A House of Ghosts Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  The Island

  1. Donovan

  2. Kate

  3. Donovan

  4. Kate

  5. Kate

  6. Kate

  7. Lord Highmount

  8. Kate

  9. Kate

  10. Donovan

  11. Kate

  12. Donovan

  13. Donovan

  14. Kate

  15. Donovan

  16. Kate

  17. Kate

  18. Donovan

  19. Kate

  20. Kate

  21. Lord Highmount

  22. Kate

  23. Kate

  24. Donovan

  25. Lady Highmount

  26. Donovan

  27. Kate

  28. Donovan

  29. Kate

  30. Kate

  31. Kate

  32. Kate

  33. Donovan

  34. Donovan

  35. Kate

  36. Donovan

  37. Kate

  38. Donovan

  39. Lord Highmount

  40. Donovan

  41. Kate

  42. Donovan

  43. Kate

  44. Donovan

  45. Kate

  46. Donovan

  47. Donovan

  48. Lord Highmount

  49. Kate

  50. Kate

  51. Donovan

  52. Kate

  53. Donovan

  54. Kate

  55. Donovan

  56. Kate

  57. Donovan

  58. Kate

  59. Donovan

  60. Kate

  61. Lord Highmount

  62. Donovan

  63. Donovan

  64. Kate

  Copyright

  For Ciara

  THE ISLAND

  The sea was black as ink and the small fishing boat, travelling under a loose sail, moved slowly across its glass-flat calm. Ahead of them the island was barely visible through the early morning mist, but he could just about make out the cliffs that ringed its southern tip. Normally they were a hard grey, but thanks to the soft rain that clung to the sea mist they were darker still – foreboding, even to someone who knew them well.

  The tall man standing beside the wheelhouse knew the island, and the waters around it, well enough, even if it had been four years since he’d last set eyes on the place, and he knew the skipper was right to be cautious. Many was the vessel that had come to grief on the hidden reefs and rocks that lurked underneath the mirrored waters over which they travelled.

  The skipper corrected his course to avoid Wrecker’s Spine, the string of jagged rocks that reached out from the cliffs towards the mainland but was invisible when the tide was this high. The tall man glanced across at the skipper, who nodded.

  ‘I could take you round to the long beach, easy enough. There’s no one on the island as would see you at this time. None as you need worry about, anyway.’

  ‘The Maiden’s Whisper is safest all the same.’

  ‘It’s a long climb and the rain will have turned to ice on the rocks. I wouldn’t call it safe.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  The skipper cleared his throat and spat, and the tall man knew he’d not mention it again.

  A seal’s head broke the surface not twenty yards off the boat’s bow, causing the faintest of ripples. The seal looked directly at the tall man, its intelligent gaze making it seem almost human. The fishing boat slipped past and the seal, motionless, watched the man go.

  ‘You’ll have to get your feet wet and push me off,’ the skipper said. ‘It won’t be too hard, not with the sea like this.’

  The tall man began to take off his boots, placing them in his pack, along with his socks and trousers. There was no point in getting wetter than he had to. After all, there was no certainty that the appointment would be kept that day, or even the next. He might have to rest up in the cave for a while and he wouldn’t be able to light a fire. But he was used to cold and he would make do. He had biscuits and cheese to eat, as well as some chocolate, and the skipper’s wife had given him a thermos of tea before they’d left the harbour.

  ‘Thanks for all you’ve done for me.’

  The skipper nodded. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

  Ahead of them the black sea lapped against the strip of grey pebbles the fishermen called the Maiden’s Whisper. He helped the skipper lift the boat’s keel as it drifted in, kissing the pebbles with a long, slow rattle.

  ‘Quick now. I’d best be off before the mist clears.’

  The tall man took the skipper’s hand and felt the man’s rough skin against his own smooth palm, not hardened much by the blood he’d shed.

  ‘May God go with you,’ the skipper said. He pushed the sail over and the fishing boat moved slowly away.

  Despite the freezing water that came up to his waist, the tall man stood and watched until the fishing boat disappeared into the fog. God would not be accompanying him on this journey. They had no time for each other now, God and he. He turned and made his way up the shore. There he dried himself with his spare shirt and dressed. He was cold, but would soon warm up.

  It was only then, when he looked up at the cliffs and followed, with his eye, the narrow track that led up to the cave, that he shivered.

  1. DONOVAN

  The officer sitting in the small waiting room had papers in his pocket that announced him as Captain Robert Donovan, 1st Battalion, the Connaught Rangers. It was close enough to the truth.

  He had returned from France that morning, landing at Dover at dawn and taking the train up to London. It had been a rough crossing and he was glad to be back on dry land. He was less glad to have been ordered to report directly to the man he worked for, but, examining the young woman opposite him, decided there must be a purpose to his presence. And hers, most likely.

  She was attractive, with grey eyes, a long nose and a firm, slightly pointed chin. Her complexion was pale and clear, and the occasional glance she cast his way seemed to indicate intelligence, as well as annoyance. He supposed he was being rude, staring at her. It was hard, after France, to adjust to England and its conventions. After the trenches, the idea of politeness seemed more than a little absurd, but he supposed he’d have to make an effort.

  He looked down at the cigarette he had absentmindedly lit a few moments before, observing the slight tremor in his fingers with equanimity. Lighting it had probably been a mistake.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said, as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke. He tried smiling, conscious of the unaccustomed strain it caused his cheek muscles.

  ‘Do I mind what?’

  Her voice was as he had expected. Educated. Serious. Definitely annoyed.

  ‘If I smoke?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have asked that question ten minutes ago?’

  Donovan considered this. He looked at the low table between them and saw two butts in the ashtray. She might have a point.

  ‘Probably.’

  There was a loud bang and a flash, which momentarily lit up the room. The window rattled.

  ‘Maroon,’ Donovan said when he saw her flinch.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A maroon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a type of signal rocket. Not a German bomb.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was.’

  ‘A lot of people do.’

  A couple of air raids and the city was in a state of outraged terror. Apparently bombing, gassing and wholesale homicide had a time and a place in a war. It was good to know there were rules, he supposed.

  ‘I’d introduce myself,’ he said, ‘but it’s
frowned on.’ He circled the cigarette in the air to indicate their surroundings. ‘Very hush-hush sort of a place.’

  Her mouth pursed in irritation, before she glanced towards the door – as though someone might be listening. Which they might well be. Then she lowered her head back down to the book she was reading.

  He glanced at the title. It wasn’t the sort of book he’d have expected her to read and he found he liked her all the better for it.

  ‘Any good?’

  She looked up, seemingly surprised he had spoken to her again.

  ‘The book,’ he said.

  ‘It’s diverting,’ she said, and turned another page.

  ‘I see. Diverting.’

  He blew three perfect smoke rings, which hung in the still air before curling in on themselves.

  Two small red marks appeared on her perfectly pale cheeks. He wondered why she was there in the room, with him. It was almost certainly intentional. He had sat here a number of times and had never seen anyone else except Miss Wilkins, the secretary to the man he’d been summoned by. That was the way it should be done, in his opinion.

  So, if she was meant to be here, then the question was why. She seemed a little young for this line of work – not much older than twenty-three, although her earnestness might make her seem a little older. To judge from the long, straight blue dress and the neat jacket, she might well work in one of the Whitehall offices, but surely not this one. He allowed his eyes to take in the initialled brown leather briefcase that rested beside her chair – perhaps she was seeking employment here. It was possible.

  He lit another cigarette and decided to probe. It would pass the time.

  ‘I wouldn’t describe it as diverting, myself.’

  Her eyes had stopped moving along the lines and her plump lower lip was now almost completely sucked in.

  ‘Kate Plus Ten, that’s the book, isn’t it? Edgar something, beginning with W.’

  ‘Wallace,’ she said, looking up at him – there was some steel in her grey eyes now. ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘What? That I can read?’

  She hesitated. ‘No, I’m sure you can read. Most officers can.’

  Which made him smile.

  ‘Oh, I like that sort of book,’ he said. ‘Kate was a good character and the theft of the train was clever. I’m surprised by you, though. I would have thought you would have had more refined tastes.’

  She regarded him down the length of her nose. ‘I am so sorry to have disappointed you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I read it twice but, you see, I have very low tastes. Some Sherwood Forester left it in an officer’s dugout near Villers-Faucon, which was kind of him. We were there for a week and there was a fair amount of shelling. Took my mind off it.’

  She sighed but then allowed him a small smile. ‘Why do you persist in attempting to make conversation? There’s a perfectly serviceable view over St James’s Park with which to occupy yourself.’

  He looked out the window. The lake had been drained and the lawns filled with temporary buildings for civil servants. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s not what it was.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. The palace is clearly visible. There are people to look at. Who aren’t me. And not all the trees have been cut down.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘All the same.’

  She closed the book and he found himself being examined in turn. He saw her eyes take in the medal bar on his chest, almost certain she understood the significance of the fabric rectangles. It was, as it happened, one part of his current cover that was completely accurate. He’d have refused to claim medals he hadn’t earned.

  ‘Strategy is the comfort of heroes,’ he said in a quiet voice.

  She looked quizzical.

  He lit another cigarette. ‘First line of the novel. Now, that made me smile – sitting in a trench near Villers-Faucon.’

  ‘Isn’t that on the Somme?’ she said. ‘Villers-Faucon?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘My brother, Arthur, died there. Last year. In the big offensive.’

  Well, that took the fun out of the conversation.

  ‘We think he died there – officially, he’s missing. But his commanding officer said he was last seen lying gravely wounded in a trench that was subsequently overrun. That we shouldn’t hold out hope. And we’ve heard nothing since.’

  He nodded. The CO had been right to caution against optimism.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said.

  Before he had to go through the motions of trying to comfort her, C’s secretary came to the door. It was probably just as well – he wasn’t very good at that sort of thing.

  ‘Miss Cartwright? Would you follow me, please?’

  He watched her leave and decided he knew one tiny part of C’s intentions.

  Because he’d been in that trench when Arthur Cartwright had lain dying from gas exposure. And he’d had to leave him there.

  2. KATE

  Captain Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming RN – otherwise known as ‘C’ – rose, with a certain difficulty, as Kate Cartwright entered.

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Cartwright. Miss Wilkins, some tea? And could you bring some of those delicious ginger snaps.’

  As she sat, Kate couldn’t help but glance at the papers and photographs spread out across C’s wide, leather-topped desk. She turned her attention quickly to the bookcase, however, once she realised that the photographs were of plans for some kind of mechanical device and were marked ‘Top Secret’.

  When Wilkins had left, C examined her. He resembled an owl, she decided – an impression heightened by his large round spectacles.

  ‘Do you like ginger snaps, Miss Cartwright?’ he said eventually. ‘I’m very partial to them.’

  It was not how she had imagined her mysterious meeting with the head of the Secret Intelligence Service would begin.

  ‘I quite like them,’ she said. She presumed his intention was to throw her off balance – although you could never be certain with the SIS. Perhaps he really did like ginger snaps. In any event, it seemed to be the correct response – C’s broad face lit up with a broad smile.

  He continued standing, leaning against the table now at a slightly awkward angle. She recalled being told he had a prosthetic leg – a car accident in which his son had died.

  ‘Ewing tells me you have settled in well in Room 40. Is that the case?’

  ‘I believe so. The work is fascinating, as are my colleagues.’

  The work was repetitive and while her fellow codebreakers were certainly clever, they were also, by and large, either wildly eccentric or terminally awkward.

  ‘He has you working on weather reports mostly, doesn’t he? Isn’t that what he starts people off on?’

  She said nothing, presuming the question to be a test of her discretion.

  C smiled. ‘And before that you worked in the scientific department of the Ordnance Department, on new weapons. I imagine, by comparison, Ewing’s work is very dull. A bit like doing the same jigsaw puzzle over and over again. And I can’t help but wonder if a young woman of your obvious ability shouldn’t have the opportunity to do something a little more active.’

  She wondered if it was a question or a statement. It wasn’t entirely clear.

  ‘Well?’

  A question then.

  ‘I am, of course, happy to serve in any capacity.’

  This was apparently an incorrect response – C scowled. He stood away from the desk and glowered down at her.

  ‘It’s like getting blood out of a bloody stone,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, Miss Cartwright. Would you like to do something more active or not?’

  She wondered if she was supposed to be intimidated. In any event, the situation was now clearer and, if being active meant an end, even temporarily, to deciphering weather forecasts for Heligoland, Dogger and Fisher, then she was game.

  ‘I should be delighte
d to do something more active.’

  C scowled once again but this time there was something of a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘An excellent choice, Miss Cartwright. Eventually.’ He picked up some of the papers from the desk. ‘I understand you and your parents have been invited to spend some time with the Highmounts at Blackwater Abbey over the winter solstice.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts, Miss Cartwright. I am aware that you have refused. I presume you decided the war effort requires you to spend Christmas in London with your fiancé, rather than on a remote island off the coast of Devon with your parents and their close friends, Lord and Lady Highmount, attempting to contact the dead. Which is, I believe, the intent. Is that correct?’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could formulate her response, C continued.

  ‘I mean no offence to your parents or indeed the Highmounts, Miss Cartwright. There are so many dead after three years of war and if they wish to attempt to contact their lost ones, I would not stand in their way. I have explored the possibility of contacting my own son through a medium, although when I had one of my men look into the woman in question, I was satisfied that there was little point in proceeding. That is not to say I do not keep an open mind. I always keep an open mind. But I understand you yourself have no sympathy with spiritualism. Which is, one might think, surprising.’

  She wondered what C knew, and who he knew it from. That he knew something was clear, from the triumphant arch of his left eyebrow. Damn.

  ‘I believe spiritualism has no basis in scientific fact,’ she said. ‘And that any supposed contact with the dead is either the work of charlatans or some kind of group psychological disorder.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that all persons who experience contact with spirits from the afterlife are suffering from a psychological disorder?’

  He was being deliberately provocative. Well, let him. If C thought she was going to admit to regularly seeing ghosts, or whatever they were, he was much mistaken.

  ‘I do not believe such people are suffering from a psychological disorder, as I am sure you do not either. If you did, I should be forced to take offence.’ This seemed to amuse C, which gave her a little bit of confidence. ‘I do believe, however, that it is possible that people wishing for something enough may delude themselves into experiencing a shared, yet false, projection of that occurrence. That seems to me to be the most likely explanation.’