Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
1. The House of the Martins
2. A Face at the Window
3. The Cellar
4. The Stranger
5. The Boys Search the House
6. The Ring
7. Visions
8. A Grave Discovery
9. Mr Mackie’s Will
10. An Omen?
11. London Bound
12. A Long Train Journey
13. Unwelcome Company
14. The End of the Trail
15. Machy House
16. The Reclaiming of the Ring
Conclusion
About the Author
Also by Colin Dann
Copyright
About the Book
‘There’s an atmosphere about that house . . . I felt it all the time we were in there. As if we were being watched.’
There had been rumours for years about the wealth of old Mr Mackie. But when Ben and Richard start snooping around the dead man’s house, they’re soon plunged into a web of terror. Whose is the dark face at the window? Where are the strange footsteps coming from? And what is the secret of the blue ring wrapped in a blanket?
Pursued by a villainous tramp, and haunted by ghostly visions, the two boys find themselves on a daring journey through darkest Wales, and into the unearthly territory of the ancient spirits.
About the Author
Colin Dann won the Arts Council National Award for Children’s Literature for his first novel, The Animals of Farthing Wood.
A LEGACY OF
GHOSTS
For Bill and Penny and family
1
The House of the Martins
THERE HAD BEEN rumours for years about the wealth of old Mr Mackie. People called it ‘old Mackie’s Hoard’. Some said it was treasure – gold or precious stones – and some said it was money – all in notes, and hidden away somewhere. No one in Hallenden knew anything positive about it and no one was sure how the rumours had started. But there seemed always to have been rumours and people made up their own minds whether they believed them or not. Mr Mackie himself was not a friendly man and rarely spoke to anyone unless he had to. At the end of his life he was housebound, his only company a thin white cat and a rather drab housekeeper who came in every day to look after all his wants. The housekeeper’s name was Mrs Crisp and it was she who found Mr Mackie dead in his bed one summer morning. He was eighty-two and had no relatives. She had often referred to him as ‘the last of his line’. After contacting the doctor and the solicitor Mrs Crisp felt there was no more for her to do and, later that morning when the doctor had called, she had left the house and never entered it again.
Everything was left just as it had been during Mr Mackie’s life. Not a cup, not a stick of furniture was moved. The only thing that was taken out of the house was Mr Mackie himself. He had been a huge man and it needed six men to carry the heavy coffin with a seventh one walking alongside to steady it as necessary. The cat disappeared. There were no mourners.
The nearest house to Mr Mackie’s was where the Bright family lived. Geoffrey Bright owned the hardware shop in Hallenden on the Kent/Sussex borders. His wife Valerie helped in the shop during school hours when business demanded it. They had two children, Richard who was twelve and Virginia, ten. On the day of the funeral, which was in August, Geoffrey Bright closed his shop at one o’clock. It was early-closing day in Hallenden. As he walked home he saw Mr Todd the solicitor, whom he knew, hurrying along the High Street in his direction. He was wearing a black arm-band. They stopped for a moment to exchange a word.
‘I hope nothing –’ Mr Bright began.
‘No, no. A client’s funeral,’ Mr Todd said hastily. ‘Old Mackie.’
‘Really! I didn’t know he had been ill?’
‘He hadn’t. It was simply old age. I’ve got his house to deal with – and everything else.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘No surviving relatives. He left his entire estate to charity. Some unknown organization down in Wales. They want me to sell everything. The house should fetch a good price. The contents will have to go by auction. I’m sorry – I can’t stop. I think I may be late. Goodbye.’
‘Oh – goodbye.’ Mr Bright’s thoughts turned immediately to ‘the hoard’. He wondered if the rumours might at last be substantiated. Later he gave the news to his wife who was at home because of the school holidays. She was watching for his stocky, sandy-haired figure from the window. A cold lunch was on the table awaiting his arrival.
‘Come on, children! Daddy’s here,’ she called as he came through the door.
‘I’ve just seen Todd,’ he told her. ‘Old Mackie’s dead. House to be sold and everything in it. Some odd charity’s going to get the Mackie hoard.’
They talked about it over the meal-table. Richard’s eyes roved from his little dark-haired mother to his father and back again, drinking in the conversation. The subject fascinated him. There had always been a mystery about the Mackie house – the ‘House of the Martins’ as he liked to call it – because every summer a throng of the little birds built their cupped nests there under the eaves. He and his friend Ben Tompkins used to make up stories about the place. They pretended it was haunted and that there was buried treasure in the garden. He looked at his sister. Ginny was intent on her meal, not a flicker of interest in her blue eyes. Richard gobbled at his food, aching to be off to tell Ben what he had heard.
‘Don’t bolt your lunch like that,’ Mrs Bright cautioned him. ‘You’ll have indigestion.’
‘Is Richard greedy?’ Ginny enquired lazily, pushing a hand through her thick blonde hair and swinging her legs under the table.
‘No, he’s not greedy; just hasty,’ her father answered. He glanced at Richard. ‘You must have been hungry?’
‘Starving,’ Richard muttered and glared at Ginny. The children had quite different temperaments and were not often playmates. Also they didn’t resemble one another in appearance and a stranger would never have taken them for brother and sister. While Ginny was blonde and fair-skinned, Richard was dark-haired, dark-eyed and had a skin that tanned very easily to a glowing golden brown. In this he took after his mother.
The meal was soon over. ‘Can I go out?’ Richard asked promptly. ‘Ben’s coming over.’
‘Of course,’ said his mother. ‘Are you taking your bikes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mind how you go. No larking about.’
‘No, Mum.’ Richard dashed away to fetch his bike which was leaning against the laburnum tree in the garden. It was a new bigger bike, painted a bright cheerful red, which he was getting used to after out-growing his old one. Ben’s bike was similar. The two boys were growing fast and both were tall for their age. They greeted each other at the gate. Richard gave a wave to his parents who were watching from the window. Then the friends pedalled furiously away, racing each other.
‘Not much good, your cautioning words,’ Mr Bright muttered to his wife. ‘Why does he always have to tear about so?’
Mrs Bright smiled affectionately. ‘Just high spirits,’ she said.
‘He’s only showing off,’ Virginia said in her clear precise voice.
Ben Tompkins was what Geoffrey Bright called a ‘harum scarum’ lad. He always seemed to be getting into scrapes at school, but shrugged them all off as if nothing was of much importance except enjoying himself. He was a very lively, intelligent boy, who wasted some of his abilities by playing pranks to make his classmates laugh. His face was covered with freckles and usually wore a mischievous smile. He had a crop of coppery hair and dancing grey eyes. Mr and Mrs Bright had some qualms about Richard’s friendship with Ben but it was impossible not to like the boy. He was always polite and interesting even if his impudent smile sometimes seemed a little mocking. His father was a bank manager in Hallenden and he had a beautiful older sister called Angela whom Richard admired tremendously.
Ben always talked a lot and it was a while before Richard could silence him long enough to tell him his news. ‘Listen, Ben. Listen!’
Ben’s chatter ceased abruptly and he looked openmouthed at Richard, pretending to be dumbfounded at being shouted at.
‘You know the House of the Martins?’
Of course he did, it was only a couple of hundred metres from the Brights’ house.
‘Well, it’s empty. Mr Mackie’s dead. Shall we go and look in and see if we can see anything?’
‘See what? The hoard?’ Ben joked.
‘No, don’t be silly. But we might see something – you know, something interesting.’
Ben agreed. He was really as curious about the place as Richard was. Richard led the way and they cycled up to the house which was open at the front to the road. It was built of dark brick. It was broad and double-fronted with a pillared porch and heavy latticed windows. It had a distinctly gloomy appearance. There was a long garden at the back, dark with greatly overgrown shrubs and holly bushes. No gardener had been near the place in years and the lawn was like a meadow. At the house end there was a short flight of steps leading down to an unpainted door under the house. They took their bikes round the back and laid them down on the ground. In the garden there was a small, broken shed, half buried under a lilac tree and, in the adjoining field, they saw a dilapidated brick construction which had been used as an air-raid shelter during the War.
‘Did you ever see him?’ Ben asked as they crept towards a window.
‘Only once or twice. He sometimes stood looking out at the street at the front.’
‘I wonder what he was like?’
‘Enormous,’ Richard answered innocently. ‘Like a giant, with bushy grey hair.’
‘No, I mean what sort of person was he?’
‘No one knows, do they? My father never spoke to him but he knows he used to own an antiques shop. That must have been how he made all his money.’ It was clear the ‘hoard’ was very much a reality in Richard’s mind.
‘My father said he was a miser,’ Ben rejoined. ‘He didn’t use the bank. Said he didn’t trust them. He used to pay for everything with cash.’
‘I don’t see why that makes him a miser,’ Richard murmured, looking puzzled. Ben giggled.
The windows were stained and dirty. Ben rubbed at one with his sleeve. They pressed their noses to it and peered in. Over their heads the house-martins flitted to and fro, uttering their little high-pitched clicks and chirrups. Every now and then one would alight on its nest and push its way through the tiny entrance, bringing a morsel of food for the nestlings inside.
‘What a jumble of objects,’ Ben remarked. ‘It looks a bit like an antiques shop in there.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? I suppose he collected things,’ said Richard. ‘I bet some of them are valuable.’
‘’Spect so,’ Ben murmured. ‘Look at that sideboard. It’s gigantic.’
‘This must be the dining-room,’ said Richard.
‘Oh, you are clever,’ Ben mocked him playfully. Richard grinned.
They moved round the house, staring in at each room: kitchen, sitting-room, study. Every room was crammed full of things – heavy furniture, curios, ornaments, clocks, paintings, old weapons, a globe – in a sort of organized clutter. The study had shelves of books, many of them leatherbound.
‘I wonder what’ll happen to it all?’ Ben mused. ‘I’d love to go in there and explore. You never know what you might find.’
‘It’s all going to be sold, my father says.’
‘Sold? Who’d buy all that lot?’
‘I dunno. Different people, I s’pose.’
‘My father likes old books,’ said Ben. ‘He may be interested in some of those.’
‘You can just imagine old Mackie sitting in that great low armchair, reading through his books,’ Richard said. ‘He never went out, you know. He must have read all day long. I bet he read every single one of those lots of times.’
‘Didn’t he ever eat?’ Ben laughed.
‘Of course he did. But he had a book open on the table the whole time,’ Richard invented. ‘And he never spoke. Not to anyone, except his housekeeper.’
‘I don’t expect he slept much,’ said Ben. ‘He couldn’t have got tired very easily if he never did anything. I expect he read half the night, sitting up in bed.’
‘A four-poster,’ Richard claimed, getting into the spirit of the game.
‘In a nightcap and – and – a silk dressing-gown,’ Ben hazarded.
‘By candlelight, of course,’ said Richard.
‘With a blunderbuss under the bed,’ Ben affirmed.
They laughed together and the game developed with all sorts of unlikely images and scenes, the boys’ imaginations running riot. It wasn’t difficult to invent all sorts of stories about old Mackie, his hoard and the House of the Martins, and the boys tried to cap each other’s tales with something even more grotesque or far-fetched. They didn’t know their games fell far short of the real adventure that was soon to befall them in that gloomy deserted building.
2
A Face at the Window
THE GARDEN OF the House of the Martins became a regular venue for Richard and Ben. They played hide-and-seek in the rank grass, hunted for creepy-crawlies and sometimes just lay in the sunshine, watching the birds and insects flitting about, and inventing more elaborate yarns about Mr Mackie’s way of life. Every so often they would wander over to the house and look in, trying to spot a new object – a piece of china, a horse brass, a vase – in the museum-like interior that they hadn’t noticed before. They became quite knowledgeable about the contents. They had the place to themselves and felt they knew more about it than anyone. Nobody but they seemed to show any interest in it – even their parents weren’t aware how much time they spent there. Then one day they got a real surprise. It was very hot and the two boys were lazily tossing a cricket ball to each other, practising difficult catches. Ben was facing the house and was just about to bowl the ball over, his arm raised. Richard saw him suddenly jump, quite involuntarily. A startled look came over his face.
‘Richard!’ hissed Ben. ‘Look!’
Richard was already swinging round, following Ben’s gaze. A dark face was staring out at them from the dining-room. The boys hardly had time to register this appearance, let alone mark the features, before it vanished. It was just like an apparition. The friends were shaken and they slipped quickly out of the garden without even remembering to pick up their bikes.
Once safely away they began to chatter excitedly. Had someone come to live there? Or was it a burglar? Who could it be? Where would he have got in? It wasn’t long, of course, before they realized they had left their bikes behind and would have to go back for them. ‘You lead,’ Ben tittered.
Richard’s habitually earnest expression hardened. He looked very determined. ‘O.K. Come on.’
They were both a little scared, yet at the same time keen to find an explanation for the strange face. They quickly noticed the front door was still shut and that none of the windows had been forced. They crept round to the back to retrieve their bikes, treading carefully. There was no further sign of anyone. Their confidence returned. Richard actually went up to the dining-room window to look for evidence. There was none there, nor in any of the other rooms. It was almost as if they had imagined the whole thing.
The friends looked at one another, puzzled. ‘There was a face,’ Ben said doubtfully, ‘wasn’t there? We can’t have dreamt it, we both saw it.’
‘There was someone there all right,’ Richard confirmed. ‘He must have left again before we came back.’ But he didn’t sound as if he had convinced himself.
‘Suppose the face comes back again?’ Ben suggested. He couldn’t quite accept that it was a person.
Richard shrugged. ‘So what? We’re not doing any harm.’
‘But if someone else has come to live here, we can’t go on playing in this garden.’
‘No. But we don’t know that yet. I’d love to find out.’
‘So would I,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s see if our parents know anything.’
Later on they both sounded out their fathers. Mr Tompkins, the bank manager, knew nothing about it. ‘You and that house,’ he said. ‘I know you and Richard are fascinated by it. But please, don’t start imagining things.’
‘We didn’t imagine it!’
‘Well, perhaps it was Mr Todd’s clerk. I don’t know.’
Geoffrey Bright was equally dismissive. ‘No sale could have gone through that quickly,’ he remarked in answer to Richard’s chatter. ‘Besides, even if the house had been sold, nobody could move in with the old boy’s possessions still intact. Are you sure it wasn’t Mr Todd? He must be the only one with a key.’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Richard. And that’s how the subject was left just then.
Richard and Ben returned to the House of the Martins regularly over the next few days, hoping for another sighting to dispel their growing uncertainty. They saw no further signs.
‘I wish we could get inside, ourselves,’ said Ben. ‘Then we’d be able to look properly.’
‘We still might not find anything,’ Richard murmured, glancing for the twentieth time around the Mackie sitting-room, his serious face next to Ben’s lively one pressed against the window. ‘Wait a moment, though,’ he suddenly whispered. ‘I don’t believe it! Ben, Ben!’ he spluttered. ‘Look at the globe. It’s been moved! And – and – the cabinet! Some of the china’s gone!’
Ben flattened his face still further against the pane. ‘You’re right,’ he cried. ‘That cabinet was full of ornaments. Wow! There must be five or six missing.’ Then he added in a distinctly disappointed tone, ‘But no, it can’t mean anything except that the solicitor’s sold them off.’
Richard was crestfallen. But all at once he perked up. ‘That can’t be it, Ben,’ he said. ‘My father specifically mentioned there was to be an auction – you know, of everything. So the things couldn’t be sold off bit by bit. Could they?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ben shook his head. ‘You may be right. I don’t know enough about it. But d’you know what, Richard? I can almost sense something strange here. I wonder if someone’s been coming and going, stealing the pieces one by one?’
Richard was only too willing to believe it. ‘I bet they have,’ he declared excitedly. ‘And I bet they’d take the most valuable things first. They were beautiful ornaments in that cabinet. They were probably worth a fortune!’
The boys exchanged glances. Their eyes were popping. ‘The Mackie hoard,’ they whispered simultaneously.
‘There might be other things missing,’ Richard added. ‘Oh, if only we could get in there!’
A crafty half-smile crept over Ben’s face. ‘How do we know we can’t?’
Richard gazed at him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well we’ve never actually tried, have we?’
‘No,’ Richard breathed. ‘We haven’t. D’you think –’
‘I think we should try,’ said Ben. ‘Try all the windows and all the doors we can reach.’ His grey eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘After all, there must be a way in, mustn’t there? We know that now.’
They wasted no time. They began on the garden side, moved round to the front, trying the kitchen door on the way. They tested the front door and every window fastening. They found everything shut tight. But Ben wasn’t about to give up.
‘What about a key?’ he suggested. ‘Sometimes people hide a key under a mat – or – somewhere.’
They went back to the front porch. There was a doormat. They lifted it. There was nothing underneath. They looked through the letter-box in case one was hanging from a piece of string. Then they looked in and under a stone pot which stood by the porch. Eventually they ran out of places to search but they had found no key.
Richard scratched his dark head, looking about for ideas. ‘What about that old shed?’ he asked.
‘Of course, yes. Well done,’ Ben responded. ‘That was a brainwave.’
They ran to the lilac tree and bent under its unpruned branches.
The shed door opened easily but with an accentuated creak as if it were complaining. Inside was a hotchpotch of garden tools, jars, boxes and other paraphernalia. And there, directly at eye-level, was a long key hanging on a hook. The boys’ excitement was tremendous. They jostled each other, both trying to grab it at once. Richard laughed and allowed his friend to take it.
‘It must be the front door key,’ he said.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Ben said scathingly. ‘How could this fit a Yale lock?’ He brandished the key which had specks of rust on it. ‘And it’d hardly be left in here, would it?’
‘O.K., know-all. Where does it fit?’
‘The kitchen door, I should think. Come on, what are we waiting for?’
It didn’t fit the kitchen door, neither did it fit the french windows leading to the dining-room. The boys were stumped.
There must be another door,’ said Richard.
‘Only that one under the house,’ Ben returned. ‘You know, by the steps.’ They had never ventured down there.
‘That should be it then,’ said Richard.
They scampered down the steps. Ben slid the key into the lock and turned it. They held their breath. There was a click. Ben grasped the door-handle and pushed hard. The door opened a little and then stuck fast. They could see it was pitch-dark inside. Ben hesitated.
‘We don’t have to go in there, do we?’ he said. ‘I mean – we wouldn’t see anything.’
Richard was a little scared too but he tried not to show it. ‘We could at least try the door again. Push together. I bet it hasn’t been opened for years. It would let some light in and we might be able to see a bit.’
‘All right,’ said Ben, trying not to appear fainthearted.
They put their shoulders to the door and gave it a good shove. It burst open and, as they almost fell in after it, they heard a hurried scuttling noise as though someone was hastening to run away. The boys sprang back alarmed and leapt up the steps. In that brief moment in the dim light they had caught just a glimpse of what was obviously the cellar of the house and which had been used for storage. It was stacked with boxes and all sorts of containers. At the top of the steps the boys paused. They felt foolish and were angry with themselves. They were dying to know what had caused the noise.
‘There’s something in there anyway,’ said Ben as he recovered his composure.
‘Rats, I should think.’
‘Sounded too heavy for that.’
‘We could fetch a torch.’
‘Yes, let’s. I’ll go,’ volunteered Ben. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He ran towards his bike. ‘You stay here on guard,’ he called behind him, ‘to see if anything comes out.’ He was on his way before Richard could protest. Richard kept well back from the top of the steps. He was ready for flight in a second. But he kept his eyes on the open door.
He saw nothing. A bit later he glanced at his watch. He was proud of this. It had been an expensive present from his father. He realized it was approaching the time when he had to be home for supper. He also noticed his leather watch-strap was badly frayed and threatened to break away. He made a mental note to tell his father he needed a new one. In just a few minutes Ben was back. He was carrying a square battery lamp which he held up with a flourish.
‘This has a really powerful beam,’ he announced. ‘We’ll be able to see right into the cellar without having to go inside.’
Richard was content. He followed Ben down the steps. Ben switched on the lamp and shone it all round the cellar. They saw nothing more unusual than empty bottles and cartons, some unopened boxes, a wine-rack with a couple of bottles still in it, a pile of sacks and some broken glasses. There was a sharp smell of coaldust.
‘Disappointing,’ said Ben, though secretly relieved there had been no nasty surprises lurking within.
‘I’ve got to get back,’ said Richard. ‘We can explore another time.’
‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘It’s getting late. We could come back tomorrow morning?’
‘O.K. And I’ll bring a torch too.’
They pulled the door closed. After the initial wrenching it now came smoothly without any hitch. They locked it and replaced the key in the shed. They began to feel very brave now that they knew they didn’t have to prove themselves until the next day.
‘There could be all sorts of things living down there amongst that rubbish,’ said Ben lightly. ‘I can’t wait to find out.’