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

Thomas

I knew Ruth wnted to speak with me; but I also knew she was terrified that it might happen. She was a brave woman, and in that she was Lucy’s daughter, but she was also her father’s child and alone in a dark and gloomy house. My own father had tried to distract me from the consequences of the gift of second sight, and from my precocious insistence that I knew best; if this young woman had the same tendencies, I knew she would have to be brought to the realisation gently and somehow taught, as I was taught, to handle it with care. For the time being, I contented myself with thinking back to my childhood and wondering how she would confront the truths of my life if she persisted in following the paths of her research, and, on this occasion, I left her to her thoughts and dreams rather than give in to the temptation to appear.

9

Lord Buchan studied his youngest son carefully. Tom was twelve now, clever, cheeky and precocious. He was standing in front of his father looking at this moment extremely sheepish. ‘Well, boy, did you do it?’ the earl sighed. They had been here before. With his eldest brother now in the army and Harry at university, Tom had been left at home with his sisters to be tutored by their mother. Agnes was a brilliant woman and she had taught all her children in turn, imbuing in them her own passion for learning as well as her strict religious views, and yet here was Tom, still running wild in the streets, this time caught stealing from a stall in the Grassmarket below the great castle walls. His excuse, given with passionate indignation, was not a denial but an explanation that there could be no crime for he had stolen from a rich man, who could well afford the loss, to give to a poor one. Lord Buchan sighed. The boy had no idea that, had he been a poor man himself, he would have faced the direst penalties for what he had done. Only a substantial bribe had bought off the indignant stallholder, a bribe they could not afford. Poverty, though, was relative. His paltry two hundred pounds a year would be an undreamed of fortune to the would-be recipient of his son’s intended largess.

‘I am sending you away, Tom. Mr Buchanan shall be your tutor and you will go to Kirkhill to learn discipline and study until you are ready to go to the High School.’ He did not add that they could not afford to send him to the school, otherwise he would have been there already. David and Harry were the lucky ones. Money had been scraped together for their education and now for David’s commission in the army, and enough for Harry to study law, but for this third son, probably the brightest of them all, there was little left in the coffers.

Tom looked down at his feet. He managed to master his conflicting emotions; relief that he was not to be beaten; horror at the thought of a tutor of his own and delight that he would once more be in the country. He loved the old tower house of Kirkhill, with the Brox Burn, the broad wild valley of Strathbrock and its distant views of the Pentland Hills, the River Almond less than an hour’s walk away. There he would be able to study all the things which fascinated him most, botany and birds and animals, and when the rain streamed down the windows he could read his way through the mildewed books which remained abandoned in the library.

The summer went much as Tom had planned. He enjoyed enormously his lessons in the improvised schoolroom above the stables. Mr Buchanan, though strict, was a brilliant teacher; he was inclined to allow the boy his head between lessons, identifying, as Tom’s father had done, a streak of brilliance there that he believed would be best channelled by allowing the boy free rein as far as possible.

When the end of Tom’s exile came it was unexpected and deliriously exciting. His brother Harry rode out from Edinburgh with the news.

‘We are giving up the flat in Edinburgh. It’s too expensive,’ Harry said candidly as he sat with Tom over a plate of scones, spread with butter from the mains. He had brought a letter for Mr Buchanan, who sat near them reading it, his expression thoughtful. ‘Papa has taken a house in St Andrews and you are to attend the high school there. Mama is pleased with the development,’ he hesitated for only a fraction of a second, a hesitation into which Tom read a multiplicity of meanings, ‘and we are to go at once.’ On the far side of the table Mr Buchanan looked from one boy to the other with quiet satisfaction. Neither noticed. ‘Anne is not coming with us,’ Harry added wistfully.

Tom looked up. He had stuffed another scone into his mouth and was chewing with much enjoyment. ‘What is she going to do? Has Mama found her a husband?’ he asked when at last he could speak.

‘She’s going to Bath.’

‘Bath?’ Tom stared at his brother in astonishment. ‘In England?’

‘She has been writing to Lady Huntingdon about the church and God and stuff, and she is going to go and help with all that.’ Harry waved his hand in the air expansively. ‘Mama thinks she will be happier there. I heard her tell Papa that Anne is not made to marry.’ He frowned, catching sight of Mr Buchanan’s expression as he glanced up from his letter. ‘We’ll see her often,’ he hurried on. ‘Papa says perhaps we’ll go and visit her.’ Both boys were fond of their eldest sister. She was kind and amusing and had mothered them in ways for which their real mother had little inclination.

Once the plan was voiced it all happened very quickly. Mr Buchanan left for a position at Glasgow University. Friends and servants were left behind with fond farewells and promises of an eventual return. The family’s furniture and clothes and belongings were loaded onto a ship at Leith and sent off to Fife ahead of them, and before the autumn gales had set in they were ensconced in their new home.

Tom was delighted that at last he would be going to school, little realising that one of the reasons for his parents’ move from Edinburgh was, at the strong recommendation of his tutor, to save enough money to pay his fees. He enjoyed St Andrews. He began to study at the university, taking classes in mathematics and natural philosophy and attending Richard Dick’s school of Latin with Harry. He learned to dance, he watched the soldiers on parade and the ships in the harbour, and he explored the countryside and the coastline at every opportunity, striding out with his thumb stick and a bag of food over his shoulder in all weathers. He loved the sea; the waves crashing onto the rocky shore throwing spume high into the air, the roar of the water echoing in the ruins of the castle and the gaunt skeleton of the ancient cathedral that rose so starkly above the cliffs. He shivered as he stood looking out across incalculable distances, setting his shoulders against the long-dead voices that called out from the ancient stones around him.

In the cliff below the spot where he was standing his mother had laid claim to the cave where, so the story went, St Rule had landed on the shores of the ancient kingdom of Fife, bringing with him the precious relics of St Andrew, relics long ago lost to the furies of John Knox and his reformers. The cave was a dark, mysterious place but his mother had had it transformed with seashells, and chairs and tables, and, after she had had steps cut into the cliff to make it easier to reach, she held tea parties there. He disapproved. In some secret place within his soul he thought of the cave as sacred, and besides he knew the locals thought his mother mad. Not that she worried about such things; she had no time for St Andrew, nor for the opinion of her neighbours.

It was here he met the boy. Sheltering in the cave when his mother was busy elsewhere and the icy winds had driven everyone off the streets, Tom caught sight of a lad about his own age, standing by the entrance, looking out to sea. ‘Hey!’ Tom called. He ran to catch him up, but the boy was ahead of him, jumping down the cliff path towards the rocks below the castle. The boy stopped as he reached the sand, glancing back over his shoulder, waiting for Tom, then he ran on, his hair wet with the rain, his jacket flying open in the wind.

He never found out the boy’s name but they played together often, exploring the ruins of the castle and the cathedral, the boy leading him down hidden steps to the sea gate, running along the great curtain wall, balancing high above the sea, climbing off the stones and leaping down the stairs by the postern gate. They spent hours together scrambling on the ruins, on the cliffs, chasing along the sands at low tide, until the reluctant scholar was recalled to his books by his tutors.

It was the day that Harry came to find him and bring him home that he last saw his friend.

‘Mama has sent me to fetch you,’ Harry called. ‘We have visitors from the south with messages from Anne.’

Tom had been throwing stones into the sea, laughing, competing with the other boy as to who could throw them furthest, skimming them above waves that for once were calm.

‘I’ll have to go!’ he called, turning.

The boy had gone. He left no footprints in the sand.

‘Who were you talking to?’ Harry enquired as they jogged down South Street towards their house.

‘No one.’ Tom managed to look nonchalant as he stopped to empty some stones from his shoe. ‘I was shouting at the gulls.’

He knew Harry didn’t believe him, but he didn’t care.

He was happy and excited; not for one moment did he realise that he was about to be given the first great shock and disappointment of his young life.

‘I can no longer afford your fees!’ Lord Buchan was striding up and down the room, his daughter’s letter in his hand. Tom was standing before him white-faced. ‘I am sorry, Tom. If there was another way I would take it, I promise you.’

‘But the university! You promised! I am already going to lectures—’

‘No. It’s not possible and we can’t stay here after all. I am sorry. The fees for your brothers have taken every penny we have.’ The earl’s face was grey with worry and fatigue. ‘You must understand, Tom, that as the youngest your needs have to come last. David will inherit the title when my time comes; and Harry will go into the law. We have to find another way forward for you, and Anne has suggested we join her in Bath. She has a house there, thanks to her friend Lady Huntingdon, and she feels your mother and I could be of use to her in spreading the message about Methodism.’ He glanced at his son’s face; the devastation he saw there was a physical blow. ‘I am sorry, Tom. I know how much store you set by continuing your studies and going on to a profession.’

‘And Harry?’ Tom asked. ‘Is he to go to Bath too?’

‘No.’ His father shook his head. ‘He will visit us, when he can, but he will remain here at St Andrews. I have managed to find him somewhere to lodge.’

‘So, what will become of me?’ Tom managed to keep his voice steady. He took a deep breath. ‘I suppose it will be the army, like David?’ Could he imagine himself as a soldier? The idea had never crossed his mind, but that was the traditional destiny of a younger son.

His father gave him a look of deep compassion. ‘Commissions in the army cost money, Tom. But we will face that decision when we must. Anne has many friends and contacts in Bath. I am sure something will turn up. I am praying every day that God will provide for you.’ He smiled at the boy, well aware that Tom was fighting back tears. His heart ached for his precocious youngest son.

On his last day in St Andrews, Tom went back to the castle to look for his friend. A fierce wind had arisen, tearing at his jacket, threatening to push him off the cliffs, screaming through the ruins, streaking the sky with rain. Huge waves rolled in over the rocks, smashing themselves against the foot of the cliffs, hurling spray high into the sky. Tom looked round helplessly. Where was he? Somehow he had thought the boy would be here, but there was no sign of him in the remains of the courtyard or beneath the tower or in the shelter of the remaining walls.

His shoulders slumped with disappointment as he stood looking out at the wild sea, its distances shrouded with bellying cloud. His friend was one of the dead. He had always known that, always recognised that the boy must have drowned in the sea and that his longing for companionship and the life he had so cruelly lost so young had brought him back to the shore. ‘May God bless you,’ he whispered. ‘I shall miss you.’

10

‘No, of course I didn’t try it.’ When Harriet rang Ruth the next morning, she laughed. ‘This is me you’re talking to, Hattie. I do not, never would, try to summon ghosts.’

She looked round the room with a shiver. Even in the mornings the kitchen was such a gloomy place with its high ceilings and shadowed corners, and she was beginning to hate it.

There was a moment of silence as Harriet considered what to do next. Giving up was obviously not an option. ‘Pity, but don’t worry. I looked up some stuff about Dion and how she contacted ghosts last night. As far as I can gather, she and her companions meditated.’

‘I’m not the right person to try this,’ Ruth said firmly.

‘Yes, you are. You’re perfect. You’re a relation of his. You must have some sort of link. Besides, your father could do it and he didn’t believe in it either and he loathed the man.’ Harriet was not going to be thwarted that easily. ‘Let me read it up some more then I’ll call you back, OK?’

Ruth spent the morning tidying up, going through the drawers in the dining room and the sitting room. Then later she went upstairs. On the first landing she stopped and listened. It was very cold up there and strangely still. It was as though there was a tangible presence in the silence of the house. ‘Timothy? Is that you?’ She knew it couldn’t be, but it felt as though there was someone there listening to the silence with her. She could feel the heavy sadness, the pall of loneliness. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered at last. One by one she went into the rooms, looked round, then moved on. In her father’s room she paused a little longer, her eyes drawn to his empty bed. It was stripped now, but, unable to bear the sight of it with her father gone, she had thrown a tartan rug over it. It did nothing to dispel the emptiness of the room. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered again.

There was no reply.

The top landing was dully lit from the skylight. She could hear the rattle of rain on the glass above her head. Almost reluctantly she went into the back room and pulled open the cupboard doors. There was nothing left in there now except for some old newspapers on the top shelf. She reached up to them, and then, feeling something more substantial underneath them, stood on tiptoe to drag everything down off the shelf.

There were three large brown envelopes beneath the papers, tied together with thin pieces of ribbon. She carried them over to the divan, surprised at how heavy they were and, sliding off the ribbon, teased one open. On the envelope was one word: COPIES. It contained a substantial collection of letters, all in the same handwriting, which was faded, old fashioned, with a marked slope to the right. She felt a leap of excitement. The letters appeared to have been copied from originals addressed to various people over quite a long period. The top one was headed Walcot. She slid the letters carefully back into the envelope and, gathering them all up, turned back towards the stairs.

The radio and some strenuous house cleaning did nothing to dispel the lonely gloom of the house. Even the letters failed to tempt her and at last she reached for her phone.

Finlay was at home. ‘I’ll come and fetch you about five,’ he said at once. ‘Come for supper and stay the night.’

‘I’ve already looked,’ Finlay said, as he pulled away from the kerb. He had noticed the nervous way she glanced over her shoulder. ‘I can’t see him.’

She gave a grim smile. ‘He’s not going to give up that easily, though, is he.’

‘Probably not, but we’re a match for him.’ Finlay turned into the traffic on Morningside Road. ‘I gather he doesn’t know yet that we’re on to him over the forgery?’

‘I don’t think so. James Reid is waiting for my go-ahead.’

‘So, why are you waiting?’

‘I’m afraid he will destroy the things he stole.’ She glanced across at him helplessly. ‘And I can’t prove what, if anything, he’s taken. Catch twenty-two.’

Finlay checked the mirror and signalled left as they headed for the centre of town. He grimaced. ‘I can see that’s a problem.’ He drew up behind another queue of cars. ‘But I would be inclined to act sooner rather than later. He must realise you’re on to him. Why otherwise would you have changed the locks? So,’ he went on, ‘tell me about the conversation your neighbour overheard between your father and Lord Erskine.’

‘There is nothing to tell. Poor Daddy must have been hearing things. That house is so lonely and quiet it would drive anyone round the bend after a bit.’ She shuddered.

‘And you weren’t the littlest bit tempted to try and summon Lord E?’ She had told him about Harriet’s input. He turned to look at her as they waited at the lights.

She laughed. ‘Certainly not. To that extent, I’m my father’s daughter. But …’ her voice faded. ‘But,’ she repeated, more strongly, ‘Daddy wasn’t the sort of man to talk to himself.’

Finlay thought for a minute. ‘My house is haunted.’ He lived in an old mill near the village of Cramond, about five miles along the coast from the centre of Edinburgh. ‘I’ve seen her several times. A lovely wee girl. She plays in the garden and sometimes round the old stable block at the back. Several other people have seen her too.’

‘Ah.’

‘That sounds sceptical? Defensive? Disappointed? You wanted me to be an ally.’

‘No. I wanted the hear the cold light of reason. I expected the cold light of reason.’

‘Sorry. Do you want me to take you back to your father’s?’

She laughed. ‘No way. You promised me supper.’

‘Indeed I have. A soupçon I’ve taken from the freezer, but I’m sure it will please.’ Finlay’s cooking was famous. It was also probably responsible for his somewhat large girth. He was a cookery writer and in a small way a TV celebrity.

Glancing in the driving mirror again he indicated right and changed lanes, then he slowed to turn off the main road. Ruth leaned back in her seat, her eyes closed, relaxing for the first time in days. Seconds later she was shocked into wakefulness as Finlay swung the car left and then right again into a quiet housing estate where he pulled in sharply in front of a parked furniture van.

‘Finlay! What’s happening? What are you doing?’

‘Hush! Duck right down.’ Finlay was studying the wing mirror. ‘I was wrong; he was following us. It’s OK, I think I’ve lost him, but he’ll turn round when he realises. I recognised the car. He moved up closer in the heavier traffic just now so I was able to check the number. He must have been waiting round the corner as we left. That’s the problem with having a red car; it’s easy to spot.’ Finlay drove an old maroon Daimler.

They sat in silence for several minutes then Finlay pushed open the door. ‘You stay here. Lock yourself in. I’ll go up to the corner and peer round. See if he’s cruising up and down the road.’

‘I’m not staying here on my own!’ Ruth reached for the door handle.

‘He’ll recognise you if he’s there.’

‘You think he won’t recognise you?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You spoke to him on the doorstep. And he’s not going to forget what you look like, Finlay Macdermott!’

‘Touché! Come on then.’ He reached out for her hand.

They looked round cautiously. There was no sign of Timothy’s car.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Ruth breathed.

‘Probably. I won’t drive straight home, just in case.’

They drove around for twenty minutes before deciding it was safe to head for Cramond. As they drew to a halt outside the mellow stone-built old house with its long driveway and broad gravelled parking area, it was already growing dark. Ruth followed him through the front door and into his kitchen. ‘Ssh!’ Finlay put his fingers to his lips. Tiptoeing across the floor, he pulled the curtains and only then did he turn on the lights.

Ruth looked round. The room was warm and full of the succulent fragrance of cooking herbs. It was years since she had been here. Then it had been with Rick and they had had the most wonderful few days in Fin’s company. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered it, with a huge oak dresser and refectory table, a bookcase stuffed with cookery books and several framed French posters on the stone walls. The only nod to modernity was a circular ceiling rack laden with shiny saucepans and utensils, and an elegant kitchen island with an attendant cluster of high stools.

‘It is lovely to be here again, Fin.’ She climbed onto a stool and accepted a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. ‘We had such a lovely time when I came with Rick.’ She watched as he slid a dish out of the oven and checked it. Satisfied, he pushed it back, threw down the oven gloves, adjusted the heat slightly then he turned to her. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Wait there.’

The something was the writing slope. He had mended the lock and somehow removed the deep scratches from the wood. Ruth exclaimed with delight. ‘You’re so clever. You would never know it had been damaged!’

‘I enjoy doing things like that. A bit of a hobby. Open it.’

She did so. Inside was an envelope. She picked it up. ‘What’s this?’

‘Something I found when I was mending it. The blotter is made to lift up to form yet another secret cavity.’

She peered into the envelope and extricated a small folded piece of paper. ‘It’s a letter!’

‘A very old one.’

She unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table. The handwriting was small, closely crammed on the page, the ink faded to sepia. Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out the last line of the address at the top. ‘It’s Sussex. Where my grandparents lived.’

My Darling Daughter

it was signed

Your loving mother, xxx

With a grunt Finlay climbed off his stool to fetch a magnifying glass from the dresser. ‘I needed this to read it. Very charming. I’ve no idea who these people are, but it seems affectionate. Try this.’ He pushed the glass over towards her.

Ruth studied the letter. ‘I’ve no idea who they are either.’

‘Ancestors of yours?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose they must be.’ She looked up. ‘I’m going to try to construct a full family tree. But I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘You start at the bottom with you. Then go up to your mum and dad. Then up to your grandparents – on both sides if you can, to keep it fair. You can get that far, presumably?’ He grinned. ‘Then if there’s no one you can ask – cousins? Uncles and aunts? – and no birth certificates and things like that to look up, there’s always the Internet these days. And, in your case, you can start the other end, with your Lord High Chancellor himself. His wife, his children and grandchildren are bound to be easy to find as he was famous, and then you can go down from there towards you until you meet in the middle, or backwards to find out his ancestors and on up a tree full of ghosts into this glorious aristocratic jungle your father hated so much.’ He looked at her mischievously. ‘What fun. Count me in for help if I can do anything. This research of yours is a perfect way of taking your mind off the horrors of the low life that is Timothy Bradford.’

Ruth looked up at him fondly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘You’d manage.’ He reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘Come on. Let’s eat.’

Timothy had pulled up at last at South Queensferry near the towering girders of the Forth Railway Bridge. He climbed out of the car and went to stand by the parapet, overlooking the Firth, his hands in his pockets. He shivered as the wind found its way down the neck of his jacket. He had been looking forward to telling April that he had found out where Ruth’s minder had taken her and now he had lost the trail. But there was always tomorrow. He would go and stake out Number 26 again and this time he would make sure he followed Ruth everywhere she went.

His mind went back to April. It was odd how she had gone all superstitious on him, shuddering when she tried on those rings, or whenever he mentioned the loot, anxious to be rid of it all. Thank goodness he had the sense to see that as long as they held onto it there was no possibility of anyone spotting it. It would be a shame to chuck it away. His eyes strayed out over the cold grey water. The tide was running fast and there were white-topped waves crashing onto the shingle below the wall.

He turned away and headed back across the road towards the Hawes Inn. The bright lights reflecting out over the wet road were comforting and there was just time for a pint before they closed. Inside there was warmth and food and companionship and escape from the sound of the crashing waves. He saw the door open and then close behind a man and a woman. They hesitated for a moment before the onslaught of the weather, put up their umbrellas and began to battle into the wind. It was only then he realised it was raining.