Ashes From Ashes Read online

  Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Copyright © 2019 by Gaskell Publishing

  All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be

  Reproduced without prior permission of the author

  except in the case of brief quotations and reviews

  Cover design by

  It’s A Wrap

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Chapter One

  “The wood must be damp,” said the woman, peering down into the open fireplace. The massive inglenook was, after all, one of the reasons they’d bought this crumbling old beauty of a house. “But no bloody use if all it does is smoke.”

  “That’s not just smoke. Those vile yellow fumes are suffocating.”

  “So the chimney needs cleaning, or it’s the stench of wet wood.”

  Brian, on his knees on the rug, poked at the twigs he’d piled with such care. The flames flared briefly, spat, and died. There was ash on his nose. “The wood isn’t damp. I collected it myself. And the paper isn’t damp either.” The man frowned at his wife, then kicked at the smouldering twigs. “I took ages setting this fire. It should be blazing. At least it should be fizzling. But there was a pile of ashes and bits already on the hearth, and I left that. It wasn’t damp either.”

  “Well, it isn’t blazing, is it,” Debbie told him. “The smoke is disgusting, Brian. Put the damn thing out. It stinks. It’s making our beautiful new home into a smelly pigsty.”

  That was when the top half of a body, still partially wedged higher up, collapsed a little further down the chimney and one pale hand emerged, swinging slightly through the turgid fumes.

  With a panicked stumble backwards, Debbie screeched, and Brian grabbed his phone, He had to dial twice for the police since his hand was shaking even harder than the white fingers descending into the fireplace.

  Two days later Brian visited Rochester Manor. Fifteen minutes at a quick tramp, five minutes in the car. This time there was a blazing fire, with flames up the chimney and nothing trailing back down except smoke.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake Mum,” Brian insisted, “I’m not joking. This happened. We spent hours with the police, more hours with the homicide D.I. and then had to move into the local pub. Our glorious new home is swathed in blue and white plastic and guarded like Buckingham Palace.”

  “We shouldn’t have lent you that money, dear.” Stella sighed. “A nice little cottage in Cheltenham would have served much better. There was a lovely little place up for sale near Pitville Park.”

  “I loved that huge old house.” He looked across the large living room to the blazing fire on the hearth at the opposite side of the room. “Don’t love it anymore. I felt sick. Still feel sick.” He paused again, looking around. “You should tell that funny old friend of yours, Mum. You know, the one who always rustles around in navy silk. Sylvia or something. She was all into that murder business two years ago, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, Sylvia. But she’s not a detective dear.”

  “She and her live-in-lover found clues and so forth.”

  Benjamin squinted, remembered something, and looked up over the top of his newspaper. “Living together, but definitely married.”

  “Irrelevant, Dad.”

  Sitting with her back to their backs, Sylvia brushed down her navy silk lap and gulped her tea.

  “Come to dinner here tonight,” decided Stella, smiling reassuringly at her worried son. “With Debbie of course. We’ll have it in the room upstairs, and you can tell us all about it in private.”

  “It’s not in the paper,” noticed Benjamin.

  “It will be,” nodded Brian.

  A little later and back upstairs, Sylvia told Harry. “Ben and Stella’s son. Remember Stella told us all about the new house the boy had found in some village on the border and how they’d got it cheap. So somebody stuffed the chimney full of corpses.”

  “The previous owner. Easy enough to trace, I imagine,” said Harry.

  “Easy enough, is it?” Sylvia scowled. “Not something you’d expect to discover every day. I thought you’d want to go there.”

  “On a fishing trip?”

  “Naturally. So phone Morrison.”

  It was raining when they’d grabbed her.

  The sluice of rain glitter over the windscreen had obscured anyone inside. The voice sounded sane enough, even familiar. The slip and slide of the thick mud had already hurtled her into a tree trunk once, and down onto her knees a second time. Still some distance from home, she’d been cursing her own stupidity since she had staggered into the invisible dawn and begun the long walk. The rain was a pelting grey chill of unrelenting malice, and she had to lose her high heels and wallow in the slush bare foot.

  Stupidity, yes, but never stupid enough to accept a lift. She must have refused. She must have turned away. But she remembered nothing else until she opened her eyes, looking up at a bare light bulb and a ceiling painted a sultry copper brown. The paint flaked. Then a light finger touch patted her upper arm, and a tentative whisper asked, “Is you mine, miss?”

  Neither gagged nor any longer doped, Eve shouted, “What? No. I’m not anybody’s.”

  The little voice said. “Sorry, miss. I thought you was my new one.”

  She tried to sit up but couldn’t, roll over, she couldn’t do that either. She was roped to a bed by her wrists, ankles, waist and neck. Eve couldn’t move and started to cry. Heaving lumps of panic and misery choked her, she cried for hours. No one touched her, and the shy voice went away.

  Although the passing of time was unknowable and no window or clock existed in the room, Eve thought it might be the next day when she smelled toast. Footsteps pattered, and the timid voice whispered again. “They says you is my new one. All mine, they says. So I bring brekky. You likes toast? I put jam on too. You got a name, miss?”

  She desperately wanted the toast, so she croaked, “Eve. But I can’t even move.”

  “I like Eve,” said the voice, a little louder. “It’s a nice name. And now I got a new friend, I’s proper happy. I’ll find them old scissors. Then you can share me toast.”

  “Perhaps we can be useful again,” said Sylvia with an unblinking gaze. “You have to admit, we helped last time. This time we actually know the young couple who bought that house. The boy’s parents live at the manor. And I can’t help reminding you of the agreement.”

  The tall man seemed more haggard than usual but smiled. “I remember. I’m happy to keep to it, but this is an unpleasant case.”

  “Whereas,” asked Harry, “Most murders are cheerfully pleasant affairs?”

  “You can help,” laughed D.I. Morrison. “I’ve no objections, depending on how you intend to be involved. I can’t include you officially. You know I can’t and won’t. And besides, at present, I haven’t anything useful to tell you.”

  Sylvia sat rather heavily
on the chair by the large paper-strewn desk. “The previous owner of the house?”

  “The local branch of The National Trust.” Morrison stretched his legs and yawned. “I’ve been up all night so,” he waved one hand, “come around later and talk to Peggy. She’s always glad to see you both. Come for dinner. I’ll probably be in bed though.”

  “Does Peggy know the facts?” asked Sylvia with suspicion. “She doesn’t, does she? So why did the National Trust sell off that property? I thought they never got rid of anything.”

  “It was donated by a previous owner back in the post-war years, but the Trust experts quickly realised it was simply a copy of medieval opulence. Actually built during the late thirties. Not a particularly accurate copy either, it seems. A poor architectural fraud. The house was left to fall down. But before it crumbled, they sold cheap to a couple who fell in love with it when passing by. The most recent buyers have been somewhat unfortunate.”

  “Yes, Debbie and Brian Anderson. So do those bodies actually date back to post-war, for goodness sake?”

  “No, Harry. They’re recent,” sighed Morrison. “One body not yet in decomposition. Someone has clearly been living in the house without permission, and without being discovered.”

  “How many bodies so far?” wondered Sylvia.

  “Four up the chimney. The ashes have gone to forensics. Now we’ve started digging up the garden.” The detective sat forward once again, fiddled with something in the top drawer of the desk, discovered his throat sweets, unwrapped one but then forgot to take it. Instead, he sighed. “Once we start into the forensics, I won’t be gossiping about every detail, you know. See if you can glean anything from Ostopolis. He’s doing the p.m. But we’re talking to no press, no T.V. and no Mr and Mrs Joyce.”

  “So what time this evening?”

  “Come at around seven. I might even get up.”

  “We’ll bring some wine,” said Sylvia.

  The friendship had blossomed like daffodils in spring, and now Sylvia bought birthday presents for the five children. But that didn’t always mean discovering the secrets they should know nothing about.

  He had cut the ropes binding her to the bed, and now she could sit up and see him. She ate quickly, cramming the cheap sliced toast into her mouth as she watched him. But one restraint remained. Her left ankle was chained to a metal ring on the floor. This was long enough for her to lie on the bed, to use the cheap bucket against one wall, to walk from one wall to the others yet she could not quite reach the door, which was the only door, and clearly locked. There was no window.

  He was an odd little man with tiny twisted legs, a dollop of a snub nose, and small squinting eyes. An accident of some kind, Eve supposed, had squashed his face and amputated both legs, leaving only abnormal stumps. Although now almost paralysed with fear and confusion, now she began to sympathise, he had been born that way. His voice was shy, even apologetic. Eve finished every crumb of toast. “What’s your name? And – I mean – why am I here? Can I leave? I have to leave. People will be searching for me. The police too.”

  “I’m Master.” He had a gentle smile. “They all calls me that. Tis easier. And you’s here to look after me. I likes that. And ‘course you can leave later. Not too quick. Some o’ them goes quick, but I reckon that’s a real shame. Stay a bit, please?”

  It was a confusing request. “So I get a choice? About leaving or staying?”

  The small man nodded vigorously. “Yes. ‘Corse. But I likes the look o’ you, so I reckon tis best if you stay. Don’t go dying yet,” he said. “T’wouldn’t be fair.”

  Then Eve understood.

  Football with a balloon which wouldn’t break anything was still a rowdy affair, and Theo led the attack with Primrose acting goalkeeper and the open door playing goal. Dempsey kicked a goal and Primrose was sulking.

  “Come into the kitchen,” said Peggy, “It’ll be quieter in there.”

  “Won’t the kids wake Darcey?”

  “Eventually. That’s the idea.”

  Darcey Morrison wandered into the kitchen half an hour later, threadbare dressing gown over bright yellow pyjamas with smurfs on, and a blue message saying, “I’ve been a good boy” on the top. The trousers were considerably too short for him. Everyone squashed around the kitchen table looked up. Five voices muttered, “Hello Dad,” and returned to their plates of hamburger and chips. Peggy, mouth full, pointed to the one empty chair, and Morrison sat.

  Swallowing quickly, Harry said, “Hope we didn’t wake you up.”

  “But we were hoping to discuss the case,” said Sylvia. “Later, of course.” She eyed the children, who were taking no notice.

  “Seven so far,” Morrison said. “But Ostopolis isn’t talking yet. Cause of death doesn’t seem at all obvious. So we’ll enjoy your wine tonight without any repayment.” He poured himself a glass from the open bottle on the table. “But I’ll let you know some of the details once the case develops. In the meantime,” he raised his glass, “keep away from that damned house.”

  Peggy reappeared after tucking the smaller children into bed and permitting the eldest to glue himself to his tablet and the games he adored. “But Darcey, the house is closed and guarded and everything anyway. No one gets in. And you’ve got a new team, haven’t you?”

  Morrison’s sublime disregard for his collapsing clothes was uncompromising. He stretched out two bare feet beneath hairy ankles and left the dressing gown hanging open. Smurfs danced up each leg. “Whitehead, Crabb and Walsh. Tammy’s coming on board as soon as he’s back off leave next week. Latymer leads officially. But I’m in charge for what it’s worth. Then, if we still need them, there’s a small group coming over from the Met next week. Hopefully Knuple. I’ve worked with him before.” With one long thumb, he scratched the remnants of sleep from the corners of his eyes. “You’ll not be part of the team, I’m afraid Harry. Nor you, Sylvia, my dear. But if I can find a few details to keep you involved, I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, we’d appreciate that,” Harry said.

  “We’ve had plenty to enjoy these past two years,” nodded Sylvia. “But something’s missing.”

  Harry gave her an anxious glance. With steaming cups of dark coffee, they finished the evening. Peggy poked her nose into the steam. “Have I made it too strong? It smells like gravy.”

  “Perfect espresso. And,” asked Harry, “can we visit the house anyway?”

  Morrison shook his head. “Under no circumstances. This is a case and has barely started.”

  “But it’s a cold case, isn’t it?”

  Which is when the eldest son Dempsey poked his nose around the kitchen door, saying, “Hey Dad, it’s on the TV. There’s a girl gone missing down in Little Mornington. Only seventeen. The news guy says it’s the Fiend of the Ashes.”

  “Shit,” said Morrison, sitting up with a sigh.

  “Not a cold case then,” suggested Sylvia.

  Chapter Two

  She lay curled on the bed, and he crouched on the floor at the side. The floor was dirty, and the place smelled. A poorly washed bucket in one corner stank. The bed was also unclean, but the mess of grubby sheets, quilt and blankets suggested a possible level of warmth and comfort. A buzz from a radiator next to the bed promised some form of heating, but it wasn’t more than a faint tingle.

  “Is you warm enough,” the man asked, “to take yer clothes off?”

  Eve stared at him. She wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with him. After an hour of trembling and sobbing when he had eventually gone away, Eve pinched herself and wondered if she could be clever, since the man who called himself Master obviously wasn’t clever at all.

  He was mentally simple, she decided, and unable to understand anything except the obvious. But he had kidnapped her at random, or so it seemed, and therefore had some level of determination. Yet he was also timid, even sweet natured in a ludicrous and absurd way. Someone must surely be looking after him since he was badly crippled, and the far door presumably led t
o his own home.

  But now, instead of being the politely shy creature she had first met, he wanted her naked. She whispered back, “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I never – undress – in front of anyone else. I hope you don’t mind..” She had first practised the words in her head, speaking in the same simplistic timidity he used himself.

  He gazed at her, mouth open, blinking and confused. “But I’m the master. You gotta do what I says. Reckon that’s the way it works.” His mumbled words echoed in the empty room.

  She pulled the spangled lycra skirt down as far as it would stretch. “Honestly, it doesn’t work that way. Yes, you’re the master. A very nice master too. But girls don’t like getting undressed, especially when I still don’t know you properly. Let’s go for a walk together instead.”

  Master looked at her. For a moment he was expressionless, as though unable to fully understand what she meant. Quite slowly, something more coherent entered his eyes. They turned dark and cold. Mouth open wide, he stared at Eve. Then he began to roar, jumped to his feet, and started to run. Running in decreasing circles, he kicked out at walls and the bed, the one old chair in the corner, the locked door and the cement floor. His hands, fingers curled, were like small claws and with these, he grabbed the bedclothes and ripped them from the bed, Eve tumbled to the floor. The small man jumped over her, kicking and spitting. Phlegm spattered across her face, stinging her eyes.

  The noise bounced from walls and ceiling, more like a lion than a man, and finally he rushed at Eve, dragged her back to the bed, flung her there on her back, and ripped her clothes from her body. The little lycra skirt opened down one seam and fell apart. Master left it on the ground. He grabbed the flimsy elastic of her pink frilly knickers and split them. Her chenille jumper refused to budge, so he tugged it up and over her head. Claws beneath both cups, he pulled her bra up around her neck. Eve was screaming, crying and gulping for breath, felt his fingernails in her flesh, felt his hands between her legs, cringed back against the wall, and begged, between sobs, for mercy.