The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

But I do know!

She managed not to say the words out loud. Hastily swallowing her coffee, she stood up. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. But I must go now, and you’ll be wanting to get back to work. I hope all remains peaceful.’

She hoped her departure had not been too abrupt as she drove down the hill and turned onto the winding road that led back towards civilisation. As she had run down the cottage steps she had glanced towards the flower bed for a last glimpse of the stone. There was nothing to be seen but the tossing heads of the daffodils.

Chris and Ray lived in a lovely old house in the centre of Eardisley, one of the villages on what was known as the Black-and-White Trail, a group of little towns famous for their timber-framed buildings. It was only twenty minutes or so from the cottage.

Bea followed her through into the kitchen.

‘So, has the ghost gone?’ Chris was sorting laundry and in the next-door utility room, the washing machine and dryer were going full tilt. She was a plump, motherly woman, some twenty years older than Bea. ‘Sorry about this. It’s change-over day for our B & B guests in the house. What with Easter coming up, we’re run off our feet. You have no idea what a relief it is not to have to change the sheets every couple of days in the cottage as well. That’s why I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my first and only long-term tenant.’ She glanced over at Bea. ‘The ghost has gone?’

Bea had an irresistible vision of her catching a ghost in a butterfly net and putting it out of the window. ‘As far as we can tell. It has only been one day.’

‘But you think so, right?’

Bea nodded slowly.

‘And it was a real ghost?’

Bea smiled. ‘Oh yes, it was a real ghost.’

She watched as Chris sorted through another load of sheets and stacked them on the ironing board. ‘I thought you had someone to help you with all that.’

Chris nodded. ‘But even ladies who help go on holiday. Usually at the most inconvenient times.’ She sat down and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘God, I’m knackered. Let’s have a glass of wine. Then I’ll make us something to eat. Ray has swanned off for the day to play golf.’ She slid off the stool to retrieve a couple of glasses from the draining board. She reached for the half-empty bottle of red wine on the worktop and unscrewed the top. ‘So, we own a haunted cottage. What a turn-up for the books. I wonder if I need to declare it when I describe the place for the next visitor. Perhaps not. I wouldn’t like to see it on TripAdvisor. It’s a bit lonely, and not everyone likes a haunted house. You’re sure it’s gone?’

‘I’m almost sure.’ Bea grinned.

‘But I can see you’re not happy about something. Has Mark been beating you again?’ She loved teasing Bea’s gentle, serious husband.

Bea laughed. ‘How did you guess? No, it’s nothing to do with Mark, bless him. It’s …’ she hesitated, ‘to do with the cottage. Do you happen to know how old it is?’

But even as she asked, she knew how irrelevant the question was and Simon had already answered it. The building itself wasn’t old enough to feature in her visions – Offa had lived twelve hundred years ago. But the ground on which it stood, the ground from which she had picked the stone, was a different matter. That stone could have been lying there, parted from its bedrock, for thousands, millions, of years; it could have been part of some old walls. And perhaps, just perhaps, Eadburh herself was the contact. Could she have touched it? Maybe she had picked it up, held it in her hand long enough for it to assimilate something of her emotions. Thrown it at her officious bodyguard.

Chris pushed one of the glasses towards Bea and sat down next to her. ‘Sorry, this might be a bit manky. We opened it a couple of days ago. And no, I’ve no idea how old the cottage is. A hundred years or so, I’d guess. I can’t remember what it said on the deeds when we bought it. Nothing very exciting or I would have put it on the website. Come on, darling, spill the beans. What happened when you were up there on your own?’

Bea looked at her friend doubtfully. Chris seemed genuinely concerned, and interested. She had never mocked Bea’s unusual talents, unlike some. ‘I heard the voice Simon complained about and then I saw her, just vaguely, in the garden at the back.’

‘Flipping heck!’ Chris reached for the bottle and topped up her own glass. Then, almost as an afterthought, she poured some more into Bea’s as well. ‘Are you sure?’

Bea gave a rueful nod.

‘It was your imagination.’ Chris folded her arms. ‘It must have been.’

‘No,’ Bea whispered. ‘It wasn’t.’

9

‘Hello, Mark. Did Bea find you earlier?’ Seeing Mark heading purposefully away from the cathedral office in the College Cloisters, a file of papers under his arm, Sandra Bedford hurried to catch up with him. ‘I thought she looked very tired,’ she said. ‘And worried.’

Mark suppressed his irritation. People like Sandra were the backbone of the cathedral. Without them, the place could not run as smoothly as it did, he reminded himself sternly, but this particular woman was a busybody he could well do without. ‘I haven’t seen her since I left home. I must have missed her. I’ve been in meetings all morning.’

‘Perhaps she left you a message?’

The slight query in the remark seemed to imply he should reach for his phone and then tell her what Bea had wanted. He sighed. His smile was strained and he hoped she didn’t notice. ‘I’m on my way home anyway.’ Already he was on the move again. ‘I’ll