Secrets of the Lighthouse by Santa Montefiore Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes.’
    ‘Dogs like fairies,’ Oswald commented with an air of authority. ‘But they’re not so partial to leprechauns.’
    ‘Are you going to make your move, Oswald, or are we going to sit here and talk rubbish?’
    He dealt his card. ‘There, old girl, that’ll put you in your place.’
    Ellen stroked Mr Badger’s face and soon he calmed down and put his head between his paws. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily before drifting off to sleep beneath the rhythmic motion of
her touch.
    Ellen wondered what it was that had excited him so much. She didn’t believe in fairies and leprechauns, but thought it quite natural that there should be ghosts. ‘How old is this
house?’ she asked her aunt.
    ‘Oh, it was built in the early eighteenth century,’ Peg replied.
    ‘So there might be ghosts?’
    ‘I told you, my dear, there are fairies. Lots of fairies,’ Oswald retorted before guffawing loudly. ‘There, you see,
that
was a clever move of mine, wasn’t it,
Peg!’
    ‘Anyone died in here that you know of ?’ Ellen persisted. Neither Oswald nor Peg responded and she was too gripped by the idea of the house being haunted to notice Peg’s
fingers hover hesitantly over her cards. ‘It’s quite possible, isn’t it, that you might have a resident ghost?’
    ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Peg replied sharply. Then she added in a quiet voice, ‘People who see ghosts see them because they
want
to see them. It’s that
wanting that makes them see and hear things that aren’t there. Tricks of the mind. Mr Badger goes off after a speck of dust glinting in the light or a fly so small you can’t see it.
Don’t be fooled by Oswald’s tales of fairies, Ireland’s gone to his head. I don’t want to hear such nonsense. Why don’t you go and find a book to read, there are
plenty in the library next door.’
    Ellen realized she had touched a nerve and she was sorry. She got up and wandered out, leaving her aunt and Oswald at their card table. She heard them talking in low voices as she walked down
the corridor, then all was quiet in the little library except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock.
    It was a small room with two walls of bookshelves, a window at the far end with a desk positioned in front of it, and on the adjacent wall a big open fireplace that was dark
and cold. Rugs were laid over the carpet and a coffee table was placed in the middle of the room covered in haphazard piles of magazines and books. It smelt of the remains of smoke embedded in the
curtains and fabrics. The floor creaked as Ellen walked over to the bookcase in search of something inspiring. She hadn’t imagined anyone lived in this day and age without a television. How
did her aunt keep in touch with the world? She ran her eyes along the spines until she came across a title that appealed to her:
Castles of Ireland
. It wasn’t a novel but it
didn’t matter. She flicked through it, reading the headings at the top of every page. It was a history of castles, some of them ruins, some intact, with beautiful glossy pictures. Her
curiosity mounted. There was nothing she found more romantic than a ruin.

Chapter 3
    The cockerel crowed at dawn, but Ellen was already awake. From her bedroom window she could see the lighthouse more clearly now. Part of its white outer shell remained, eerie
in the feeble light of morning, but the blackened bones were exposed like the charred ribs of an old ship, exposed to the wind and gulls who dared venture there. She stood at the glass and stared
at it for a long while. There was something compelling about the sight of neglect and it made her feel quite melancholy. It pulled at her in the same way ruined castles did, and she longed to know
how the girl had died and why she had been there.
    The sea was as smooth as satin, the rocks seemingly benign in the peace of the awakening earth. The silence was a novelty for Ellen, who was used to the noise of the city, but she felt it
creeping