Immortal Warriors 02 - Secrets of the Highwayman Page 2

  A salty breeze stirred her hair, reminding her she was standing in the empty hall and had left the front door to Ravenswood open at her back.

  There was a footstep.

  Someone was standing behind her.

  Melanie spun around.

  A thickset man her own height, smelling of damp wool, stepped back in surprise. “Sorry, love,” he said. “I thought you were burglars.”

  His accent was English west country, pleasantly burred.

  “Burglars?” she repeated, exasperated. “I rang to let you know I was coming. I’m Melanie Jones from Foyle, Haddock and Williams, Miss Pengorren’s solicitors. We’ll be handling the sale of her house. You’re the caretaker?”

  “That’s right. I’m Eddie.” In the dim light he looked fortyish, his dark hair turning grey, and carrying a few extra pounds beneath his old woolen sweater. He certainly wasn’t the old man he’d sounded on the phone.

  They shook hands solemnly.

  “You’re late,” he said mildly. “You said you’d be here this afternoon. I thought you must be staying somewhere else overnight.”

  “I’m sorry, I got lost, and then…” She hesitated. It had been so real and so strange, and she knew from experience how it would sound to a stranger. People tended to scoff at ghosts. But Eddie was waiting, and she had an uncharacteristic compulsion to share at least some of it with him.

  “There was a man on a horse, riding beside my car.”

  Eddie stared at her, and then his mouth widened in a delighted smile. “Oh-ho, then you’ve seen the Raven! At least, that’s what they call him hereabouts.”

  Her relief was muddled with confusion. “The Raven?”

  “Nathaniel Raven.”

  “As in Ravenswood? Then he’s real? He lives in this area?”

  Eddie laughed at her, but it was meant kindly. “Nathanial Raven’s been dead for years. He’s a ghost. You’ve just seen the Raven’s ghost, Miss Jones.”

  Melanie felt dizzy. She’d known it, of course she had, she hadn’t forgotten how it felt to see something supernatural—although she’d tried. And no living man could look and act like that. She’d known it, and yet to hear it said like this aloud, so matter-of-factly, didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

  “Nathaniel was a highwayman,” Eddie continued, “back in the old days. He was no direct relation to old Miss Pengorren. He used to live here, in this house, long ago, before the Pengorrens took it over.”

  “Have you seen him?” Melanie glanced about her at the shadows and shivered. “Does he, eh, appear often?”

  “No, unfortunately.” Eddie shrugged, as if ghosts were commonplace to him. “There have been dozens of stories about him in the village and roundabouts. It’s coming up to the anniversary of his death, you see, although I never heard of him appearing before. Maybe something’s stirred him up, turned him restless. Could be because of you coming to sell the house.”

  “Wonderful.” Melanie gave a tight little smile. “Well, unfortunately, I have no choice. My job is to get the house ready for sale, and I intend to do it. Now, I think I’ll go up to bed so that I can get an early start. Is my room ready, Eddie?”

  “Yes, I saw to it myself.”

  “You’re here on your own?”

  “I used to have a wife, but she’s gone now.”

  “I’m sorry,” thinking he meant she was dead.

  “Don’t be,” he said cheerfully. “We’re divorced and she lives in Arizona and she’s very happy. Hated this damp place, she did. I stayed, though. I’m related to the Pengorrens, you know. Wrong side of the blanket.” He grimaced, but there was a gleam in his eyes, as if he enjoyed his murky family tree.

  Eddie led the way up the grand staircase, producing a small flashlight from his pocket. “Had the electricity turned off when the house was empty,” he explained. “I had it switched back on again when you said you were coming, but some of the wires are dodgy. Best to have a flashlight or a candle with you, just in case. The hot water is on, but it’s been playing up, and you probably won’t get any until the morning. The kitchen stove is working—it runs on bottled gas—and there’s an electric jug if you wanna cuppa.”

  “Thank you, but it’s okay. I ate earlier. I just want to go to bed. It was a long drive and—”

  “There he is.” Eddie interrupted her.

  He pointed with his flashlight. Melanie blinked, wondering who he was and what she was supposed to be looking at. There was a large painting hanging on the wall above the staircase. A portrait of a man. He was standing against a background of sea and sky and cliffs, his head lifted proudly, a slight mocking smile twisting his aristocratic lips.

  Melanie peered more closely. He wasn’t wearing a cloak or a mask, but there was something in that smile that she recognized. A reckless enjoyment of life. A devil-may-care attitude.

  Another shiver ran through her.

  “The Raven, I presume,” she murmured.

  “The painting was up in the attic for ages, but Miss Pengorren had it brought down. She went a bit strange in her last year here, kept saying she shouldn’t have the house, that it was all wrong, and Nathaniel Raven had more right to hang on the wall than any Pengorren.”

  “I think I’d prefer him back in the attic.”

  Eddie sniggered. “You don’t want to antagonize him like that. He was a bit of a bad lot. You never know what he might do.” And with that partly humorous threat, he led the way up the remainder of the stairs.

  Melanie’s room was old and had seen better days, but it was clean, and the four-poster bed, when she tried it, was comfortable. Eddie busied himself making a fire in the hearth while Melanie went to the window and peered out. The panes were small and warped, the glass very old, and there were shutters that could be closed in bad weather. She could see an area of flat and treeless land, and beyond that the sea.

  It looked restful tonight, flat and smooth, with barely a hint of froth on the waves. From somewhere in her memory she dredged up pictures of wild storms and foundering ships and innocent souls cast onto the rocks. Wreckers had once set out false lights, to steer their prey onto reefs. Smugglers had been here, too, probably. This was Daphne du Maurier country, and anything was possible.

  “There you are.”

  Startled, Melanie turned. Eddie was wiping his hands on his sweater. Briefly, she felt disoriented, unlike her practical herself, but it was only for a moment. Annoyed, she forced her romantic thoughts back where they belonged, locked away, kept in check. She’d decided long ago that there was no place in her life for romance and adventure. Melanie had no intention of giving herself as a hostage to fate, a whimsical leaf on a breeze to be blown one way and then another.

  Eddie was giving her a strange look. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here all by yourself?”

  “Of course,” Melanie replied in her briskest voice. “I’m not the nervous type. I’m here to do a job and I plan to do it.”

  Eddie didn’t say anything to that, only pointing out that he’d left her the flashlight, in case, and wishing her good night as he closed the door after him.

  Melanie went to the fire and warmed her hands, listening to the stairs creaking as Eddie made his descent. The front door closed with an echoing bang. Melanie was alone in Ravenswood.

  The haunt of the Raven.

  And she knew she wasn’t going to sleep a wink.

  Nathaniel Raven stood and looked up at the lighted window. Absently, he rubbed the head of the black hound, scratching his ears. The animal pressed against him, clearly enjoying the attention. He wasn’t sure whether Teth had found him or he had found Teth, but somehow they had come together in the between-worlds and now the black hound was his constant companion.

  A shadow passed before the window.

  The woman, Melanie Jones.

  After he had raced her on the road, he had watched her from the shelter of the trees as she cautiously made her way up the driveway to Ravenswood, and then unlocked the door. Fair hair cut shor
t, the trousers and jacket loose but not quite disguising a slim, female shape. Her eyes were blue and slanted a little, and her mouth was full but unsmiling, unyielding.

  Nathaniel had always preferred to find humor in a situation and to run where fate took him; his paramours had certainly gone with him willingly—and smiling.

  Was this really the woman who would help him? Give him his second chance? She looked like she didn’t laugh much, as if life for her was full of serious matters and predestined appointments. But for a moment when their eyes had met, he had thought…

  The light in the window went out.

  Nathaniel sighed. He didn’t really have a choice. He needed her, and somehow he had to persuade her that she needed him. Well, persuading women was one of his most developed talents.

  Three

  She was riding. On a horse. Melanie was ambivalent when it came to horses but this time she didn’t mind, because someone was riding with her. She could feel a strong arm about her waist, a body behind hers, and it was most definitely a “he.” They rode through the night, the moon above them like a grapefruit.

  His breath brushed her hair, her cheek, as he leaned forward. His gloved hands were strong on the reins. In control.

  Melanie found that a turn-on.

  “Do you know who I am?” a soft voice murmured in her ear.

  Her heart began to bump.

  “Because I know who you are.”

  Melanie turned her head. He was smiling at her, eyes gleaming through the mask. An old-fashioned tricorn hat sat on his head, and a black cloak flowed out behind him.

  “You’re the Raven,” she said.

  He leaned closer, and heat curled inside her like melting toffee. His mouth brushed hers, barely a touch at all, but she felt it to her toes.

  “Oh yes, please…”

  Did she really say that? Well, it was a dream…

  There was a thud.

  The horse vanished and, with it, the man. Melanie opened her eyes and found she was alone in the four-poster bed at Ravenswood. She must have flung out her arm—to embrace the Raven—and knocked her cell phone to the floor.

  Melanie rubbed her eyes and sighed. She could still feel him, she could even taste him, and she had really, really wanted that kiss.

  The old house seemed less Rebecca-ish in the daylight. Melanie washed hastily in tepid water, dressed casually in baggy old jeans that hung from her slim hips and the I fought a bull and won sweatshirt Suzie had brought her back from her holiday in Spain last year. It had shrunk last time she washed it, so the fit was a bit snug, but it was comfortable. Melanie went downstairs to see what she could find to eat.

  Eddie had left a loaf of bread and a carton of juice on the table in the kitchen, which was a huge room with a high ceiling and dusty shelves. Melanie imagined that it must once have been full of the servants who were needed to put food on the family’s table, but now there was something poignant about the empty space. Like the shell of the great Titanic, lying forlorn at the bottom of the ocean.

  She toasted a slice of bread in an antique-looking toaster, spread it with some delicious marmalade she found in the equally antique-looking refrigerator, and drank some cold juice and hot instant coffee.

  There was a door in the kitchen leading out onto the side of the house and an old walled garden. The stonework was crumbling in places, and the neat rectangles where flowers and herbs once grew were overrun with weeds, but Melanie found herself surveying the spot with dreamy eyes, imagining a tangle of sweetpea and honeysuckle and the buzz of bees.

  There’s going to be a storm, and the old oak tree in the park is going to fall over.

  The words rang in her head like a wake-up bell.

  It was a long time since something like that had happened to her—daydreaming was bad enough, but premonitions? She thought she’d outgrown them. Her lapse irritated her, but more than that, it frightened her.

  Pushing it from her mind, Melanie finished her coffee and washed up her few dishes, set them to dry in the plastic drainer, and began to explore the house. There were plenty of rooms, some with dust sheets thrown over the furnishings, others left as they must always have been. Everything would need to be cataloged and valued before sale. It might be simpler to contact a reputable antiques’ dealer or an auction house. Get it done professionally. Melanie did not pretend she was an expert or even a well-read amateur.

  There must be someone suitable in Plymouth, or Truro, or one of the tourist traps like St. Ives or Mousehole?

  “Phone book,” she murmured, glancing about the room she was in. It was on the upper floor and in a large room, with mullioned windows from which she could see the park, and a high grey stone wall dividing what had once been gardens from the open fields to the east. Fields, that is, apart from an odd conical hill, rather like a small Glastonbury Tor, which rose dark against the morning sky, with a standing stone perched on top.

  Melanie was drawn to the windows and stood, peering at the hill, aware of a disturbing tingle beginning deep inside her. As if something were trying to get out. A memory? Perhaps she had seen a picture of this place before. Or was it more a sense of unease?

  Stay away.

  She shook her head, again refusing to listen, but her eyes remained fastened on the silhouette against the grey April sky. The stone was sitting on the very top of the hill, and there seemed to be a hole in the middle of it, an eye, so that it was almost as if it were looking back at her.

  Her sister Suzie had been through a phase where she’d believed all that New Age stuff about the magic of ancient stones and megalithic sites. She’d traipsed all over the countryside, taking part in half-baked rituals and dancing in flimsy robes in the freezing dawn of the midwinter solstice. Melanie had shaken her head at her sister’s antics, and then gone back to studying, to getting her degree, to making something of herself.

  But now, looking at the hill, she suddenly understood a little of the fascination and awe Suzie must have felt. The tor was so completely alien to the surrounding landscape that she could not help but wonder who had made it and why. What rites had taken place there? What creatures had been summoned?

  Had the earth opened like a ripe plum and its contents spilled out?

  With a shudder Melanie turned away. “Phone book,” she said loudly, returning her thoughts firmly to the task at hand. “I need to look up some names and make some inquiries. Get the ball rolling.”

  Surely there would be lots of interest in Ravenswood when the locals knew it was on the market? Historic landmarks like this didn’t come up for sale every day.

  But when she finally found a phone book, she glanced at her watch and realized to her dismay that it was still only 7:00 A.M. Far too early to ring anyone up yet.

  With a sigh, she headed over to the large desk she had noticed by the wall and opened some drawers, picking up papers and reading them at random. At least she had found Miss Pengorren’s “office.” There were bills here, some of them second and third requests, and unanswered letters from friends. The elderly lady had let things slide before she made her final journey to the nursing home.

  Ignoring the stuffing spilling from one corner, Melanie sat down in the comfortable old leather swivel chair and prepared to discover the worst.

  Miss Pengorren’s handwriting was wavery and sometimes difficult to read, but her forceful personality came through in her choice of words. “Get Eddie to see to the taps in the bathroom. No excuses.” The note to herself made Melanie smile, it was like something she herself would write. “Why hasn’t the loose board in the attic been attended to? And no, I’m not too old to be up there, thank you, Eddie!” Miss Pengorren’s requests seemed small enough but they were the symptoms of a house in decay. It must have been frustrating for her, particularly as Eddie didn’t seem in any hurry to carry out her orders.

  Melanie looked up and noticed a row of leather-bound diaries stacked neatly on a shelf. She slipped one out and opened it. The date was ten years ago, and it seemed to
be a brisk and informative record of daily life at Ravenswood. She put it back and found the most recent one. Miss Pengorren’s busy writing filled the pages. Pleased, Melanie spent a moment reading some of the pithy comments Miss Pengorren made about her neighbors, and her concerns about a world that seemed to be changing too quickly for her to keep up with it. I have outlived my usefulness, she had stated bleakly.

  Flipping to the end of the diary, Melanie saw that the handwriting deteriorated along with Miss Pengorren’s health. She rambled, sometimes beyond understanding. There was talk about the house not being hers. “A monstrous injustice,” Melanie read aloud. “I wish I could restore Ravenswood to its rightful owner.”

  That was the final entry.

  With a sense of unease, Melanie closed the book and put it back where it belonged. Was this some legal matter she should look into? Or was it just the restless maunderings of an old lady whose mind was beginning to deteriorate? She would have to read all the diaries, she supposed, and if necessary ask the advice of Mr. Foyle. And there were the upper rooms and the attic to explore, as well as the old stables and outbuildings.

  The extent of her task weighed heavily on her for a moment, but she shrugged it off. One thing at a time, that was the trick. Organization. Lists! Melanie was a great one for making lists whenever possible.

  But instead of reaching for a pen and paper, Melanie pushed the chair back and stood up. She felt edgy and anxious. Her gaze slid to the window, to the mini-tor, but she refused to be drawn back to stare at it.

  And then she remembered.

  At home in London she went running every morning. She was missing her routine run. She’d feel better once she’d stretched a few muscles and whipped up a few endorphins.

  Outside on the looped driveway the air was fresh and clean, and she gulped it in with pleasure. Last night she hadn’t been able to see much, but now she turned in a circle, looking about her. Ravenswood had been built in the fifteenth century, and although it wasn’t one of the larger stately houses—only nineteen rooms—it was imposing enough. The grey granite had been softened by time and climbing plants, and the mullioned windows on the upper floor reflected the light. It was clearly in need of maintenance—the tiled roof was sagging in places, and there was a worrying hint of damp in some of the rooms, but surely a true lover of historic houses would overlook that?