Midnight is a Lonely Place

‘All done.’ Greg came back moments later. ‘Good lord, what’s that?’ He had spotted the dagger lying on the table near the coffee pot. Curiously he picked it up and examined it. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In Alison’s excavation.’

He frowned. ‘I thought she asked you not to touch anything there.’

‘She did, and I had no intention of doing so. This was lying on the ground at the edge as though she’d dropped it. Another tide and it would have been lost.’ She poured the two drinks and pushed one towards him. ‘I told you, I went out to see if she was still there. There’s a terrible mess at the excavation.’

He raised his glass and sipped the whisky, still holding the dagger. ‘I thought she was doing it carefully.’

‘She was. She showed it to me only yesterday. It must have been that storm last night. It’s full of seaweed, and half the side has fallen in. I expect that’s how that came to light.’ She nodded in the direction of the dagger.

Putting down his glass he examined it more closely.

‘Is it Roman do you think?’ He glanced up.

Kate missed the sudden amusement in his eyes. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it might be earlier but I’m not an archaeologist. I do think she ought to get some experts here. She could be doing irreparable damage, poking around the way she is.’ She still had not mentioned the torc.

‘The way you describe it the sea will do a lot worse than anything she could do. At least she’s saving a few things this way.’ Greg put the dagger down. ‘You’d better bring it when you come to dinner tomorrow.’

‘I shall.’ She met his eye. For a minute they studied one another, measuring each other up.

‘So. How are you liking Redall Cottage?’ he said at last.

‘Very much. But I’m sorry you had to leave so I could come.’

‘You mean you’d like me to move back in with you?’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

‘No.’ She did not flinch. ‘I’m paying for my privacy.’

‘And I’m interrupting it.’ He put down his glass.

‘Not for another thirty minutes. I allow myself the occasional break. Have another?’ Picking up the bottle she gestured towards the glass. He intrigued her. Handsome, boorish, presumably talented, he was something of an enigma.

‘Why not. I can hardly get done for drunk driving in that thing. No one would notice the difference.’

As Kate led the way through into the sitting room he followed her. She poured his whisky then she glanced at him. ‘Someone broke in here last night.’

‘Broke in?’ His expression was bland; politely interested. If he was surprised he didn’t show it.

‘They seemed to be looking for something.’

‘Have you told the police?’

She shook her head. ‘Whoever it was had a key.’ She sat down, cradling her glass on her knee.

‘Oh, I see. You think it was me.’

‘No. It was a woman.’

That did surprise him. ‘You saw her?’

She shrugged. ‘Not quite. But I know it was a woman, and I smelt her perfume. I thought at first it was Alison messing about, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it was a friend of hers.’ She paused. ‘Or of yours.’

He did not rise to the remark. ‘Is anything missing?’

‘No. At least, nothing of mine.’ She took a sip from her glass, not looking at him. ‘Did you mean to leave those pictures upstairs?’ she asked after a moment. She sat staring at the wood-burner. The fire inside roared like a wild beast.

Greg raised his foot and kicked the damper across. ‘I did. There’s no more space in the farmhouse. Why, don’t you like them?’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite her. There was a challenge in his eyes.

‘Not much.’

‘Too strong for you, eh?’ He looked puzzled suddenly. ‘Did you mean to imply that one of them is missing?’

‘No, they were all there, I think. And yes, I suppose so,’ she conceded. ‘They are disturbing.’

‘They depict the soul of this place. The cottage. The bay. The land. The sea. The sea will drown all this one day, you know.’

‘So I gather.’ She refused to be rattled by the dramatic declamation. ‘And sooner rather than later if that digging is anything to go by.’

He frowned. ‘It’s strange. None of us knew that was there. Allie found it a while back – the signs of the dune having been dug by men and not just being natural – then only a few weeks ago a great section split off like a ripe rotten fruit and it started spewing out all these bits and pieces.’ His voice was quiet, but his choice of words was deliberate. He had not taken his eyes off her face. ‘It exudes evil, this place. It’s in my paintings. I’m amazed Allie can’t feel it. But she’s an astoundingly insensitive kid. Perhaps it’s because she anaesthetises herself all the time with that noisy crap she calls music.’

Kate smiled. ‘I saw the scarlet machine this morning.’

He was right. She had felt it. The evil. She gave an involuntary shudder and was furious to see that he had noticed. He smiled. Pointedly he put down his glass and, standing up, he went to the stove. Opening the doors he loaded in another log. ‘Do you want me to get in touch with the police about your visitor?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing was taken. I’m sure it was a schoolgirl prank. I’ll bolt the door in future.’

‘And you’re not worried about staying here alone?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a burglar at all. Perhaps the woman you saw was a ghost. I told you this place was haunted. Haunted and evil. The locals won’t come near it.’

Was that it, then? Was this all a ploy to frighten her away? She laughed. ‘Being a writer of history I’m happy to live with ghosts.’

‘I trust you’re not tempting providence with that remark,’ he said. Throwing himself down in his chair again he crossed his leg, left ankle on right knee and sighed. ‘I used to find it very oppressive here after a while. My paintings would change. They would grow more and more angry. Whilst I am by nature quite a sunny chap.’

She was watching him closely.

‘At the farmhouse I paint differently. With more superficiality,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘If I ever paint a masterpiece it will be in this cottage.’ For a brief moment it was as though he was talking to himself. He had forgotten she was there; forgotten he was trying to scare her. Remembering her again he glanced at her. ‘Art, it seems, must wait for commerce.’

Straight from the hip. She took it without flinching. ‘Don’t you sell your paintings then?’

‘No.’

The reply, loaded with scorn, was succeeded by a long silence. She did not pursue the subject. Studying his face as he stared morosely into the flames she was conscious suddenly of the lines of weariness around his eyes and the realisation that Greg Lindsey was a very unhappy man. The moment of insight struck her dumb. The silence dragged out uncomfortably as she, too, stared into the flickering fire.

The crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet. ‘Shit! What was that?’ Greg put down his glass.

She swallowed. She had heard a crash like that before and her investigation had found nothing. ‘The wind must have blown the door shut,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better look.’ She did not move. The room seemed suddenly warm and safe. She did not want to climb the stairs.

The noise seemed to have shaken him out of his introspection. He looked at her, noting her white face and anxious eyes and was astonished at his own reaction. He should have been pleased that she was scared but his studied hostility wavered and for a brief second he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him. ‘I’ll check.’