A Haunting Obsession

‘Daphne, has Edgar given you the keys to the McClelland place yet?’ she asked the receptionist whose job it was to keep all the keys.

‘Yes, I think so. Yes, here they are. The address is written on the tag. I have no idea where that road is, though, do you?’

‘Edgar gave us all detailed directions so we wouldn’t get lost. Apparently, it’s only five minutes from here but tucked away down a deserted bush track.’

‘Is that where you’re off to now?’

‘Sure is.’

It was only ten-thirty. Mr Plum-in-the-mouth Moneybags Vine-Hall wouldn’t arrive before twelve at the earliest. She’d make sure she was back by then with her best the-client-is-always-right smile in place, plus a possible decision over what she was going to do about Neil.

Meanwhile, she badly needed a breath of fresh air.

‘Going to show it to that man who rang from Sydney a little while ago?’ Daphne enquired eagerly.

‘Good lord, no. No, I’m not expecting him till lunchtime. I should definitely be back by then but if, for some weird and wonderful reason, I’m delayed, look after him for me, will you? His name’s Vine-Hall.’

‘My pleasure,’ Daphne cooed. ‘His voice was yummy.’

Bonnie laughed at her youthful optimism. Daphne was only nineteen. ‘My experience with yummy male telephone voices,’ she informed the bubbly brunette, ‘is that they’re connected to very fat, very bald and very un-yummy men. Mr Vine-Hall, I can assure you, will prove to be a very disappointing specimen of the male species.’

CHAPTER TWO

BONNIE’S frustration was momentarily forgotten the second she stepped out of the office on to the pavement and glanced across the main street to the beach beyond.

Blackrock Beach on a clear sunny day was something to behold. The sparkling blue sea, the clean white sands, the stately Norfolk pines in the foreground, the rugged cliffs curving round at each end of the beach—it was a view bar none. Bonnie had lived most of her life here and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Sighing, she turned and strode round to the car park behind the office, wishing as she went that Neil Campion lived somewhere else. Today, he’d moved from being a minor irritation in her life to a major problem. Bonnie wasn’t sure what to do about him yet, but she knew one thing. She wasn’t going to let him win this month’s sales competition. No, siree. The pewter mug for November was going to sit on her mantelpiece alongside October’s if it was the last thing she did.

Her decision to visit the McClelland house this morning was not just to get away from Neil. Neither was it to waste time. She was determined to find some waysome angle—of selling that monstrosity. They had few enough new listings this month and she couldn’t afford to waste a single opportunity.

It was to be thanked for that she hadn’t totally alienated Mr Moneybags earlier on. Imagine having stupidly handed him over to someone else. Daphne would probably have put him through to Neil. Bonnie shuddered at the thought.

Five minutes later, she was turning her Ford Falcon on to the narrow dirt track which led down to the McClelland house, grimacing when a cloud of dust rose from under the wheels to settle over the shiny green paintwork. Darn. Now she would have to take Mr Vine-Hall around in a dirty car. How irritating!

Bonnie automatically eased her foot off the accelerator, which was just as well because the surface was like corrugated iron. The thought of bringing clients down this excuse for a road was daunting enough, but when it came to an abrupt end in front of the oldest, tallest and rustiest pair of iron gates Bonnie had ever seen she just stared in disbelief.

Edgar hadn’t mentioned the gates. Or the crumbling stone wall. Neither were they in the photograph. Bonnie could well understand why. The house beyond was bad enough but, combined with the Count Dracula gates, the whole caboodle would give anyone the willies.

Shaking her head, she climbed out of the car and peered through the rusty rungs at the house itself. Under a bright November sun it didn’t look nearly as spooky as it had in the photograph, but still, it was hardly inviting. The once white walls were a grimy grey, with paint peeling off them. Something green and fungusy was growing all over the roof. The guttering was drooping in places and the garden, if one could call it a garden, was an overgrown disaster area.

A small laugh bubbled up in her throat as she imagined what Mr Vine-Hall would say if she showed him this place as a possible weekender. Still, it did have his two stated requirements. It was sure to have an ocean view from the upstairs windows, and Edgar had said there was a cliff trail somewhere which led down to a small private cove.

Since money was no object, then Mr Moneybags could pour plenty into having the place done up and the grounds restored. Actually, if one had some imagination, it might not look half bad. The house itself had a quirky sense of character which was missing from modern homes. As for the grounds...well, at least there was plenty of them!

Of course, not everyone wanted to live with a couple of ghosts, Bonnie conceded ruefully to herself. Maybe there were three of them, now that the lady of the house had passed away as well.

When the gates creaked alarmingly as she pushed them open, Bonnie decided it was as well she didn’t believe in ghosts. Otherwise coming here alone might have unnerved her.

Actually, she didn’t feel totally calm as she drove the car through the gateway and up to the house. All those small dark windows. Maybe someone was watching her through one of them.

Shrugging off her fanciful thoughts as ridiculous, she climbed out of the car and walked up the three cracked stone steps on to the wide but rickety front veranda. One of the planks creaked ominously underfoot, sending a shiver running down her spine.

Now stop this, she told herself firmly, and, squaring her shoulders, stepped up to the front door. Bonnie resisted the impulse to clang the iron knocker up and down to frighten away anyone or anything that might be inside. Instead, she inserted the large brass key and prepared herself for a fight to get the old lock open.

When the key turned with surprising ease, she was reminded that till recently this house had been lived in. Just because it looked as if it had been standing there forlorn and unused for years and years, it didn’t mean it was so. Bonnie swung open the door, determined not to allow herself to be besieged by any further fanciful thoughts.

Her first impression was one of darkness and mustiness, but once she’d snapped on the light the hallway was bathed in a soft warm glow, making the worn strip of patterned carpet quite welcoming. The sense of cosiness increased as she ventured further inside, and it was with an air of expectation—but no eeriness—that Bonnie continued on through the house.

The first door leading off the hallway to the left revealed a formal sitting-room, or parlour, as it was once called. None of the furniture qualified as valuable antiques, Bonnie observed, but it was all rather quaint. She wandered through the room, running a gentle hand over the backs of the chintz-covered armchairs and ignoring the cobwebs in the corners.

A pair of louvred doors led into what could only be described as a morning-room or sun-room. It was surprisingly light, with a large window and pale polished floors. An old roll-top desk stood against one wall, a battered oak sideboard against another. The sun was streaming on to a round wooden table under the window and it occurred to Bonnie that to breakfast in such a room would be a marvellous start to the day.

She moved on, opening the only exit door to find herself in a long rectangular kitchen which was a real horror. An ancient electric stove was the only reasonably modern appliance in sight. There wasn’t even a refrigerator. Lord knew how that poor old woman had managed without one.

The kitchen led into a dining-room on the other side of the house, which, in turn, was connected through another pair of louvred doors to a library-cum-study This was a most attractive room, despite its carpet being threadbare, the velvet curtains mouldy, the leather chairs worn, and the bookshelves more full of dust than books.

The whole place had potential, she decided as she climbed the rather narrow staircase. And charm. She liked it. Surely someone else would like it too?

Upstairs, the main bedroom ran the entire length of the left side of the house. But it was empty except for a large brass bed covered in a hand-crocheted cream quilt. Clearly old Mrs McClelland hadn’t used the main bedroom, despite its not smelling musty in there at all. It did, in fact, carry a faint whiff of lavender. She went over and sniffed at the pillows. Yes... lavender.

The bathroom that came off the landing at the top of the stairs was as antiquated as the kitchen. Bonnie shook her head at the chipped enamel bath on legs, and the tiny washbasin with its plug on a chain. The separate toilet had a chain for flushing as well. This brought a smile till she remembered these were the very things that would make the house difficult to sell.

Only two rooms were left upstairs, both coming off a narrow L-shaped gallery on the right side of the stairwell.

For some unaccountable reason Bonnie walked past the nearest to open the other.

It was clearly the room the old lady had slept in, despite the lack of personal effects. The furniture was dark and heavy, the rug alongside the single bed worthy of being on the endangered species list, the patchwork quilt having seen better days. The whole room was depressing, she thought, and quickly shut the door.

Which left only one room to inspect. Bonnie walked swiftly back along the narrow hallway, wanting suddenly to be done with the house, yet when her hand reached to turn this last remaining knob she hesitated. An odd nervousness claimed her and she almost turned and walked away. Then something—some force much stronger than fear—impelled her wrist to turn.

After she let the knob go, the door seemed to open by itself, creaking slowly wide. With her heart in her mouth, Bonnie took a tremulous step inside, scooping in a startled breath as her eyes travelled around the room. The tentacles of some indefinable emotion wrapped themselves around her heart and squeezed tight, bringing with it an incredible wave of sadness.

It was a nursery.

Heavy legs carried her further into the room, shaking fingers creeping out to touch the white cradle, swinging it back and forth, back and forth. Her stomach twisted as she gazed at the purity of the snow-white sheets, the delicacy of the pink and white motifs sewn on to the pillow-case. She wanted to cry when she picked up the handmade toys, crafted with such love and attention to detail. And when she opened the baby-record book on top of the chest of drawers, the sudden constriction in her chest only reinforced what she already knew.

It was empty.

Not a word had been entered in that sad, sad testament. One glance had told Bonnie that this nursery had never been occupied. There were no chips on the white furniture, no marks on the wallpaper, no tell-tale damage to the toys.

Sympathy swelled her heart as she thought of old Mrs McClelland. What unfulfilled dreams lay in this room? What heartache?

Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. Hastily she blinked them away and moved towards the large bay window that gave a perfect view of the ocean. The sun was quite hot through the glass and she flicked open the buttons of her jacket as she stood there, drinking in the view and willing herself to think happier thoughts.

But nothing could distract her from an overwhelming feeling of grief. Finally, her eyes dropped away, and she found herself peering down at the old-fashioned window-seat and the definite hollow in the padded seat.

Realisation jerked her back upright. Good God, she thought shakily. This was where the old lady used to sit and the impression of her body still lingered. How many hours had that poor woman spent here? How many times had she been drawn to this spot?