The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

sign of Bea’s car, so perhaps, please God, he had been wrong about where she was. The car must belong to the author who had rented the cottage, the author who even now was emerging on to the doorstep.

‘Hello. I heard a car.’

Mark felt the man’s eyes stray to his dog collar, always the first part of him people noticed. He rather wished he had taken time to change into mufti before setting out. ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced but I was …’ Passing? Hardly! ‘I was looking for Bea. I thought she might be here, but obviously not.’

‘Are you part of her team?’ The man looked puzzled. He held out his hand and introduced himself.

So, she hadn’t mentioned she was married to the Church. He didn’t confirm or deny the team bit. ‘The husband. Mark.’

A buzzard was circling overhead and both men looked up as it let out a plaintive call, flying lower across the valley beyond the gate. ‘She was here earlier.’ Simon was still watching the bird. ‘She didn’t stay long. She only came to return my key. I’m afraid she didn’t say where she was going.’

Elise!

The woman’s voice was distant, plaintive, like the cry of the bird.

Mark saw the other man’s face blanch. ‘Was that – was that someone calling?’

Simon nodded. ‘I thought Bea had sorted it.’ His lips tightened.

Mark felt himself shiver. ‘That was your ghost?’

Simon nodded again. ‘Do you want to come in?’ He turned abruptly and led the way inside the cottage.

Mark followed him. The man was scared, Mark could see that clearly, and he had to admit he was uneasy himself.

The room was busy, lights on, papers strewn across the table, the laptop switched on, a low fire smouldering in the hearth. There was a half-empty cup beside the laptop.

‘I’ll make more coffee.’ Simon walked straight across the room and led the way through the door in the far wall into the kitchen. As he reached for a jar of instant, Mark saw his hands were shaking.

‘Have you actually seen this ghost?’ he asked. His voice was calm and he hoped he sounded matter of fact.

Simon shook his head. He screwed the lid back on the jar and slammed it down on the counter. ‘I am a rational man. I’ve been writing history books for fifteen years. I do not get spooked by the subjects of my study. This house is perfect for my needs! I do not believe in ghosts and I will not be chased away!’

Mark swallowed his anger with Bea and concentrated on the man opposite him. There had been more than a touch of desperation in his voice. ‘Did Bea suggest you leave?’

‘No. No, she didn’t. I told her I wasn’t afraid, and I’m not. She came to give me the key back because I thought that the problem was sorted, and it seemed to be, ’til a minute ago when you arrived.’

‘You think it’s something to do with me?’ Mark felt unaccountably aggrieved and at last Simon smiled. ‘No, sorry. No, it’s got nothing to do with you. And what could be so scary about a voice, for goodness’ sake?’ He picked up his mug and headed back into the sitting room.

Mark gazed thoughtfully after him, then, topping his own drink up from the bottle of milk Simon had left on the table, followed to find him squatting in front of the fire.

‘You heard it, didn’t you,’ Simon went on. ‘I’m not imagining it. It’s that note of desolation I can’t cope with, and that echo. It comes from so far away.’

‘She’s a lost soul,’ Mark said softly. It was the first time he had ever encountered a ghost and he was amazed how certain he was. Strangely he wasn’t afraid. All he felt now that he had heard the voice was intense sympathy and the overwhelming need to help. ‘I know this is Bea’s department, but it’s mine as well. Would you mind if I prayed for her?’

‘Mind?’ Simon looked up. ‘Of course I don’t bloody mind!’ He looked shocked at his own words. ‘Sorry. Forget I said that. Please. Pray away. I don’t think Bea has done anything yet. At least she told me she hadn’t. She seemed to imply sorting this problem was something she needed to go away and think about before she did it. Whatever it is she does. Then I had a night’s blessed silence and I thought, well, her coming here must have been enough, the wretched woman has gone. But I obviously spoke too soon.’ He threw himself down into the chair and closed his eyes. Distancing himself from whatever was to come next. Mark knew the signs. People uncomfortable with prayer weren’t sure how it worked or what they should be doing while it happened.

Putting down his mug, he went to the door. The troubled spirit was outside. He would start there. He noticed he still wasn’t feeling scared; uncomfortable perhaps, but not scared. Leaving Simon sitting by the fire, he stepped out onto the terrace.

He thought he could sense her listening, sense that she knew he wanted to help her in her distress. He talked to her gently, as Bea had told him she did, as he would counsel a living person. Then, closing his eyes, he prayed. He used the words of the old prayer book for the sick and dying, then he recited the words of the Nunc Dimittis: ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace’ and then he switched to Latin, sensing it might be more appropriate. A modern Church of England man, he didn’t know many Latin prayers, but he had heard enough sacred music in the cathedral to know this one. ‘Requiem aeterna, domine.’ When he opened his eyes at last he saw she was standing there near him on the terrace, an indistinct figure, a plait of silvery hair slipping from beneath a black veil, her dress long and homespun, a wooden cross hanging from her girdle.

She was a