drooped and the ruff of fur round his neck stood on end. He managed to look miserable and offended at the same time. Max strode into the middle of the room and held out a dog treat. ‘Come on, Bear.’ The dog took a step forward, hesitated, looked from Libby to Max, barked again, turned and padded back along the corridor.
‘Does that count as proof?’ Libby asked, an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Max took her hand. ‘Come on, Reg, you're the expert. Is there a ghost in here?’
Reg paced round the room, stopping at intervals, his face serious. ‘There's a strange atmosphere,’ he concluded. ‘There are cold spots, just as you described. Are there any records of odd happenings? Witches in the area?’
‘Nothing I’ve been able to track down. I’ve looked at various histories of the house and the surrounding area, but I haven't managed to turn up anything interesting apart from the Battle of Sedgemoor.’
Reg beamed from ear to ear. ‘While I’m here, maybe I can do a little research into your local history. Tell me about this battle.’
Max wrinkled his brow. ‘The Duke of Monmouth was a pretender to the throne of England, back in the eighteenth century. He landed in the West Country, fought the king’s army and was defeated. Most of his followers died, and the rest ran away.’
‘Maybe some got this far…’
‘Before they died…’ Reg and Mandy were talking over each other, Mandy’s face pink with happiness.
Libby, Mandy and Reg stayed at Max’s house that night. They sat up, drinking coffee, until late into the night. Max looked out of the window. ‘It’s freezing cold out there and I doubt you could see your hand in front of your face. Just the weather to give Bear his final walk. Coming, Libby?’
Bear appeared, miraculously, at the door. He’d been out of sight, most likely curled up in the room Max grandly called the gun room. Libby had never seen a gun in the house. Did Max own one? He’d never told her. Just one more thing she’d find out one day. She stood up, slightly tipsy. ‘Wellington boots and hats needed, I think.’
No one else would leave the warmth of the blazing fire for the cutting blast of winter’s east winds. Libby and Max trudged, arm in arm, down the lane, the wind in their faces, using a flashlight to avoid the worst of the puddles. ‘I know you trust Reg, but do you think we should have talked about the murder so much?’
‘Why, because Joe thinks he’s a suspect?’ Max scoffed. ‘Joe’s not a fool, even if his chief is. He interviewed Reg this afternoon and the alibi checks out. He was travelling all that day, with train tickets to back him up, and the woman behind the bar remembers him being there all evening. He’s very distinctive, as you’ve seen. She almost melted while talking about him. He’s been eliminated from the enquiry.’
‘That’s just as well. Did you see Mandy’s face? I think she’s in love.’ She told Max about Mandy’s quarrel with Steve. ‘She’s got this enormous inferiority complex, and it’s making her miserable and jealous. I’m worried about her, to be honest.’
‘You’re doing all you can. Let her be. She has to make her own mistakes.’
15
Guilt
After a morning baking and an afternoon struggling with a pair of unruly knitting needles, Libby was ready for the next meeting of the Knitters' Guild. Ignoring the uneven edges of her squares, Libby stuffed them into a bag, pulled on her thickest woollen sweater, a pair of jeans and sheepskin lined boots, persuaded the engine of the Citroen to kick into action on the third attempt, and drove through the murk of a dark winter’s evening.
The car sped along deserted lanes, round twists and turns. Libby loved to drive in the dark, able to see the lights of an approaching car well before it arrived. Tonight, though, the darkness seemed less dense. It would be hours before dawn broke, but the sky grew brighter every moment. Libby slowed, puzzled.
She turned another corner. Between the naked arms of a leafless hedgerow a gleam of bright orange flickered. Libby drove closer and sniffed the air. An acrid, bitter smell filled the car. The smell of fire.
Smoke billowed, a patch of denser black against the sky. One more turn in the lane and Libby saw the fire straight ahead, bright against the night sky. With a shock of horror, she recognised the isolated eighteenth century thatched cottage where Samantha Watson lived.
She screeched to a halt, leapt from the car and ran through a gate in the white painted fence, towards the house. A light shone from one of the upstairs rooms. ‘No. oh no. Samantha must be in there.’ No face appeared at the window.
Searing heat beat her back. She gasped for breath; lungs full of smoke.
The fire brigade. Coughing, she grabbed the phone from her pocket and fumbled, fingers trembling, for the emergency button, bellowing the news, the roar of fire threatening to drown her voice.
Help was on its way, but the fire had taken hold and black smoke billowed from the front door. Where was Samantha? Was she inside? Why hadn’t she run out? Sick with fear, Libby ran round the cottage, searching for a way in, but the fire burned even more fiercely at the back.
She shrieked Samantha’s name, but all she heard in reply was the shatter of glass as a window exploded high above, driving Libby back. Glass showered like snow into the garden.
Water. She needed water to drown the flames. Desperately, she scanned the garden, the unnatural light of the fire delineating every detail. A tiny stream trickled along beside a wall, but she had no way of carrying the water. She needed a bucket. Where could she find one?
A shed stood halfway down the garden, out of range of the fire. Libby rattled the door, but it was locked. She kicked the lock once. It trembled but held. She took a run at the door and crashed painfully against the wood.
The wail of a fire engine sounded, ever closer. Libby took another hopeless run at the shed. Hands grabbed at her arms, pulling her back. ‘Leave it to us, now.’
‘Thank heaven, you're here.’ Howling with frustration, she screamed, ‘I think Samantha’s in there. It’s her house and the light was on. I couldn’t get in…’
She broke off, paralysed, as with a roar like a steam train, the thatched roof threw a volcano of fire into the air and collapsed, tumbling into the house.
Someone
