I started a blog on Wordpress back in 2018. Everyone said that an author had to have a proper website with its own url and there were lots of technical stuff about affiliations and things that I quite frankly have never truly understood. I just wanted to write.
I've written thousands of words on Wordpress since then, in over six hundred posts. If you count the ones that you can see, the number is a lot less than that, nearer two hundred, as some have been removed to go into books or have been duplicated or I've decided that I'm not bothered with them anymore. And I've never really clicked with Wordpress. I more or less clicked with Blogger, where I've been blogging in a non-monetised, random, unfocused way about my life for over a decade. Blogger is free, my subscription to my Wordpress account isn't, and at one point I started thinking. When I was looking to make graphics in Canva (without using the AI because I'm scared of it), I found this and downloaded it unaltered. It feels like cheating, but it's a perfect expression of this stage.
The design is by Dragonfly Ave on Canva and I think that it's beautiful.
Back in January, I chose the word Mindful for the year. Of course, for the first few months I forgot all about it, but eventually I started thinking. My writing set up was anything but mindful. It was scattered, chaotic, and it wasn't producing good work. Take, for example, The Guest. You can't read any of it at time of typing, because I've taken it all down ready for it to be converted into a novel on Amazon, but it's a good example of how things were working. It sort of started as part of the November writing challenge on Royal Road which had sprung from a rejected submission that I'd made to a vegan magazine, then ended up being a weekly post on my blog, and I bunged it on Substack as well as my blog, because why not, and by the end it was all over the place. I wrote the last chapter ten months after I wrote the first, plots weren't as cohesive as I would have liked, and I couldn't go back and add in bits, because the story was already set in stone on four sites - by the end it was Blogger, Wordpress, Substack, and Royal Road. Not only that, but it involved scheduling, adding to compilation menus, digging out pictures from Unsplash or Canva, and generally not playing to my strengths. It wasn't very Mindful.
If you look back, past the month long Halloween posts and bits of The Guest, you will be able to see a trail of me turning away from my past working habits. This is the next step. I will no longer be posting on Wordpress after this post, apart from occasional reminders that I don't live here anymore. You can find me at lyssa-medana.blogspot.com, still called Always Another Chapter, or you could sign up to my Substack, which I'll be treating as a newsletter with chat and news. There may be occasional bits of fiction, a few articles on research and maybe a review or two, but nothing like the mostly regular Monday posts. Those weekly posts have given me The White Hart and Kane in An Apprenticeship of Ghosts, and I'm grateful. But I can do better. Instead of those posts, I hope to focus on writing longer stories in a more cohesive form.
There's also a part of me that is tired of failing with the blog. A few weeks ago I wanted to add some stories about creatures to add to the Halloween selection, but it didn't happen and instead other pieces were added. Stepping Mindfully away from making promises and sharing plans that aren't already cemented in is a way to protect my mental balance and I'm tired of failing and missing schedules.
There's still a lot of chaos going on. My Royal Road account has gone, and I'll be taking down a lot of fiction, including Invitation Accepted and the stories that I posted throughout October, on 30th November. I'm working on getting the stories into novel form and onto Amazon and I'll post on Blogger and Substack when that happens. A certain amount of chaos continues, of course. I'm going to have to go over every single one of my published pieces and amend the contact details, and I'm going to have to chase up all my social media profiles and update them as well. I've got a heap of ideas, and I'm working to make space to get them out and fit to be seen. I guess that the next few months will still be overflowing with crazy juice. I think that I ought to feel sad that I won't be posting about it on Wordpress anymore, after all this time. I suppose you could call it the end of an era, if eight years is an era. Instead, I'm feeling ready for the next adventure - wherever I post it!
Let me know if you have any comments, thoughts or ideas. I'd love to hear from you.
I have always loved Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising series. It's a beautifully crafted series, and it made a deep impression on me. One phrase resonated stronger than the rest. She called 31st October, the day of the dead when the year, too, dies.
I think that's a lovely way to describe this time of year, when the world outside is settling down for the winter sleep and the nights are drawing in. It works for me.
In that spirit, I'm making New Year Resolutions, sort of. I fail drastically at Resolutions or any plan that I say out loud or put in a post. However, January, February and March are dreadful months for me. Like many people, my mental health falls off a cliff at that time of year. Trying to start new routines or stick to plans is almost guaranteed to fail. However, if I try to set a new course now, I have a fighting chance. I hit a peak of mental and creative energy in September and I'm still benefitting from that. I may actually get things changed around!
Last year, I chose the word Mindful as the word for a year, and when I remembered it, after the dark of January, February and March and the slow climb up and recovery for the next few months, it started all this chaos. The word Mindful hasn't exactly been peaceful, but perhaps that's not the point. I haven't paid as much attention as I should have to the whole theory of Mindfulness, but I'm starting on a journey to find that, and it's a complicated one. If I stick to Mindful and keep it in front of me, then I believe I've got a chance of finding peace - and, more importantly, writing more and at a higher standard.
I may be keeping Mindful, but I'm also adding Purposeful. I'm looking at writing from different angles and I'm trying to find the corners where I fit. When I sit down at a keyboard, I need to know what purpose this writing is serving. Is it just for fun and my own pleasure? That's awesome and completely allowable. Is it for the werewolf story that's been nagging at the edge of my mind for over a year, or for Kane and his erratic ghosts? That's equally wonderful. It's just as fine to write to find out what I want to be writing, or chase down old plots, or try poetry in strange forms. It's absolutely the opposite of what all the blogs and YouTube channels and articles tell you about how to be a successful writer, but I'm finding my purpose and all bets are off!
To be fair, I've already changed some of my writing habits, and you can see that in previous blogsposts. I'm switching from Wordpress to Blogger, and I'm taking down a lot of the stories that have been on my blog and converting them over to Amazon. I'm also reassessing how I've been writing, and so the usual Monday fiction is likely to disappear, hopefully replaced by regular publication on Amazon.
This time last year, I got caught up in a November writing challenge. I had a lot of fun writing it, I'm not going to pretend that I didn't, but it wasn't what I needed. It took me away from ideas that I've been wanting to develop or plots that I want to work on. This year, I've decided that I'm not going to join a public challenge. I'm easily distracted even without group chats and workshops, and I'm thinking about Mindful and Purposeful. I'm still going to try writing a novel in November, and it's not something that I've got ongoing. The idea fell on me this morning, as a sort of New Year's Day present from my imagination. It may lead nowhere, but I'm currently drowning as I get old stuff edited, polished, tidied, and onto Amazon's metaphorical shelves. And it may lead somewhere after all.
I feel a wonderful sense of adventure as I type this, just before I settle down to my first stint at the new idea. I can't wait to see where it leads and what it means for this year. I hope that you'll be around to share what happens, and I'd be honoured to know what you think.
This is a pic that I took of a completely normal and non-haunted book
“Just let me take a quick picture,” Violet said.
I sighed. “It’s just a basic burger. It’s nothing special. And you already took a picture when I sat down.”
“But now it’s got a bite taken out of it,” Violet said. “It’s more authentic.”
“It’s just a burger.” I stared at her. “There’s a MacDonalds in every High Street. Think about it, Burger King is everywhere and you can get burgers in half the pizza and curry delivery places in town. This isn’t fancy!” I put the burger back on the paper wrapper. “Take a picture if you must.”
“You’re right,” Violet said thoughtfully. “It’s not really fancy. Hang on.”
I could feel my jaw drop as Violet picked out a spray of plastic foliage from the display next to the table and arranged it artfully across the soggy bun. “That’s better.” She snapped some pictures, turning the paper to get better angles. “You can eat it now.”
“Somehow I don’t feel so hungry,” I said. “Not after that plastic thing has been on it. I mean, the furnishings here have seen some stuff.” I winced as I saw the manager approaching.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said firmly.
“But this is exposure!” Violet said.
“We’re leaving,” I murmured. “I’m really sorry.”
“People can’t get enough of food content,” Violet said, protesting as I grabbed her arm. “It’s organic marketing.”
“I’m really, really sorry,” I told the unimpressed manager.
“Sales can go through the roof from the right sort of post,” Violet called over her shoulder as I pulled her out of the burger place. “I’ve seen it happen.”
“Please don’t come back,” the manager said, shutting the door as I pulled Violet away and down the street.
“Vi, it was just a £1.50 burger, but I was looking forward to it.” I stopped and looked at her. “I know that you want to do the whole influencer thing, but cheap burgers aren’t going to get you noticed. Why don’t you do hair and beauty?”
Violet’s shoulders slumped. “Kylie would kill me,” she said. “She’s really good to me, but she’d never tolerate me sharing salon secrets.”
“Kylie’s a good friend as well as your boss,” I said. “And I suppose you’re right. You have a waiting list for clients and you star in all of her social media posts. Maybe you can talk with her about collaborating or something.”
Violet shook her head. “Hair and beauty is oversubscribed,” she said. “And, to be honest, I don’t want to always be doing hair. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job,” she added quickly. “But it would be nice to do something else.”
I patted her shoulder. “You’ll find something,” I said. “I just don’t think that it’s going to be food. Anyway, let’s get a burger from the food van. I’m still starving.”
I worried about Violet. She was a genius at the salon, and I know that Kylie treasured her, and she had the sweetest, kindest, most generous soul that I’d ever met. She also had the resilience and depth of a petal. She was sort of a friend, and sort of a cousin, and I felt that she was also sort of my responsibility. I’d been in the same classes at school, frantically dragging her away from daydreams to get her to lessons on time, scaring off the bullies, and hoping against hope that something – anything – would stick as she drifted through life. She came to life when she was styling hair, with a drive and authority that would match any sergeant major. Away from that, however, she was a vulnerable sweetheart with a heart of gold. I spent a lot of time worrying about what fad she’d pick up next.
“I’ve got it!” Violet tumbled into my flat, her smile wide and her eyes bright. “I’ve got it – and it’s perfect.”
“What?” I looked at the book she was waving at me. “A reading club?”
“No! Cleaning tips,” Violet was almost vibrating with eagerness. “Cleaning is a pretty crowded niche, but antique cleaning and recipes is a little more open.”
“You’ll be brilliant with that,” I said sincerely. Violet may have had the strength of a dandelion clock, but she kept her flat immaculately clean. “You could do surgery on any surface in your flat.”
Violet waved a hand. “I’m not talking about current stuff,” she said. “Look, it’s a book of household tips that’s over a hundred years old.”
“Look at this,” she said. “It’s like another world. There’s a section on how to use a mangle.”
“What’s a mangle?” I asked, looking at the tattered book in front of me.
“It presses water out of clothes,” Violet said. “It’s a sort of early spin dryer, except that it doesn’t spin.”
“I don’t even know what one looks like,” I said, an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach.
“And it tells you how to make indelible ink – look!” she said, leafing through the faded pages. “Take 20 grains of sugar and dissolve in 30 grains of water…”
“Water doesn’t have grains,” I said as she frowned over the old print.
“No, grain is a type of old measurement. It’s tiny, like a tenth of a gram or something. But it’s all in proportion. It’s two parts sugar to three parts water. Then you add sulphuric acid.”
“What!” I craned to see over her shoulder, but the tiny, cramped printing defied me. “You can get Sharpies from the supermarket.”
“But that’s no fun.” Violet said. “Lots of people want to go back to homemade, natural treatments.”
“Sulphuric acid isn’t natural,” I said, “Or it shouldn’t be. Where could you get it from?”
“I can get hold of sulphur,” Violet said uncertainly. “How hard can it be?”
“Perhaps you should start with something easier that won’t terrify any followers,” I suggested.
“Hmm, perhaps,” Violet said. “But there are loads of old housekeeping books around that are going for pennies, and I can share them with my followers.”
I thought about it for a moment and I couldn’t see any pitfalls. “It sounds great,” I said. “Don’t forget to send me the links so I can follow.”
Violet was prepared. She’d set up accounts on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, X, LinkedIn and even Goodreads. She posted, tweeted, shared and reviewed and I found myself relaxing. She’d found her place and she was having a blast.
“She’s really getting into the old book stuff,” Kylie told me when I bumped into her at the coffee shop.
“To be honest, so am I,” I said. “I’m not posting or sharing, but we have a great time when we get out to go to sales and charity shops. There’s all sorts of stuff out there, and some of the books are hilarious.”
“It’s given her a new topic of conversation at the salon,” Kylie said. “I can’t begrudge her, though. It’s given her a new lease of life and I’m thinking of entering some competitions.”
“You should come along to the next book fair,” I said. “Though you might want to bring some sanitiser and wipes. Not all the stalls are well dusted.”
Kylie chuckled. “I’m surprised that Violet would touch those old things. She’s always been particular.”
“You should see her, once she’s got them home,” I said. “She’s got tiny vacuum cleaners and brushes, and she’s been taping up loose pages and spines.” I grinned as I picked up my latte. “She even has a spreadsheet.”
Then she got the book. The slim, tattered volume was tucked in the back of a box of a trader at a collector’s fair, along with some random 1980s cookbooks, bought from a house clearance company. I ignored it, but it caught Violet’s attention. It was a small volume with old recipes and it seemed to call to her.
“Look at this,” she said, waving the book past my face. “It’s got little sayings around the edges of the text. Look – ‘Wilful Waste Makes Woeful Want’. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You always end up down if you waste stuff.”
I nodded hesitantly.
“And there’s a recipe for Spiff Pudding here. I’d never heard of that before,” Violet continued. “I can’t wait to try it. It’s got currants in it.”
I listened patiently as she worked her way through the book, but then work got busy for me, so I wasn’t meeting up with Violet so much. I followed her social media, of course. Every morning I dutifully logged in on all the different sites and liked and shared everything. I even skimmed the text over my morning coffee. I started noticing things, however, or rather the lack of things and I started to feel uneasy. I remembered us chuckling over a facsimile copy of Mrs Putnam’s Receipt Book, which must have dated to the early nineteenth century. There wasn’t a mention of it in any post. There was hardly a word about Soyer or Acton or Glasse or any of her staples. Instead it was all about that little book. She started every day with a tweet of one of the trite sayings printed at the edge of the page. There were dissections of the recipes and videos of her trying them out. There was even some quite deep research on the book’s background, which I thought had been a bit beyond Violet, but she had been focused.
The posts churned out, more than I thought the thin book could have held, There were recipes, tips for cleaning, hacks for nineteenth century laundry and even videos as Violet tried out using honey infused with onions to treat a cold. Despite this, the articles seemed flatter and lifeless, with nothing of the inner joy that Violet took in life. Even the language seemed different. Violet didn’t usually worry about spelling and grammar, but the over-correct text next to each picture was jarring. Finally I got a call from Violet’s boss at the salon.
“I haven’t heard from her all week,” Kylie said. “It’s not like her, and I’m more worried than anything else. Have you heard from her?”
“I’ve not heard a thing,” I said. “She’s still posting, though, so she must still be sort of okay.” Inside I was terrified. Violet lived for her job, something was badly wrong if she was risking it.
“I don’t think that means much,” Kylie said. “Violet was telling me how she sets posts up to go live weeks in advance, just in case.”
I felt a chill run through me. “I’ll call in at her place tonight,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I wasn’t reassured when Violet answered the door. She had always been slim, but now she was barely skin and bones. Her eyes were sunken and her smile was strained. I could see her trying to find an excuse to keep me out, but I pushed past her into the dark hall before she had a chance to stop me. “Are you okay? What’s happened?” I almost stumbled when I went into the living room and stared around in shock. Violet had always been a minimalist, with the immaculate room being kept in perfect order, but now it was a mess. Plastic flowers and bits of twigs were heaped everywhere. Black coffee mouldered in half a dozen mugs scattered around next to crumpled paper and crumb-covered plates. The curtains were closed even though it was bright outside.
“I’ve been a bit tired,” Violet said. “And I haven’t had much appetite. But I’ve had some meals from The Book.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. After all, this was a book that suggested making ink using sulphuric acid as one of the ingredients. I looked around. “Where is it?”
“Hmm?” Violet’s eyes were losing focus and she was swaying.
I swore and grabbed her. “When did you last have something to eat?” I snapped as I guided her down on her chair.
“I made baked tomatoes for breakfast,” Violet murmured.
I stared at her for a moment. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month. “Hang on,” I said, and strode into the kitchen and stopped suddenly. It was almost as much of a shock as the living room. Instead of clean, clear order, the room was overflowing. Packets were stacked haphazard on the usually empty counters, and the bin was spilling over. Someone had been eating plenty here. I opened the fridge and poked at the densely packed shelves, crammed with cream and butter. Something very odd was going on, and I was getting more worried by the minute. I returned to the living room. “You need to see a doctor,” I said firmly. “You’re nothing but skin and bone.”
Violet shook her head. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just a bit run down.”
“Kylie is worried about you, you know,” I said. “Why didn’t you at least call her?”
“What day is it?” Violet asked. She checked the calendar on her phone. “What’s happened? I think I’ve lost three days.”
I looked at her. The porcelain skin was now looking thin and dry. Her hair, normally gleaming and fantastically styled, hung lank around her head. And instead of the cutting-edge fashion she normally wore, the stained t-shirt and jeans fell loosely around her. “You can come and stay with me,” I said. “I’ve got a sofa bed in the living room, and it will give you a chance to relax. Come on, I’ll grab your toothbrush.”
“I have to bring The Book as well,” Violet said.
“Which one?” I asked as I rummaged in her bathroom.
“You know, The Book. The one called ‘Good Things’. It’s been an absolute life saver. And it was written in 1896, you know.” Violet looked wildly around and then relaxed as she picked up her book. “Here it is.”
I frowned as I came back in. “Are you sure that’s it?”
“Yes, look – it says ‘Good Things’ on the front.” Violet said, displaying the thick volume. “And I’ll need my camera as well.”
“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly as I rummaged through her cupboards. “I’ll pack some clothes for you as well. Should I pack some warmer things? I mean, if you’re feeling under the weather, you might want to snuggle into a sweater. What do you think?” I looked up. “Violet, should I pack a sweater?” I waited for an answer but she was caught up looking through the book. “Violet!”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Violet said vaguely. It didn’t reassure me.
I didn’t feel better about things when I got Violet back to my flat. I settled her down on the couch and made her some cocoa. “Are you sure you won’t see a doctor?” I asked, setting the mug down next to her.
“I’m fine,” Violet said. “I’ve just been overdoing it. I’ll have a look through The Book and see if there are any recipes for invalids. That will make a good blog post.”
I dragged out spare blankets and pillows and then looked hard at the book. It didn’t look like the book I remembered. It was plump and sleek and it seemed to gleam a little under the living room light. “I’m just nipping to the shop for some bits,” I said. “And I’ll call in at the pharmacy as well.”
“Ask if they have any quinine wine,” Violet said. “The Book recommends it.”
I stumped off down the road and, when I was sure I was out of sight of my windows, rang Kylie. “I’m really worried,” I said. “But I can’t get her to see a doctor.”
“Perhaps some time with you will sort it out,” Kylie said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “And she’s owed some holiday time. She never takes time off.”
“It’s that damn book, I’m sure of it,” I said. “She’s following health advice from a time when they gave opium to babies and put arsenic on the wallpaper. I’ll pick up something more modern at the pharmacy in the supermarket.”
“Let me know how it goes,” Kylie said. “But I’m sure that you’ll work it out.” I didn’t feel sure at all.
Violet had fallen asleep when I got in, with the book tucked in close to her. I looked closer. It had ‘Good Things’ embossed on the cover, just like I remembered from the first time I saw it, but it didn’t look the same. I went into the kitchen, pulled out my phone and started checking Instagram. And it was there! No-one would believe me if I just came out with the words, but the book changed. Over the weeks the thin, threadbare copy seemed to swell and the cover grew sleeker at every image. At the same time, the images showing Violet’s hands holding the book grew thinner and paler until they were almost skeletal. I couldn’t hear Violet moving, but I didn’t want to take a risk. I carefully shut down my phone and poked my head back into the living room. The book hadn’t moved, but I had seen far too many horror stories. I went back to the kitchen and texted Kylie. <Check the book in Violet’s Instagram. It’s the same, even though it changes.>
Kylie texted back. <Are you sure it’s the same book?>
<According to Violet, it’s the same book and the same printing is on the cover.>
<You need to burn it!> Kylie texted. <It’s possessed.>
<How am I supposed to burn it?> I texted back. <I’m in a second floor flat with no fireplace. Besides, Violet would never permit it. She’s even sleeping with it right now. The hard part is going to be getting hold of it. We can worry about what to do with it after that.>
<I have an idea.> Kylie texted back. <I’ll be there in an hour.>
I had doubts when Kylie arrived. “Are you sure about this? I’m not sure it’s ethical. I’m not sure that it’s even legal.”
“Desperate measures,” Kylie said breezily. “And do you have a better idea?” She pushed past me into the room and stopped suddenly. “What the hell is the matter with you, Violet? You should be in a hospital!”
Violet managed a tired smile. “I’m okay, really. I’m just a little run down.”
“We had burgers for dinner,” I said. “Proper meaty ones from the butchers, with chocolate pudding afterwards.”
Kylie looked at Violet in disbelief. Violet looked like she could be blown away like a dead leaf. “Well, I’ve got something that will pick you up,” Kylie said, recovering. “I’ve got a bottle of tonic wine for you and a bottle of prosecco for us.”
I still had reservations as I brought out three wine glasses. The tonic wine was strong stuff and though Violet had wolfed down three huge burgers and two helpings of pudding, she didn’t look like there was anything to mop up the alcohol. Then I caught sight of the gleaming book nestled in Violet’s lap. I didn’t like the idea of getting Violet drunk. but if that is what it took, then that is what I would do. “Tonic wine,” I said. “It’s like the quinine wine that the book recommends. It will be just what you need.” I watched as Kylie poured a generous glass for Violet and then two more reasonable measures for her and I.
“The Book is never wrong,” Voilet said, and took a mouthful. She blinked. “What is in this stuff?”
I picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “It says it has added iron.”
“That won’t hurt,” Violet said and took another large mouthful.
“You’re looking a little peaky,” Kylie said, ruthlessly topping up Violet’s glass. “Iron has to be good for you.”
It took half a bottle before Violet started to nod. I exchanged an uneasy look with Kylie. It seemed more about exhaustion and lack of resources than a couple of glasses of wine. “Let’s get a blanket on you,” I said cheerily as I stretched Violet out along the sofa. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s absolutely right,” Kylie said, shaking out a throw and slipping it over Violet. The book fell out of Violet’s hands and onto the floor. Violet murmured and shuffled in her sleep, but the tonic wine was too much for her. Kylie automatically bent to pick up the book, but I stopped her. I nipped quickly into the kitchen and came out with a tea towel, which I used as a barrier as I picked up the book.
“I’m going to take a walk,” I said, marching briskly to the door. “Keep an eye on Violet, will you?”
Kylie nodded, her eyes wide and fixed on the book as I marched out of the door, phone in one hand and a book wrapped in a tea towel in the other. “Be careful!”
I moved with purpose, down one street, then another, then I cut across a park, past an arcade of shops and then down the back of the industrial estate until I got to the canal. I hesitated. I had seen Jumanji. Things could come back from a watery grave. Then I pulled myself together. That had been a wooden box, not a paper book. Besides, there were things in the canal that would clean brass. An old cookbook didn’t stand a chance. I found the footbridge, got to the centre and shook out the tea towel, sending the book into the water with a splash.
I stood there, almost transfixed by the reflection of the setting sun bouncing off the murky water. I expected something to show for it, like lights or explosions or steam. Then I got a text alert. It was Kylie.
<Violet is looking better. She has some colour in her cheeks. Have you done it?>
Yes, I thought, as I turned back to the flat. I’ve done it.
Kent waved the letter at his wife. “It's the valuation.” Rupert watched carefully as Kent ripped the envelope, struggling with the expensive, heavy.
“You can't be thinking of selling it,” Alison said. “That portrait has been in your family for generations.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know painting is haunted. Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning.” Rupert nodded. At least someone else was paying attention. He looked critically at the portrait. It had worn well over the years, and the jewel shown still remained with the family. At least, he didn’t remember it being sold off.
“Those sort of accidents are normal for a house of this age.” Kent looked uneasily over his shoulder. “It was a coincidence. The gargoyle that fell on him was probably loosened by a storm and could have fallen at any time.” He sighed, still struggling with the envelope. “And we have to face reality. We are in a Grade I listed English Stately Home with a leaking roof. We can't just get any old tiles from the local builder's yard and get the cheapest quote plus scaffolding. Did you see how much the only firm I could track down wanted? We need the money.”
“Do you want to sell it?” Alison asked as Kent finally pulled the letter out of it's rich, cream envelope. “Soames is talking about expanding the market garden side. We’re making a decent profit there, then there are the guided tours and the lavender farm.”
Kent set the letter face down on the table. “I don’t want part with the portrait. I grew up with it, and I was always fascinated by the man in the picture. I can’t believe that all the stories I heard were true, but if even a tenth of his adventures were real, he was such a character.”
Rupert grinned. Every exploit was true, and the gold and jewels that he stashed from the profits were a guard against just this sort of crisis. His grin faded. He didn’t understand why Kent hadn’t sold any of it. Surely he wasn’t emotionally invested in some cold metal and a few chunks of pretty rock.
Kent put his hand on the letter. “I really don’t want to sell it, but sentiment won't patch the roof.” He absently straightened out the letter. “I wish we didn't have to.” He straightened his shoulders. “And if I'm not getting a good enough offer, I'm keeping it. There are grants, after all.”
Jenkins stuck his head round the door. “It's Soames about the gardens again. He's in the study, sir.”
Rupert waited until Kent and Alison left the room and stood square in front of the portrait, his hands behind his back. He loved this estate, loved it with every fragment of him, and he wasn’t going to see it fail. He leaned a little closer to inspect the detail on the jewel. The artist had done a wonderful job, and it would be a shame to lose the portrait. But what had happened to the jewels? The family had been quietly prosperous for generations, but now it was finally time to use what had been put aside for just such a problem. It was hard to remember after so many years, and his recollection was foggy around the time of his death, but he would swear an oath that none had been sold. He turned to inspect the letter. £350,000 was a significant sum, but it wasn’t enough to leave a cushion and he wasn’t going to let his portrait leave. He concentrated. He’d not spent the last few centuries drifting around like the Grey Monk in the Long Gallery and he wouldn’t allow a letter to defeat him. It took some work to manipulate, but after a mentally strenuous ten minutes, the offer was £35,000, take it or leave it. The old ghost knew that Kent would never settle for that. But he still needed money.
Rupert thought back. His son had been something of a gambler, so he’d hidden most of the marginally legal spoils to keep safe for his grandson, but then he’d caught the fever his son had brought back from a gambling hell and was never able to tell young Henry where to look. That’s why the jewels had never been sold. No-one knew that they existed. Rupert straightened up. All he had to do now was remember where he’d left them.
The tension hung heavily in the air after Soames left. “It sounds like a good deal,” Kent said. “If anything, I think Soames underestimates some of the profits.”
“I think that he’s over-cautious on the start up costs as well,” Alison said, tapping the papers in front of her. “But we still need more money than we have, and if the roof isn’t fixed soon, we could get structural damage.” She stood and laid a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see the portrait go, either. It’s the soul of the house. But we are running out of choices.”
Kent looked around the panelled study. “We can’t lose the house,” he said. “This room hasn’t changed since the seventeenth century. Can you imagine what a property developer would do to the place? The wainscotting would be gone, the oak beams in the red parlour would be plastered over, the nineteenth century wallpaper would be stripped…” He sunk his head in his hands. “We have to make it work.” He jumped, startled, as a crack rang through the room.
“What now?” Alison said. “Not the chimney!” Another crack sounded from the fireplace and a shower of ancient soot fell into the unused fireplace.
Kent swore and hurried over. “We can’t afford anything more,” he said, pulling out his phone and switching on the torch. “But it was capped years ago.”
“It’s not the chimney,” Alison said. “Look.” She pointed to a split in the panelling at the side of the fireplace.
Kent aimed his phone into the crack. “Hang on.” He gently ran his fingers over the tiny gap, then slid them up to a burnished rosette on the fireplace. “I wonder…” He pressed the rosette, tentatively at first, then harder. “I remember going to stay with Phil and Larissa one year, and they were so proud of their priest hole.” He put his phone down and pulled out a pocket knife. “Come and look.”
Alison hurried over as the split grew wider. “A real priest hole!”
“I’m surprised to find this,” Kent said, gently prising open the crack. “We were Protestant all the way through, but I did hear that Rupert, from the portrait, had a hidden cupboard for all of his ill-gotten gains.” Ancient hinges protested, but gave as he swung the door open. “I thought that the tales of gold and jewels were just stories. You know, adding to the legends of his time as a privateer and explorer.” He reached towards a sad leather bundle that filled the floor of the cupboard, then drew his hand back. “We should probably get someone in,” he said.
“Probably,” Alison agreed. “We should get someone in to authenticate the leather and all that.”
“We definitely need witnesses,” Kent said. “But if we get the security guy from downstairs and call Soames back…” He picked up the phone and shone the bright light closer to the bundle. There was a rich gleam in the dust.
“I’ll give them a call,” Alison said. “And why wait longer. You may not be Rupert, but you’re definitely related. And we get to keep the portrait.”
Jim looked around. “It’s not a bad little flat,” he said. “It’ll turn a good profit once we’ve tidied it up a bit.”
Steve nodded. “It really just needs a few coats of paint and perhaps new doors on the kitchen cupboards. Everything is pretty sound.”
“She didn’t want to leave,” Jim said thoughtfully. “I mean, she handed over the keys alright, and the place was cleared, but she kept warning me about the cupboard.” He nodded to the cupboard set into the wall, with chipped paint and an ornate chain.
“I’ve got the bolt cutters here,” said Steve. “I’ll get into it in a sec.”
“I’ll nip back to the van and get the camera,” Jim said. “She seemed a sweet old dear, and a little confused, but she may have been playing crafty. There could be structural stuff inside that cupboard and there go our profits.” He glanced over at Steve. “Don’t start without me, we need to document this.”
“I’ll get it opened up,” Steve said. “I’ll get the lamp shining in by the time you’re back. It’s probably where she hid the empty bottles. She was talking about spirits when she left.”
“Or it could be a Ouija board,” Jim said with a shudder. “You know I hate anything like that.” He glanced uneasily at the cupboard. “Back in a tick.”
Steve shook his head as he heard Jim clatter down the stairs. You couldn’t even read your newspaper horoscope around Jim. He hefted the bolt cutters and checked the chain. It was steel but old and the bolt cutters were top of the range. The chain fell apart without much effort.
The cupboard was dark inside, much darker than Steve expected. He pulled out his phone to use the torch and shivered as a cold draught ran through the room. He looked closer and saw a few chalked symbols, faded and barely visible under some dusty leaves, on the base of the cupboard. The stench was stomach churning.
“There’s nothing here, Jim,” Steve called, heading to the windows. He had to get some fresh air into this room. “But we may have a sewer line issue.” He tugged at the window catch. “Have you got some WD40?” The window was jammed, no matter how hard he pushed and shoved. He frowned. They had been fine earlier and there had been nothing in the survey. He could hear Jim on the stairs. He had better get the chalk marks wiped off before he got here, or he would have a fit. “Hang on, Jim, I need a cloth.” Steve strode over to the door, shivering as another blast of icy stench ran over him, and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t move. “Jim, the door’s stuck. Give it a push, will you?”
There was a rattle. “I can’t shift it,” Jim said. “Is there a lock?”
Steve peered at the door. “I can’t see anything.”
“I’ll get the toolbox,” Jim called. “Back in a tick.”
The light in the room dimmed. Steve turned around, hit by another icy, stinking draught, but there was nothing over the window and the sun seemed just as bright. He shivered as the room got colder and, as he heard a low, malicious chuckle, he wondered if they would have been better leaving the cupboard alone…
I looked down at my husband’s grave. The funeral had been yesterday and the flowers were already drooping. I stooped and pulled out a faded leaf. Alan always liked things just so, and it was the least I could do for his memory.
He had liked his tea brewed for exactly four and a half minutes. He had insisted that his newspaper was placed at the side of his breakfast dish with the sports pages showing. He had always checked that his dinner knife was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table. I accommodated his little ways as the years went on. After all, a prize winning research chemist had to have a few little foibles after working with dangerous chemicals all these years.
But while he was so particular about the brand of salt on the table and the angle of the curtains when they were opened, it was a shame that he had paid less attention to other details. It was always risky taking a mistress who worked in the same lab as you and who also dealt with dangerous poisons. And his genius for new compounds was lacking when it came to cyber security. I had known all his personal passwords for years, and I suppose plenty of other people had as well. Perhaps most dangerously, he forgot that once, long ago, I had also worked in the lab with him on dangerous chemicals, the same lab I regularly visited to bring his freshly home-made lunch, with the sandwiches always cut on the diagonal.
The police had found the email apparently from my husband to his mistress, ending their relationship. They had found poison in the mistress’s bag, coyly left next to my husband’s coat in the cloakroom where I left his lunch. They had ascribed the hysterics she had to guilt.
I straightened the roses – not lilies. My husband had been particular about flowers as well. If only he had been as particular and paid attention to me.
