the house. The previous curate was something of a sportsman, I believe. He went to a mission in the colonies. At least he was honest enough to leave the Church’s guns behind.’
Charles leaned forward to poke the fire and for a moment it blazed up brighter than the two oil lamps, Rosehill not being supplied with the modern convenience of gas lighting. The wind had freshened and could be heard whistling through the branches of the tall elms nearby.
‘Why, we might be present at the beginning of a frightening tale by the late Mr Sheridan Le Fanu,’ Edith said. ‘Should we hear the jangling of chains or the wail of a tormented spirit all will be complete!’
‘I’m not sure that Mina and Jonathan share your delight in gothic romance,’ Charles said with a frown. ‘Remember that they have had first-hand experience of such matters.’
‘By no means,’ Mina said. ‘I like a good ghost story as much as anyone, as long as it contains the familiar horrors that have entertained us since our childhood. What is more disturbing is the unfamiliar , rarely encountered between the covers of a book. However, let us allow Jonathan to tell us what he has discovered about Sir Owen since the four of us last spoke. Perhaps we should pass round the port before he begins.’
Once our glasses had all been filled I started my account of what had happened since I had left Rosehill the previous morning. I had just repeated the Haywoods’ account of their bizarre experience on the night of their violent disagreement with Sir Owen when Charles interrupted.
‘Has it occurred to you how very out of character it would be for Mr and Mrs Haywood to be prone to any kind of nervous imaginings? I can hardly think of a more sensible, strong minded couple.’
Edith nodded. ‘No indeed. I think we must accept that whatever the nature of their experience one can hardly dispute its reality. And its occurrence so soon after Sir Owen’s humiliating ejection seems a little too coincidental. But do go on, Jonathan.’
When I described my dream it was of course necessary to explain that the young lady in my vision was the same mysterious figure that I had seen from the train on our journey down to Cornwall and had chosen not to mention to my wife. As I might have anticipated, Mina was not in the least put out.
‘Really, you should not have denied me the frisson of excitement that your story would have produced!’ she said with a smile. ‘Having been twice accosted by this woman you must promise to tell me if she reappears. I shall have a sharp word or two with her if I ever see her.’
Charles Ashby was not so amused. ‘The young lady may have had a purpose in her visitations. You say that in your dream she seemed to be warning you: I am inclined to agree and believe that you should take her warning seriously.’
During the remainder of my account my audience exercised admirable self-control, and heard me out in silence. When my story had concluded there was a moment’s silence before Mina spoke.
‘It seems to me that we have heard a great deal of speculation – I imply no criticism, Jonathan – but have little or no evidence upon which to base a conclusion.’
I sighed. ‘Evidently these are deep waters. It is a great shame that my old friend Professor Van Helsing is not with us to offer his advice. However, let us hope that my visit to Carrick Manor tomorrow evening will illuminate matters. Now, Charles, I have a favour to ask. Would you mind looking over the sketch I made when I awoke this morning? It has no meaning to my eyes, but perhaps you might find it significant. And Edith and Mina, if you please.’
The curate took my pocket book from me and stood up to hold it near to the oil lamp, the two ladies peering at it over his shoulder.
‘But this is astonishing!’ he cried. ‘Are you quite sure that this drawing is based solely upon your dream?’
‘I’m quite certain,’ I said. ‘It is merely a reproduction of what I
Learning to Kill: Stories