The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller

It was a long time before she managed to drag herself downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on with shaking hands. It must have been the takeaway she and Timothy had had the night before, she decided vaguely. Prawn curry. Always a mistake. Perhaps that was why Timothy hadn’t come home. He had been smitten too. She glanced at the clock on the wall above the bread bin.

Carrying her mug of tea, she went through into the lounge, turned on the light, sat down at the table and reached for her mobile. ‘Tim? Where the hell are you?’ It was a moment before she realised it had gone to voicemail. The bozo had turned it off. She slammed it down on the table and swore again under her breath.

Upstairs, in the back bedroom, a frosty rime was slowly spreading across the floor.

‘If I’d known helping you with research was going to be as much fun as this, I would have cleared my schedule the moment I met you!’

It was a sunny morning and Finlay had volunteered to drive Ruth over the Queensferry Bridge across the Forth and on to St Andrews to have lunch, naturally, and to look for Lady Buchan’s Cave.

They were standing at the top of the cliff, looking down at the rocks below, between the cathedral and the castle, the stark stone of the ruins warmed by a sun already low in the west. This was a dramatic coastline, scarred by history and the unrelenting onslaught of the sea, the rocky ribs and sandy coves washed constantly by the force of the waves. They had toured the cathedral and castle and been met with puzzled shakes of the head when they asked about the cave. No one had heard of it. Then at last they had been directed to a local historian. ‘I’m afraid the sea took it,’ he said mournfully. No one had ever asked him this question before, he said, and he obviously felt he had failed them by having to tell them it had gone. The cave had succumbed to the constant erosion of the cliffs sometime in the nineteenth century.

‘But it must have been down there somewhere,’ Ruth said sadly, ‘and on those beaches below it, Thomas played with the drowned boy.’

Finlay shuddered. ‘I’m not sure I’m so keen on that idea. Or chasing up your ghost monks at Inchmahome. Can we leave those as read? What about a quick trip to the Caribbean instead?’ and his booming laugh echoed off the walls of the castle tower.

15 (#ulink_ef81acca-6a2a-567c-b8a6-1c674c23ebe3)

By the time the Tartar sighted Barbados on 13 May, Tom had settled into the routine of shipboard life as if he had been aboard one of His Majesty’s ships for years. He was a good pupil and full of energy. He learned fast and made friends easily amongst the men and the officers; the gunner’s wife who was charged with overseeing the welfare of the boys on the ship kept a quiet eye on him, as always trying to avoid favourites and knowing that any signs of preference for one boy over another would lead to jealousies and petty cruelties out of sight down on the orlop deck. One boy had already been badly hurt when the fixings of his hammock had been loosened and he had fallen awkwardly onto the boards beneath.

Jamie and Tom had whispered together that night; they knew who had done it and why. At eight years old, Robbie was the youngest and smallest boy aboard the ship. He still cried at the end of his watches, thinking his tears were inaudible, and when the gunner’s wife went to comfort him he clung to her and begged to get off the ship, seemingly unable to comprehend that they were at sea, far from any port. She did her best to reassure him whilst drying his tears and robustly trying to instil what she called backbone. It was of little help. The boy was fading before their eyes, his misery compounded by the vicious bullying of the lad who hung his hammock beside him.

‘No, Tom, don’t get involved!’ Jamie caught his arm and pulled him away as Tom clenched his fists that evening, watching as the little boy’s mess tin was grabbed and ostentatiously emptied onto his neighbour’s already over-full portion.

‘Finished so soon, youngster?’ the cocky voice crowed as Robbie stared down, bewildered, into his empty bowl.

‘Give it back!’ Tom shouted across the table. He was unaware of the sudden authority in his voice. Jamie cowed back out of sight beside him. ‘You great bully! What has this poor lad ever done to you?’

‘He annoys me, that’s what!’ Andrew Farquhar stood up, ducking his head away from the lantern swinging from the low beam above their heads. ‘With his snivelling and his whining. So?’ The face, now turned in Tom’s direction, was set with dislike. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Tom flinched back, but he forced himself to stand up. He was a good head shorter than his opponent. ‘I’m not going to do anything. You are going to give him back his food,’ he said as firmly as he could. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Andrew grab his tin and, anticipating the next move, shouted, ‘And you are not going to throw it on the floor. You are going to put it back on his plate.’

‘Oh, his plate!’ Farquhar’s voice had risen into a singsong mockery of Tom’s Scots accent. ‘We ordinary folk, we eat out of tins. But your lordship has a plate. Where is it then? In your box, is it? All painted with gold and silver, is it?’ He launched a kick at Tom’s sea chest. Jamie had been sitting on it beside Tom and as he ducked sideways to avoid the vicious attack he slipped awkwardly to the floor.

‘I am not a lord,’ Tom said through gritted teeth. In spite of his blind fury he was surprised to feel himself becoming calmer as his opponent blustered more and more loudly. ‘I am a fair man who hates to see a great blooter like you bully someone small and helpless, and I’m sure our friends feel the same.’ He did not dare look at the others round the crowded mess table. The silence after the chatter and laughter was intense.

‘I’m sure they do not,’ Andrew said, so softly his voice was all but inaudible above the creak of the timbers round them.

Tom became aware that Jamie was scrambling to his feet beside him. He reached over for Jamie’s shoulder and pushed him, trying to stop him standing up, but Jamie shrugged him off. ‘They do,’ he announced staunchly.

One or two of the others nodded, the others remained stock-still, their eyes moving shiftily between Tom and his protagonist.

Andrew dropped the tin on the trestle, splashing the gravy over the scrubbed wood. ‘Take it then, if you are so hungry. Eat mine as well. Why don’t you.’ He turned and pushed his way out of the entrance into the cockpit beyond. They heard his feet on the ladder, and it was only then that Tom became aware of the greater silence from the seamen who had moments before been shouting and laughing beyond the wooden partition which separated the midshipmen from the rest. With a sinking heart, he realised the altercation had been clearly audible to the whole watch below.

Mastering his trepidation, he gave Robbie a smile as he pushed the mess tin towards him. ‘Go on, Rob. Take your chance. Eat up.’

The boy seized his spoon and stuck it into the mess of stew but after two mouthfuls he dropped the spoon and stood up, ducking away from the table. Only seconds later they heard him retching into a bucket.

One by one their companions resumed their meal. No one spoke. Tom glanced at Jamie, who grimaced and put his finger to his lips. Robbie huddled against the ship’s side in the shadows. He said nothing either.

It was later, as the watch slept, that Tom woke suddenly and saw, in the last flickering light of the candle stub, a figure standing over Robbie’s hammock, fiddling with its fixings. ‘Hey!’ he called, but it was too late. As the burly shadow melted back into the darkness Robbie let out a scream and there was a crash, followed by two great throaty sobs, then silence. Somewhere someone grabbed a flint and lit the lantern. The boy’s body was lying awkwardly across the corner of his sea chest and he seemed to be unconscious. The loosened end of the hammock was trapped beneath his body.

A burly sailor carried Robbie up to the sickbay and the acting surgeon and the gunner’s wife gave him as much help as they could, waving sal volatile under his nose and burning feathers, straightening his bent limbs, setting a splint on his leg. As dawn rose he opened his eyes but he recognised no one. Tom was called when word below deck identified him as Robbie’s friend and only an hour later, with Tom holding his hand, the little boy died. The shadow that left him had no more substance than a wisp of smoke.

Tom was sent for by the captain. Lieutenant Murray was standing beside him as Tom went into the day cabin. Beyond the great stern windows he could see the roll of the waves, a cloud of gulls swooping and diving into the ship’s wake.

‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night.’ Sir John had a notebook open before him on his desk and a pen in his hand. Tom looked anxiously at the blank page as the captain fixed him with a firm stare, ‘Every detail, if you please.’

Tom told him. At some level he was aware that the code of loyalty amongst his fellow midshipmen would demand silence, but he had been brought up to tell the truth. Besides, he was burning with anger and shock. The sight of the little boy, lying on the bunk before him, the feel of the small hand, so trusting and warm, which had for a moment squeezed his own before falling limp and then oh so quickly grown cold, had moved him beyond measure.

‘And did anyone else see Midshipman Farquhar loosen the hammock?’ Sir John said, his eyes narrowing.

‘No, sir. They were all asleep.’

‘How can you be absolutely certain it was him if it was dark?’ George Murray asked.

‘There was a candle stub still burning, sir. Just enough light to see by.’

‘And you are prepared to swear to this on oath?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It has been known for hammock fastenings to be loosened as a joke,’ George Murray put in.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As it was when I was a middy,’ the captain put in, ‘and no doubt when you were too, George.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ the lieutenant said slowly. He scowled. ‘So this could have been a practical joke that went wrong.’

‘Midshipman Farquhar is a bully, sir. He hated Robbie,’ Tom put in. ‘He had done it before and he must have known the boy would be badly hurt.’

‘So you are saying he deliberately set out to hurt him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But not to kill him?’

Tom hesitated. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

The captain and the lieutenant exchanged glances. ‘Very well. Have Midshipman Farquhar taken up and put in irons, Mr Murray,’ the captain said wearily. ‘We will have a full investigation and then I will hear the case. Only if a court of officers finds him guilty of murder will we proceed to a court martial when we reach port. Otherwise the matter will be dealt with on the ship.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The lieutenant sighed. ‘We will have to inform Robbie’s mother that her son is dead and the navy will have to pay the woman compensation.’ He glanced at the captain. ‘Shall I draw up the letter, sir?’

‘Indeed. Perhaps you can use Tom as your amanuensis so he can see what has to be done. It is all part of his training. And Thomas,’ Sir John’s tone was stern again, ‘I would advise you to watch your step below decks. I would guess you will have made an enemy or two by pointing the finger at Farquhar.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Tom saluted.

‘And, George,’ the captain added, his voice very weary, ‘prepare the ship for a burial at sea.’