Читать книгу The Dream Weavers онлайн | страница 9

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 say no. And after all, how difficult could it be – a wailing voice and a knocking at the door in the night? She had dealt with worse, much worse, before.

Bea loved her husband unreservedly, had done ever since the first time she had laid eyes on him when they were both going to the same sixth form college. Standing in their kitchen, chopping vegetables in his Snoopy T-shirt, a present from their daughter Petra, it was easy to forget that he now gloried in the title of Canon Treasurer at one of England’s great cathedrals. Without the dog collar, he was himself.