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

As a young gentleman, Tom’s main duties were as one of the captain’s servants, the young men training to be officers; when called to perform these duties he must brush his own blue coat and make sure his hair was tidily tied back beneath his cocked hat and report to the captain, be it in his cabin or on the quarterdeck. As with everything else, he watched and learned and sometimes, with Jamie at his side, he got into mischief. Once or twice he was invited to the captain’s table not as a servant but as a guest, sitting amongst the other officers, permitted with a certain good-humoured tolerance to give his views on subjects of the moment.

Almost as soon as they had set sail, Thomas and the other young gentlemen had been summoned to the quarterdeck to begin their lessons in navigation and it was then Tom discovered that this was to be no ordinary voyage. Not that he had any idea what an ordinary voyage entailed, but he could sense that this was special. The captain himself was there and with him their two civilian passengers, William Harrison and Thomas Wyatt. Sir John was, he explained to the boys, to oversee the sea trial of a special timepiece which would help navigators work out the position of the ship through an accurate knowledge of longitude. A prize was to be awarded to the first person to invent a chronometer that was sufficiently accurate and much was at stake.

With the aid of his calculations Mr Harrison predicted that the ship would arrive in Madeira on 19 April and the exact distance the ship would have sailed.

Tom stared at the watch. It was beautiful. He had only a vague idea of what the men were talking about but one thing swiftly rose uppermost in his mind. How envious his brother David, with his fascination for the stars, would be of this chance to see these trials. He would write to him and tell him all about it, make his brother envious. He was gleeful at the thought, unaware that at that moment the captain happened to glance his way and caught sight of the fierce excitement on the young midshipman’s face. His uncle had told him to keep a special eye on young Tom Erskine and suddenly he understood why. It was more than a benevolent family interest; there was a good brain there and a spark that could be cultivated.

At dinner that night, with Tom amongst the invited guests and, for once without Jamie, who was rapidly becoming his faithful sidekick, Sir John encouraged the boy to listen and to talk with his two distinguished guests. He was impressed that Tom appeared to know so much about the movement of the stars and had so swiftly grasped the basics of navigation. He did not know that the slowly growing pile of letters addressed to Lord Cardross in the bottom of Tom’s sea chest were the way Tom was assuaging his homesickness and at the same time proving to his eldest brother, secure in his academic haven in Scotland, that life at sea was something to be envied.

Thomas

Cross though I was with my parents and my brothers, blaming them for my being press-ganged, as I considered it, into the navy, I wrote to them all. To my father I sent a short, polite note, informing him that I was still alive and moderately well. To my mother I wrote in warmer terms, withholding any news which I believed would be upsetting, though my mother was to my mind far better able to bear bad news than Papa. To David I was formal; I would never let him think I had been upset by my sudden relocation into the middle of the ocean. Only to Harry did I unburden myself at length, describing the worst parts of the experience, maybe, in spite of myself, allowing hints of my fear and homesickness, a sorrow compounded by the fact that I no longer knew where my home was. Certainly not Bath. I had been there but a few months. The house of my parents in Walcot was, I suppose, the nearest thing to home that I had known, but in my own mind I considered that they had cast me out. My brothers still lived and studied in Scotland, and Scotland was the land of my birth. It was there that I had grown up; it was there that I had explored a world of confusing contrasts. I was of noble birth, but poor. I was loved, at least by Mama, but I was also their youngest and least important child. I was in my heart a country boy but lived in a city. I had been privy to the conversations of the greatest minds of the enlightened age, encouraged to listen and watch and study, to express, albeit only occasionally, my own small opinions as I grew. I was allowed to make books my friends and to write and have dreams of academe, then told that all of my expectations and certainties were no more than that: dreams.

The place I now found myself was, I supposed, at present my home, the only certainty I knew upon the great wastes of the sea, and I put that at the head of my letters as my current address: HMS Tartar.

I sealed my letters and stowed them away at the bottom of my sea chest. I did not know if they would ever reach their destination. Perhaps it would be better if they did not.

14

April looked at her watch. There was no sign of Timothy and it had long ago grown dark. Presumably he had followed the Daimler for miles, then in his usual clueless way he had got himself lost. She felt a disproportionate wave of hatred for Finlay sweep over her. Everything about him, his complacency, his posh car, his celebrity status – which obviously brought money as well as fame – added to her fury at his decision to get involved and try to thwart her plans.

Sitters they had called themselves. The name had pleased them hugely. Squat. Infiltrate. Take. Hence the acronym. They would look for an empty house to use as a base – surprisingly easy even in this day and age. Then they’d move in, their story of distant relatives ready should anyone ask who they were, and begin to leaflet the area. They offered cleaning services, odd jobs, help with shopping, ‘no job too small’ and targeted elderly people who seemed to be living on their own. They then befriended them. Hence the sitting; not babysitting, but sitting with the elderly. Timothy at least had convinced himself they were doing the old folk a favour. They were lonely, abandoned by the world. It pleased them to have a friend. They entrusted their money, their credit cards, their PIN numbers, in order to get the shopping done, and she and Timothy had done that shopping, keeping meticulous records in case anyone ever asked. Until the money ran out. Which it inevitably did. That was the point. Sometimes they found the pension was enough to make it worthwhile sticking around, but not usually. Someone might notice. Time to move on. This was business. Their last target had been in Leeds. Before that in Birmingham.

The squats had varied. Some were in empty houses and they had made do with basic second-hand tat to furnish them. Some were already furnished, as this one had been. They knew who had lived here from sorting through the post that still cascaded through the door. Where the old woman had gone they did not know, but she had had good taste. April liked this house. She would be sad when it was time to go. Edinburgh had been trickier than anywhere else had been so far. She had found it harder to make contacts, to know where to go. But this new enterprise was the best so far; a potential gold mine.

They had tried the inheritance scam once before, in Exeter; it had worked like a dream. No one had questioned them, no one had cared. Her only sorrow had been that they hadn’t chosen a more ambitious target. ‘Start small,’ Timothy had said, and she had listened. But now at last they were about to hit the big time. She had looked up the house prices around Number 26 and they were astronomic. Once they had pocketed the deeds to that place and sold it on, she had calculated they wouldn’t have to work again. And now it was all being threatened by this bloody greedy daughter who had never cared for the old boy anyway and by Finlay Macdermott, of all people. She could hardly contain her rage.

With a sigh she turned out the lights in the kitchen and stamped up the stairs to the small back bedroom. Drawing the curtains before reaching for the light switch, she hauled a heavy suitcase out from under the bed.

Opening the lid of the case she looked down at the newspaper-wrapped contents. There were candlesticks, spoons and forks, small dishes. She pulled out a large square parcel and unwrapped it. She knew what this was. She had seen it on an antiques programme on the telly. A standish. A sort of pen and ink holder. The glass bottles for the ink had hall-marked silver lids. There weren’t any pens with it any more. She ran her finger over the intricate designs carved onto it. Victorian, she supposed. It was sad that it would have to be melted down; the swirls and curls on the silver appealed to her. The other stuff was more austere. Georgian probably. She had made good use of her study of daytime TV. The value of silver had dropped, but it was still all worth a lot of money by their standards.

She couldn’t see how Tim’s claim to that old boy’s inheritance could fail. She had thought of everything, even the DNA. It had been a shock when they discovered he had a daughter, but that almost certainly didn’t matter. Donald Dunbar hadn’t mentioned her to Timothy in all those months; it would be clear to the solicitor that he had intended to disinherit her. She shivered. It had only been chance that Timothy had spotted the letter on the mat from the solicitors to Ruth that day; otherwise they wouldn’t have known what was going on.

She replaced the standish in the suitcase and shoved the case back under the bed. Standing up, she turned away and caught sight of the pictures with their gilded frames stacked behind the door. She wasn’t sure he should have bothered to remove them; they would have come anyway with the whole inheritance. But if anyone asked, he could always say it was to keep them safe in case the house was burgled. She gave a wintry smile. Shuddering, she studied the picture facing her. Ghastly woman in a lace-trimmed bonnet. Hideous face! But an oil painting nevertheless and who knows, it might be by someone famous. Or of someone famous. The jewellery she had locked in a drawer, all except the small bag of rings that Timothy had pocketed and she had demanded back as soon as they got home. There was other stuff too, which Timothy had removed little by little over the last few months. He was fairly certain he had taken everything of value. Poor old Donald had been oblivious, pathetically grateful for the attention that had been given him, clinging to her hand when she had gone to visit. She did not allow herself to remember the time when, with tears in his eyes, he had called her Ruth.

She moved over to the table by the door. There was a cardboard box she hadn’t even bothered to unpack; odds and ends Timothy had taken from the cupboards upstairs in Donald Dunbar’s house. Reaching in, she pulled out a small painted wooden box. She shook it experimentally then wrenched off the lid. There was a bundle of old sticks and rags inside. She stared down at it, puzzled, not making any sense of what she saw. Was it some kind of a primitive doll? Whatever it was, it was a dusty mess which smelled revolting and gave off an icy breath as though it was alive. She slammed the lid back on and rammed the box into the cardboard container. Why in God’s name had the idiot brought that here? She shuddered and reached towards the box with the intention of taking the object, whatever it was, downstairs and binning it, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her hand anywhere near it again. It emanated evil. She backed away from the table, aware that her whole body was trembling. Reaching the door, she groped for the handle, not taking her eyes off the box, dragged the door open and dived through it before slamming it shut behind her.

Standing on the landing she could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She grasped the newel post and hung on desperately, afraid she was going to pass out; her mouth flooded with bitter saliva and she realised suddenly she was going to vomit. She just made it to the bathroom, throwing herself down in front of the toilet, drenched with sweat as she retched again and again.

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

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.’

‘You know I said I was going to go and film in the Hebrides for my TV show?’ Finlay said as he walked into the dining room on Sunday evening. ‘I’m afraid I am going to have to love you and leave you far more quickly even than I expected.’ The table had all but disappeared under an array of papers and notes and Ruth was busy with her laptop. She looked up for a moment, her expression vacant. She had been reading an account of burial at sea in the eighteenth-century Royal Navy.

Finlay peered over her shoulder. ‘This looks more like the background to a novel than family research to me.’

Ruth pushed back her chair. ‘Harriet has lent me a book which actually mentions Thomas, but it’s heavy and weird. Very esoteric. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet. This is far more exciting. Thomas was only just fourteen when he went into the navy. How shocking is that?’

‘It must have been a hellishly hard life.’ Finlay grimaced. ‘Right, well, I shall have to postpone our trip to Barbados. If you’re happy to go on working here and house-sit for me, I’m off to the Isle of Skye instead. I’ve been doing some phoning around and one of the people I want to interview up there is going away for a few weeks imminently so I have to catch her now if I want her in my programme. It’s a bit premature as I haven’t signed a contract yet, but I am going to hook up with someone there who will film me with her.’ His eyes were sparkling. ‘I might stay and do a bit more while I’m there, it all depends. Can I leave you here? I’m so sorry, in your hour of need.’

Ruth smiled. His anxious eager expression reminded her of a puppy that isn’t sure whether or not it’s going to get a promised reward. ‘I’ve told you I don’t mind, Fin.’ She meant it. ‘I’m just so grateful to have this place to escape to. And I now have a project on top of sorting out Number 26.’

She was, she realised, going to feel utterly lost without his noisy, enthusiastic presence. She took a deep breath. It was ridiculous to be relying on him already. His absence would give her a chance to collect herself, chivvy up the solicitors and start making plans. Stand on her own two feet. And she had her new hobby, not stamp collecting, her mouth twitched with amusement at the thought, but history, and already she had sent off for a couple more books to fill in some of the background to Thomas’s life.

When Fin said at once he meant it; he was going the next morning, flying to Inverness. As he assembled his case, his laptop and his overcoat in the hallway, he stopped and dramatically slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘There is so much I have forgotten to tell you! But we will be in touch every day by phone or email or whatever, I promise. Right. I have a cleaning lady, who comes every Thursday, and there is Lachy who comes in to mow the lawns and do the heavy work. He’s not regular. It depends on the weather and how busy he is.’ He walked back towards the kitchen and the corkboard on the wall near the door. ‘Here’s his name and phone number, so ring him if you need anything doing. Inside or out. And all the other people you might need are here – gas, electric, doctor, all that sort of thing. They are all brilliant.’ He beamed at her. ‘And they will all send me bills or wait till I see them, so don’t worry about paying anyone.’

Behind him the doorbell rang. ‘There, that’s the taxi. Goodbye, sweetheart!’ He gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead. ‘See you soon.’

‘But, Finlay—’

She was too late. He had gone, banging the front door behind him.