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

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels

About the Author

Also by Barbara Erskine

About the Publisher

Prologue (#u9320a8f9-f8fa-5911-b5c5-a3f41d6e7018)

Thomas

‘It is ordained that when we die and travel forward on our journey, we forget our previous lives. But sometimes they linger at the fringe of consciousness and sometimes we are forced to remember by the curiosity of others. No man is an island, the poet said, and it is axiomatic that what some prefer to keep hidden, others wish to expose.

‘And so one life in particular I recall now, a life like all lives filled with joy and sadness in equal measure, a life of ambition and fame but also of concern and care for the rights and miseries of my fellow men and women, and a life blighted in part by my own foolishness, a life whose danger I bequeathed unknowing to those who came after me.

‘We were a large family and an affectionate one, a family imbued with the Christian principles of generations, but there is still much to explore for the diligent burrower after secrets and there is danger there, not of my making, but instilled by the intentions of others for good – also for evil.

‘My forefathers came to me with warnings; I heard them but I did not always heed. I now realise how great must have been their anguish as they battered upon my consciousness and I raced on without pausing to listen. I learned but it was hard and it was dangerous.

‘It is not within my power to do more than warn those who meddle with what is past; I can only speak to those who listen.

‘I am watching over you, child of my children, but if you fail to hear my warnings, or choose not to heed them, I can do nothing to save you …’

1 (#u9320a8f9-f8fa-5911-b5c5-a3f41d6e7018)

1760

Scampering down the steep, echoing spiral stair, the small boy dragged open the heavy door and peered out into the close. In his family’s airy flat on the top floor of the tenement it was still daylight, the south-facing windows lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Down here, where the tall grey buildings closed in to shut out the light, it was almost dark. He closed the door behind him, careful to lower the latch silently so the clunk of metal on metal did not echo up the stone stairway, then he skipped across the yard to the archway that led out into the High Street.

He knew he was forbidden to come out by himself. He knew the crowded streets were full of potential danger for a ten-year-old boy on his own. He didn’t care. He was bored. His mother thought he was studying his books, his father was closeted in his study and his brothers and sisters, all older by far than himself, were busy about their own business. Out here on the streets of Edinburgh it was noisy, busy and exciting. He looked this way and that, hesitating for only a moment, then he ran out into the crowds where the din was overwhelming. Music spilled out from a tavern nearby; people were shouting, the sound of hooves echoed back and forth from the walls as did the rattle of wheels on the rough cobbles that paved the narrow street.

He headed up the hill towards St Giles’ kirk and the tempting range of shops and booths nestling against its northern walls, and was gazing longingly into the bowed window of a pie shop when a fight broke out only feet from him, the two men shouting at each other quickly surrounded by crowds, yelling at them, cheering them on. The quarrel grew more heated, blows were exchanged, then one of the men drew a dirk. Thomas barely saw what happened next but he heard the gasp of the crowd as the blade found its mark, saw both men hesitate, seemingly equally appalled, as the ribald comments from the onlookers died away and fell silent and the shorter of the men slumped slowly to his knees and then forward onto his face. Thomas saw the scarlet stain spreading down the man’s jacket and onto the cobbles as he fell, his face contorted with pain as he gave a final spasm and then lay still.

The crowd scattered, leaving Thomas staring at the slumped figure. Seeing the little boy standing there alone, a woman turned and grabbed his arm, dragging him away. After a moment’s hesitation he followed her, too shocked to protest, turning to look over his shoulder at the body lying motionless on the ground as the rain began to fall. Someone had summoned the Town Guard. He heard a whistle and angry shouts. It was too late. The killer had vanished into the network of alleyways beyond the kirk.

As he watched, the boy saw the shadow of the dead man rise up and stand looking down at his own body. He held out his hands in a pathetic, futile gesture of protest, then he looked up. Thomas thought he saw the man’s eyes seeking his own, pleading, before he faded slowly away.

He stood watching for one horrified second, then he turned and ran, ducking out of reach of the woman’s motherly grasp, dodging through the crowds back down the street towards the safety of Gray’s Close. He reached the familiar shadows of the entry, hurtling in, away from the horrors of the scene behind him, crossing the rain-slippery cobbles, desperate to get home. Fumbling with the latch he pushed the heavy door open, pausing in the impenetrable darkness at the foot of the stairwell, trying to get his breath, tears pouring down his face, before heading up the long steep spiral stairs. On, he went, his small feet pounding up the worn stone steps, on and on, up and up …

Ruth Dunbar woke with a start, staring into the blackness of the bedroom in her father’s Edinburgh house, grasping for the dream, still feeling the little boy’s terror as he ran, still seeing the drama unfold, raising her eyes in her dream from the body lying in the dark street to the shadowed grey walls, the crowds, illuminated so dramatically by the flaming torch held in the raised hand of a bystander, her gaze travelling on up to the great crown steeple of St Giles’, starkly unmistakable halfway down Edinburgh’s spine, silhouetted against the last crimson streaks of the stormy sunset.

She hugged her pillow to her, her breath steadying slowly as her eyes closed again.

In the morning she would remember nothing of the dream. Only much later would it surface to haunt her.

2 (#u9320a8f9-f8fa-5911-b5c5-a3f41d6e7018)

The Present Day

‘Presumably you’re going to sell the house?’ Harriet Jervase sat back on the sofa and studied her friend Ruth’s face.

There was an almost tangible silence in the room and then, clearly audible, footsteps moving softly through the hallway outside and up the stairs.

Ruth put her finger to her lips and stood up. Tiptoeing to the door, she pulled it open. The hall was empty, crepuscular beneath the high ceiling of the staircase well. She reached for the light switch. The austere hanging lamp with its faded shade threw an awkward cold light which left shadows over the turns in the staircase. Upstairs she heard the sound of a door closing.

She went back into the living room. ‘That man gives me the creeps,’ she said, throwing herself down in her chair again. ‘He was listening at the door, I’m sure he was.’

‘Why don’t you tell him to go?’ Harriet was Ruth’s oldest friend. The two women had been at school together and had remained in touch over the years since. To Ruth, the only child of comparatively elderly parents, Harriet had been the nearest thing to a sibling. It was a given that she would have come up to Edinburgh for Ruth’s father’s funeral.

‘I can’t just throw him out. He was so kind to Dad.’

The presence of Timothy Bradford in the house had been an unwelcome surprise when she arrived. He appeared to have been staying there for some time, very much at home.

‘Have you asked him what his plans are?’

Ruth shook her head. ‘It’s too soon.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Harriet’s voice was crisp. ‘He’s obviously not going to go until you say something.’ She gave Ruth a quizzical glance. ‘I know you feel you should have come up here sooner when your dad fell ill, but be honest, Ruth, he didn’t tell you there was a problem; you came as soon as you knew. And if Timothy was comfortable looking after him, that was his choice. On his own admission, your dad has given him free bed and board in Edinburgh for months, but it’s over now. Whatever you decide to do with the house, he has to go.’

‘You’re right,’ Ruth agreed gloomily.