The Unseen(37)

Leah could not resist it. She got up quickly as the man drained his glass and intercepted him as he turned for the door.

‘Hello again,’ she said, brightly. The man gave her a startled look, and then recognition drew down his brows. He tried to side-step her but she mirrored the move. ‘We seemed to get off on the wrong foot before, and I’m sorry if I … disturbed you. I’m Leah Hickson, as I mentioned. And you are?’ She held out her hand to him. He gave it a scornful look, and did not shake it.

‘You know perfectly bloody well who I am. Now please get out of my way and leave me alone – is it too much to ask that I can go out for a drink on a Friday night without being followed …’ the man said in a low tone, his voice tight.

‘I assure you, I haven’t the slightest idea who you are,’ Leah interrupted him. ‘And I didn’t follow you – I’m staying here for a few days. I hear they do a good fry-up in the morning.’

‘Oh, great. You just happen to be staying here. Is this going to be one of those “this is your chance to give your side of the story” offers? Because I’ve heard it all before!’ the man snapped. There were knots at the corners of his jaw, and Leah suddenly realised that he looked exhausted. Grey bags sat heavy under his eyes, and tired lines tracked the contours around his mouth.

‘Look … I hate to burst your bubble, but I really don’t know who you are. You’re clearly not as famous as you think. I am a journalist, but I’m working on a historical piece about a soldier of the Great War, and I came to Cold Ash Holt looking for information about him. He had links to The Rectory – which is why I knocked on your door. Whatever you’ve done – or not done – I’m afraid I’m really not interested. Unless it helps me find out about my soldier, which I somehow doubt it will.’ There was a long pause as the man considered this, his expression veering between relief, disbelief and anger.

‘Are you sure you’re not just …’ he trailed off, twisting one hand in a gesture she couldn’t decipher.

‘I’m telling you the truth. I really am. And if you’ve got time, and can relax for a minute, I’d love to buy you another pint and ask you some questions about The Rectory.’ The man stared at her for a moment longer then rubbed his eyes hard with the fingers of his left hand, just as he had at the door earlier on. A nervous tic, or a sign of fatigue perhaps.

‘OK. Sure. If you’re really who you say you are,’ he relented.

‘I am who I say I am,’ Leah assured him, amused. ‘Let’s sit by the fire – I ate dinner in the other room and it was like a tomb in there.’

Quiet now, the belligerence running from him like water through a sieve, the man slumped into a chair near the fire, and Leah studied him covertly as she waited for the beer to be pulled, peering at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. But she need not have worried about him noticing. He was staring into the air between his knees, picking absently at the edge of one thumbnail. With an agitated swipe he pulled the hat from his head, and she noticed that his hair badly needed washing, and quite possibly cutting as well. It lay flat to his skull, looking coarse and grubby. He was tall and lean, and the way his clothes hung from him it looked like he might have borrowed them from someone else, or perhaps lost a lot of weight recently. When she went over to the table he glanced up, pale-grey eyes alert again, on guard.

‘One good thing about being out of London – you can get a pint without taking out a small mortgage,’ Leah said as she sat down. The man paid no attention to the remark.

‘So what do you want to talk about? That ridiculous thing about the fairies? That was shortly before the First World War, if I remember right,’ he said, taking a long swig from his glass. Leah’s pulse picked up a little.

‘Sure, I’d like to hear more about that …’ She left a convenient pause, but the man didn’t fill it. ‘I know you’re sort of … incognito, but could I at least know your name?’ she prompted him.

‘Sorry, yes, of course. Sorry. It’s been a … difficult couple of months. It’s Mark. Mark Canning,’ he said. Leah smiled, butterflies spinning in her stomach.





4


June 16th, 1911


Dearest Amelia,

I am writing to you of another new arrival to our quiet home: Mister Robin Durrant, the theosophist. I don’t expect you to know what a theosophist is, so let me enlighten you – not that I claim to be an expert! I had to get an explanation from Albert, and half of that I did not understand. He describes theosophy as a quest for wisdom and spiritual enlightenment, and through the practice of it, theosophists hope to be able to release themselves from the ties of flesh, and commune with beings on higher spiritual planes. I had rather thought that this was what we strove to do with prayer, but apparently it is quite different.