The Dream Weavers. Barbara Erskine

unfortunate choice of wallpaper, or sometimes merely a difficult neighbour.’

      She had spent years training to deal with whatever arose, to rule out the obvious, to produce a screwdriver, to ring a plumber and, occasionally – very occasionally – to speak to lost souls, to reassure the newly departed and guide them gently on their way, to work with shadows and echoes and re-enactments from a past not as long gone as it should be.

      He rubbed his face with his hands and stared at her in mock despair. ‘Wow! Well, it isn’t the wallpaper, I can tell you that much. And I checked with the neighbouring farm this morning and they have no animal, lost or otherwise, of any description, called Elise or indeed anything else. But a ghost?’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Rational people don’t actually believe in ghosts, surely?’

      So, why on earth had he bothered to come to meet her? This wasn’t the first time she found herself regretting the day she had confided her interest in the paranormal to Christine.

      ‘OK.’ She paused. ‘Well, we’ll leave it as something to consider once all the other explanations for your visitor have been ruled out. But I would ask you to be open-minded if you can. Sadly, the response of most people to supernatural happenings they can’t or won’t accept, or situations they find frightening, is to mock.’ She was watching his face, so far studiedly neutral, and was pleased to see him wince as she used the word. ‘Let’s say, for me these things are real. I am lucky enough to be one of those people who are able to access that world and discern what is causing the imbalance that is making a place uncomfortable, or if something is wrong, contact the beings involved and help them find peace.’ She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

      ‘Well, that’s me told! And I thought you looked quite normal.’ He reached for his coffee. There was a brief pause. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be as rude as it sounded. OK. Here’s what’s happening. Let’s see what you make of it. I rented the cottage to give myself a few months’ peace. As I expect Christine told you, I’m an author.’

      She nodded. Several would-be authors had found their way to Chris’s cottage over the years. Presumably they thought the isolated position, the uncertain internet connection, the dark skies and stunning views would inspire them.

      ‘I am writing a history of the Anglo-Saxons,’ he went on. ‘The Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia to be exact. I have already written about the kingdoms of East Anglia and Wessex. This is volume three of seven. I have formed a habit of renting a cottage on-site, as it were, when I am on my final draft, to make sure I have an authentic feel of the area I’m writing about and be near local museums and suchlike. I live in London and I have two teenage kids. Peace is at a premium, so that idea works for me. My last two writing retreats were in Suffolk and the New Forest. I saw this cottage online and it seemed ideal. Right on the border between England and Wales – or in my book, between Mercia and Powys – and I was beguiled by the place’s charm in the pictures.’

      She was studying his face closely and he looked away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

      ‘At first I assumed the voice belonged to a real person, obviously,’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I still do, to be honest. I assumed Elise was her lost dog, or perhaps a child. But not again and again. If it was a child missing there would be people looking, police, search parties, helicopters, … but now,’ his voice trailed away. ‘But now, OK, I admit it, I’m not so sure she, the voice, is real. If it was, I would at least have caught a glimpse of the woman by now. I’ve tried hard enough. But Christine assures me it isn’t the wind or the water pipes or any of your other candidates for weird noises. I rush outside when I hear her, and I call out to her.’ He raised his eyes from his cup and held her gaze. ‘And,’ he hesitated, ‘I acknowledge I do feel uncomfortable when I hear her. Cold. And her voice is odd. It comes from far away.’ He looked down into his cup again. ‘Once or twice she’s banged on the door in the night. When I open it, there’s no one there.’

      There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of soft, murmured conversation at the other tables.

      ‘I’m a rational man,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘I do not believe in ghosts, but for the last day or so I have been querying my own sanity. That was why I rang Christine. I asked her if it was possible a previous tenant had lost something, because she kept coming round, calling, and I told her I was finding it distracting. I need her to go away! That’s when Christine made this ludicrous suggestion that it might be a ghost. I thought she was joking.’ He grinned. ‘And then,’ he sighed, ‘after I ended the call I found myself, only for a nanosecond, you understand, wondering if it actually was a ghost. Or something to do with my writing – perhaps I had somehow conjured her out of my text.’

      She saw a touch of embarrassment in his self-deprecating smile as she pondered his words. ‘If you have, this would be a first for me. Someone who writes themselves a ghost. I take it this didn’t happen in Suffolk or the New Forest?’

      ‘No. It didn’t. So, as Christine has brought you in as the cavalry, can you do something?’

      This was the time to make her apologies, to say she was no longer doing house cleansing, tell him she was too busy doing other things. Perhaps tell him the truth: that she had virtually promised her husband Mark she would no longer dabble in the supernatural. Anything but arrange to visit the cottage. But already she had felt that faint prickle at the back of her neck, the slight frisson of excitement. There was something here to be followed up, she could sense it already.

       2

      

      ‘He’s such a sweetie. Didn’t you think?’ Chris said later on the phone. She didn’t wait for Bea to answer. ‘Perhaps it’s someone camping locally having a laugh, or someone from the farm. I know you told me never to mention the subject of ghosts in front of Ray or Mark, and that you aren’t going to do it any more, but there wouldn’t be any harm in looking, would there? He’s obviously a bit pissed off, and I’d hate to lose him as a tenant. I’ve never had a long let like this before.’

      In spite of herself, Bea was smiling when she put down her phone. Chris and her husband Ray were darlings. She could visualise the conversation so easily. Chris’s remit was sheets and towels and groceries. Ghosts. No. For ghosts, ring Bea. Box ticked.

      Mark was in the kitchen preparing supper when Bea finished the call. Behind the elegance of its late Georgian frontage and main rooms their house, the one that came with his job, still clung to medieval roots and the high-ceilinged kitchen came from that much older age. It was large, with ancient flagstones on the floor. The dresser and larder and the huge scrubbed oak table may have come from another century; the cooker, fridge and dishwasher were, thank heaven, modern.

      Mark looked up when she walked in and pushed a glass of wine across the table in her direction. ‘Was that Chris on the phone? How is she?’

      Sitting down, she picked up the glass. ‘She’s fine.’ She hesitated. Should she keep silent or tell him about the ghost? She hated the thought of lying. Hated the thought of being put in this position at all. Better perhaps to prevaricate for now. ‘She was telling me that there’s a problem with her holiday let. You remember the cottage up on Offa’s Ridge? She’s rented it to an author for several months, so she’s a bit twitchy about everything being perfect for him. I said I would go up there with her tomorrow to take a look.’

      He turned back to the chopping board. ‘Did she say what kind of problem?’

      She shook her head. ‘I expect we’ll turn it into an excuse for a girls’ lunch.’

      Simon had slipped the spare key off his key ring and given it to her before they parted. It appeared he was planning to go out next day. ‘Better if I’m not there. Go and have a poke around on your own. See if you can sort it.’

      On her own.

      It had been too late to