The Eighth Witch (3 page)

“Robert Carter, as I live and breathe! It’s so good to see you. Man, you haven’t changed a jot.”

“Neither have you, Annie, neither have you.” It was a lie. She had changed a great deal. Her long, chestnut hair had been cropped to a chic, pixie style and was now flecked with gray. Her dark brown eyes had retained their sparkle but there was an awareness and maturity there now, and she’d gained a few pounds, but it suited her, making her look less the college student and more like a woman.

She held him at arm’s length and stared into his face, looking for the lie and finding it in his eyes. “I’ve got fat,” she said with a smile. She ran her fingers through her hair, tousling it. “And this is a lot shorter. More practical.”

“Seriously, you look great…just different from how I remembered you.”

“Different. An interesting choice of words. Better or worse?”

Carter felt himself flush. “I…I…”

She shook her head and smiled. “I’m teasing you, Rob. Come on, let’s get inside out of this rain.” She threaded her arm through his and led him through the front door.
 

Annie Ryder’s house was set on a hill and was deceptively large. From the street it looked like a modest cottage, but once inside it opened out, stretching quite a way back into the hillside. There were two large reception rooms and a study on the ground floor, and upstairs three good-sized bedrooms and a bathroom. In the hallway the walls were decorated with photographs set into simple clip frames, mostly black and white, moody shots of the Yorkshire landscape, with the occasional splash of color provided by glorious depictions of India—a country she’d developed a passion for many years ago.

“Kerala,” she said, coming up behind him as he admired a picture of two young Indian children running through a market place. “My spiritual home.”

“Have you been there recently?”

“That was taken three years ago. I haven’t been back since.”

“Was that your choice?”
 

She shrugged.
 

“Or a matter of circumstance?” he said.

“A little of both. Coffee?”
 

“Sounds good,” he said, following her down the flight of stone steps to the kitchen.
 

The kitchen was large and set in the cellar of the house, and was Annie’s pride and joy. She loved cooking and, equally, loved entertaining. A large range cooker stood at one end of the room. Various-sized pans were bubbling away on the hotplates.

“You’re cooking,” he said rather obviously.

“Lamb hot pot,” she said. “That okay?”

“It smells delicious.”
 

She poured coffee into two mugs and handed him one. “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited a few friends over to eat.”

It was not what he was expecting and he couldn’t help a slight twinge of disappointment, hiding it with a smile. “Fine,” he said. “Anyone I know?”

She shook her head. “Penny Chapman who I work with at the school, and Adam, her husband. He’s an artist and sculptor. The other two are new to the area. He’s American, a professor no less. He’s living on a narrow boat on the canal—quite the bohemian. The boat belongs to the girl he’s living with, but I’m not sure if they’re a couple. Her name’s Holly. Holly Ireland, a really lovely girl. She’s a jewelry designer. Have you heard of her?”

“Should I have done?”

“She seems to be making quite a name for herself in the galleries in London.”

“Not really the kind of circles I mix in,” he said, sipping the coffee. It was good. A strong, rich roast. Annie always did make good coffee.

In the center of the kitchen was a huge oak refectory table surrounded by eight wheel-backed chairs. He pulled one out and sat down. “So what’s his subject, this professor of yours?”

“History. He’s written a number of books. Not that I’ve read any of them.”

“What’s his name?”

“Henry Norton. Ring any bells?”

“Not a tinkle.”

“No matter. He seems nice enough. A little intense sometimes, but I’m sure you’ll get along fine. And Holly really is a sweetheart. She’s the reason I invited them.” She reached under the neck of her sweater and pulled out a thin metal pendant. “This is her work. Do you like it?”

It looked pretty enough in an angular, modern way but the aesthetics were lost on him. “Very pretty,” he said. “Opals?”

“Opals set in titanium.”

“I thought opals were meant to be unlucky.”

She frowned at him. “And when have you known me to be superstitious?”

He finished his coffee. “Would you mind if I freshened up? It was a long drive.”

“Of course. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

She led him to his bedroom and then left him to get settled in. There was a futon set in the middle of white-painted floorboards. Furniture was sparse, an empty pine wardrobe, another of the ubiquitous wheel-backed chairs—she told him later she’d bought a set of twelve at an auction in Halifax—and, next to the futon, a low, chunky-legged table that looked as if it had been made somewhere in Asia by a blind carpenter. There was a radio alarm clock on the table with a green liquid-crystal display. It read five after six. Annie’s guests were due at seven thirty. He had a quick shower and then lay down on the futon. He was wearier than he’d thought, and a nap might help to psych himself up for the evening ahead. He wasn’t feeling particularly sociable but didn’t want to let Annie down.

The doorbell woke him. The radio alarm clock told him it was seven thirty. He swore, hauled himself from the futon and threw on some clothes. Black denim jeans and a black crew-necked sweater. It wasn’t going to be a formal evening so he slipped a pair of leather moccasins on his bare feet and padded down the stairs.
 

Annie was in the hallway, helping a middle-aged couple off with their coats. She glanced up as Carter trotted down the stairs. “This is Adam and Penny,” she said. The sculptor and the teacher.

“Penny, Adam,” she said. “Robert Carter.”

“Rob, please,” he said.

“Very pleased to meet you, Rob,” Adam said, pumping Carter’s hand. He had a strong grip, a man who was used to working with his hands. He was probably mid-forties, tall and slight, with eyes that sparkled with good humor, as if he’d looked at life and found the whole charade slightly amusing.

“Annie’s told us a lot about you,” Penny said, air-kissing Carter’s cheeks. She was older than her husband, late fifties, early sixties, but the vitality that danced in her eyes belied her age.

Before any more pleasantries could be exchanged, the doorbell rang again. Annie glanced over her shoulder at Penny Chapman. “Pen, be a sweetie and pour the drinks, would you? I’ll have my usual.”

“Of course,” Penny said. “Adam? Usual?”

Adam nodded.

“Rob?”

“A vodka and tonic please.”

Penny smiled. “Right.” And then she scurried off to the lounge.

Annie opened the door.
 

Holly Ireland was first through, shaking the rain from her wild, blond hair. Pretty, early thirties and as thin as a stick. Norton followed her in. Annie made the introductions and then led them through to the lounge, where Penny was standing by a cabinet in the corner pouring the drinks.

“Henry, what can I get you?” she said.

“Just a club soda for me. Holly?”

“Do you have any Campari?” she asked Penny.

“I’m not sure. Annie, help!”

Annie crossed to the drinks cabinet and crouched down in front of the open doors. “I kinda think I do,” she said and started moving bottles around.

“Sorry,” Holly said. “Am I being a pain?”

“Yes, you are,” Henry Norton said. There was an edge to his voice that they all caught.

“Sorry,” Holly said again, seeming to shrink into herself slightly.

“Yes!” Annie said triumphantly. “I thought I had a bottle somewhere in here.” She got to her feet and handed the bottle to Penny.

“Do you want ice, Holly?” Penny said.

“No, just as it comes. Thanks.”

Annie disappeared to the kitchen downstairs, leaving them to get better acquainted.
 

In the living room it was obvious that something had happened between Norton and Holly on the way over to Annie’s that had soured his mood. Carter tried to engage the professor in conversation, but the man’s answers to his questions were monosyllabic and non-committal. He kept firing poisonous glances at Holly who was discussing art with Adam Chapman. Carter tried another question and saw it shot down in flames. His gaze caught Penny Chapman’s and she raised her eyebrows in sympathy. Before the embarrassment became palpable, Annie ascended from the kitchen and announced that dinner was ready.

They trooped, single file, down the stone stairs. Annie hadn’t set place names so Carter took a seat at the end of the table, next to Adam Chapman and as far away from Norton as possible.

“Red or white?” Penny said, indicating bottles of Merlot and Pinot Grigio.

“Red, I think,” Carter said and watched as she poured the wine into his glass. “Steady,” he said as the wine threatened to overflow. “I wouldn’t want to be too drunk to enjoy Annie’s cooking.”

The food when it came was up to Annie’s excellent standard and conversation subsided slightly as everyone tucked in. It picked up again in the break before dessert.
 

“So you’re a ghost hunter, Robert. Is that right?” Norton said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Carter said, shooting a questioning glance at Annie who shrugged and shook her head slightly, giving him an
I’m sorry
look.

“Really?” Adam said, twisting in his seat to stare at Carter. “How esoteric,” he added without sarcasm.

“Actually much of what I do is pretty mundane,” Carter said.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Norton said, seemingly determined to stir things up a little. “Give us some examples.”

Annie jumped in. “I don’t think it’s a suitable subject for polite dinner party conversation,” she said.

“Oh, rubbish,” Adam said. “It sounds fascinating.”

“Let the poor man be, Adam,” Penny said. “Annie’s right, we don’t want to talk about ghosts.”

“Well I do,” Adam persisted. “Go on, Rob, don’t be a spoilsport. Tell us a ghostly tale or two. Make our spines freeze.”

Carter glanced across at Norton who was smiling. “Yes, go on, Robert. As Adam says, don’t be a spoilsport.”

The man had a problem. That much was obvious. But Carter hadn’t yet worked out what it was.

Penny was glaring at Adam, Annie was looking helpless and Holly just looked embarrassed.

“Okay,” Carter said, sensing the sudden tension at the table. If he wanted to he could have told them stories to guarantee that none of them would get any sleep that night or the next week for that matter, but he had no desire to share his recent Department 18 experiences with anyone, and they were certainly not the subject of dinner party conversations, polite or otherwise. “Let’s try this one,” he said. “The Phantom Cat of Welham Green.”

He began the story, a slightly humorous encounter he’d had during his first week with the department. It seemed to satisfy Adam who sat with a look of fascination on his face, but Norton looked slightly irritated. It was obvious Carter wasn’t giving him what he wanted.

Further stories were curtailed by the dessert. Annie had made a Pavlova with fresh strawberries, whipped cream and melt-in-the-mouth meringue. After they’d all eaten their fill and progressed to coffee and liqueurs, the conversation had moved onto the subject of Ravensbridge and how it was gradually being taken over by what Adam and Penny referred to as incomers. With one American and three Southerners around the table, it struck Carter as slightly ironic they should be complaining. “But surely, you’re all incomers,” he said.

“That’s very true,” Penny said. “Adam and I are both Londoners. We’ve been here over thirty years now and I think the true locals still treat us with suspicion. When Adam first started his free art classes at the community center the initial take up was very poor. It’s improved since but it took a long time to win people’s trust. Both Annie and I work at the school, and every day we come into contact with people who’ve been born and bred here and whose parents and grandparents were born and bred here. It’s their concerns we’re voicing.”

Adam stepped in. “Over the past few years the district council has ignored local feeling and tried to turn Ravensbridge into a tourist trap. They’ve raised business rents and rates and forced out a good number of the traditional shops and small businesses. There used to be three butchers, two bakers and several green-grocers in the high street. They’ve all gone. The council gave permission for one of the large supermarket chains to open a store just two miles away. With that competition and the hike in rates, the local shops just couldn’t survive.”

“And it’s not only the shops that suffered,” Annie said. “Over the last three years six estate agents have moved into the town. House prices have gone stratospheric. Local people can’t even afford to buy houses in their own town anymore. Instead we’re getting in all these God-awful city types who are not actually interested in living here and contributing to the community. They just want a second home in a picturesque valley to impress their friends. A lot of them are only here for a few weekends a year, and perhaps a week or two during the summer. Apart from that the houses are empty. It makes the locals’ blood boil. And I sympathize with them.”