'The Blaney kids said the place was flooded.' Now he leaned even closer to Eve and lowered his voice as though the conversation was only between himself and Eve and not for general consumption. 'Also…' Because she was looking to the side, her head tilted downwards, he ducked a little to make eye contact. 'Also, they told the police there was someone—no, something, they said—in the cellar that scared the—that frightened them very much.'
'It's nonsense, Mr…?'
'Pierson. But call me Andy, Eve, everybody does.'
It came out fast, as if she were deliberately not giving herself time to think. 'They must be on drugs, or sniffing glue, doing something to give themselves hallucinations. You can see for yourself.' She waved her free arm at the kitchen behind her (her other was still on the back of the door ready to close it at any moment). 'No flooding, see? The only water is in the sink. As for something in the cellar, well, the police searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing.'
'So you're saying the kids were on drugs, have I got that right?'
Eve could already see the newspaper headline. 'No, I'm only suggesting that what the boy and girl saw—while they were trespassing, by the way—all they saw was in their own minds. The house is big, and it's dark, and yes, it is rather spooky if I'm to be perfectly honest, but…'
She had run out of words; she did not know what more she could say to this man.
'Look, Mr Pierson—'
'Andy, call me Andy.'
'Look, all I know is what the policeman told me when I arrived back here with my husband and daughter this morning.'
'You've got two little girls, haven't you? One's called Laura, but I don't have the other one's name…?'
'Cally. And my older daughter is Loren, not Laura.' She knew the reporter would probably get the spelling wrong, calling her Lauren instead, but she couldn't be bothered to explain it to him. Obviously, Seraphina Blaney and her brother had told the journo enough already. But if she herself played dumb, the story might go away due to lack of detail. It would just be something the brother and sister had made up between them.
Andy Pierson was not about to give up, though. 'Now come on, Eve, tell me something that's happened to you or any other member of your family in the house, you know, something spooky, something for our readers. The public likes a good ghost story now and again.'
'There's nothing to tell,' Eve lied, her voice rising in anger. She remembered Cally was still at the kitchen table, no doubt taking everything in and Eve didn't want her to be upset again. She forced herself to be calm. 'I've got nothing more to say,' she told the reporter and began to close the door on him.
'Wait, Mrs Caleigh, Eve. Give me a proper statement.'
The door was shut in his face.
But he was grinning.
40: THE VISITOR
Eve was tucking Cally into bed for her afternoon nap when the doorbell went. It was loud and an ugly sound, an electronic croak rather than a musical ring.
Cally's eyelids were already flickering with tiredness and she took no notice of the interruption. Her soft Bart Simpson doll peered over the edge of the duvet close to Cally's face and she sleepily hugged him even closer, her nose pressed into Bart's cheek. Eve bent over to kiss her young daughter's curled hair but straightened when the doorbell sounded again.
She wondered who could be at the front door in the middle of the afternoon. Had the reporter from the North Devon Dispatch returned to nag her with more unanswerable questions? What if it was the Blaney children's mother come to remonstrate with her? Eve couldn't face that; she hadn't the energy left to deal with irate mothers. But she would certainly ask how Seraphina and her brother had got hold of a door key to Crickley Hall and why they had brought a dead rat into the house! Gabe told her he had found a dead wood pigeon on the doorstep yesterday morning when he was about to go on his regular jog. Had the children planted the bird there? Was it Seraphina's way of getting back at the family because Loren had stood up for herself on the bus? Perhaps they'd intended to leave some poor dead animal every day just out of spite.
Brurrrr—brurrrr…
The doorbell made its irritating croak, the kind of sound whose repetition could put a person on edge. Nothing melodic, nothing galvanizing about it. Instead, it filled the house with a dull dread.
Tiptoeing out to the landing, she looked over the rail down at Crickley Hall's big front door as if it might provide some clues as to who was outside.
Brurrrr—brurrrr...
It echoed round the stone-floored hall, the acoustics making it louder than it should have been. Whoever was out there was persistent. Why not just knock on the kitchen window? Eve asked herself. Everybody else seemed to do that. She was reluctant to open the door, and she didn't know why. Perhaps she was on emotional overload; it had been a rough day so far. Then again, she had been on emotional overload for almost a year now.
Brurrrr—brurrrr…
All right, all right, I'm coming. I don't want to know who you are, I don't want to talk to you, but I'm coming down because I know I have to.
She went to the stairs and descended, glancing out of the tall window as she went by. The sky was clouding over again and the sun, on its downward journey, reddened the clouds' craggy edges. Their dark bulk was laden with rain.
The doorbell grouched yet again and Eve quickened her pace, both annoyed and anxious. Perhaps another local newspaper had got hold of the story—she knew the county had more than one daily journal—and this time she would make no comment, she would politely but firmly close the door on any nosy reporter or photographer who stood outside. A new thought entered her head, causing her to pause at the foot of the staircase. Perhaps the policeman had come back with more inquiries. What could she tell him? Why yes, of course Crickley Hall is haunted, I've seen the discarnate spirits of children myself and we've all heard unaccountable noises, and my daughter, Loren, was thrashed in her sleep last night by something I think might have been the evil ghost of a man called Augustus Cribben, who lived here over sixty years ago. Could she say all that? Could she say it and expect to be believed? She could scarcely believe it herself.
Eve crossed the hall—the perfectly dry hall—but took a diversion towards the cellar door. Bloody thing! Why wouldn't it stay shut?
Brurrrr—brurrrr.
Okay!
Eve pushed the cellar door closed and even turned the key in the lock for all the good it would do. Gabe really had to fix it; it was driving her to distraction.
She finally got to the front door, slid back the floor bolt and twisted the long key. Angrily, she pulled open the door and stared at the visitor on the doorstep.
•
Lili Peel's smile was weak, hardly a smile at all. She seemed nervous, uncertain. As if she were afraid.
'I was beginning to think you weren't in,' she said by way of an opening. 'I kept ringing the bell…'
'Yes. I'm sorry—I was upstairs.' Eve's heart was pounding: she hadn't expected to see the psychic again.
'I'm… I'm sorry too. About yesterday.' Lili looked down at the doorstep for a moment as though truly contrite. 'I know I was a bit brusque with you. I didn't mean to be. I've had time to think about what you told me.'
'You mean you'll help me—us?'
'You didn't leave your phone number, but of course I remembered the house. Wednesday is half-day closing in Pulvington, so I was able to get away from the shop.'