Crybbe

'Perhaps he would like to be regressed himself?' said Graham Jarrett with a meaningful smile.

'Oh. Well…'

'Or you, perhaps?'

'Me?'

'Think about it,' Graham Jarrett said lightly.

Fay sat in the wooden bow-chair. Jean Wendle was on the edge of a huge, floppy sofa with both hands around a mug of coffee. She wore a white cashmere sweater and pink canvas trousers.

'I heard it on the news,' she said. 'About poor Rachel Wade.'

'Yes,' Fay said, wondering if she'd also heard about Powys helping with inquiries.

'It's a crumbling old place, the Court. What was she doing there at that time of night?'

'I don't know. I've only heard the news, too. I'll expect I'll be finding out. All I know is…'

Oh, what the hell, the woman was supposed to have been lawyer, wasn't she? Maybe she could help.

'All I know is, the police aren't convinced it was an accident. Joe Powys apparently saw her fall and called the police. They're kind of holding him on suspicion.'

A sunbeam licked one gilt handle of a big Chinese vase with an umbrella in it then crept across the carpet to the tip of Jean Wendle's moccasins.

'Oh dear,' Jean said.

Fay told her how things had been between Joe and Rachel, in case she wasn't aware of that. She described her own interrogation by the police. What they'd told her about Rose.

'Can they hold him, do you think?'

'It doesn't sound as if they have any evidence to speak of,' Jean said. 'They can't convict on a coincidence. They also have to ask themselves why this man should engineer the death his lover in the same way that a previous girlfriend died, then immediately report it as an accident – knowing that the police would sooner or later learn about the earlier misfortune. I wonder how they found out about that so quickly. Did Joe tell them himself, I wonder? Do you mind if I smoke?'

Fay shook her head. Jean went across to the Georgian table, put down her coffee mug, lifted the lid on an antique writing box, found a thin cigar and a cheap, disposable lighter. She picked up a small, silver ashtray and brought everything back to the sofa.

'It could be, of course, that the police are looking at possible psychiatric angles.'

Fay was thrown.

Yes, I'm an accredited crank, Joe had said. Had said several times, variations on the same self-deprecating theme.

'You're saying they think he's possibly a psychopath who is into pushing women out of upstairs windows. And – I don't know – subconsciously he's seeking help and that's why he called the police after he'd done it?'

Jean shrugged. 'Who knows how the police around here think? Perhaps they'll do some checks with Bristol police and find out if he really was in London the afternoon Rose died. If they arrest him he'll need a solicitor. Until they decide what they're going to do, I don't think there's anything we can do. Meanwhile…'

Jean Wendle turned serious, quizzical eyes on Fay.

'Tell me about yesterday. In the church. Tell me what that was all about.'

Fay sighed. It seemed so long ago. And, in retrospect, so foolish. Also, it said too much about her state of mind that even when Jean had turned in the pew to look at her, she was still seeing somebody else.

'It's very silly,' she said. 'I thought you were Grace Legge – that's my father's late wife.'

Jean Wendle nodded, showed no surprise at all. 'You've been seeing this woman?'

'Once. I think. I mean, how can anyone say for sure? They don't really exist do they, only in our minds.'

'That depends.'

'On what we mean by existing, I suppose. Well, all I can say is that, whatever it was, I'm not anxious to see it again.'

Jean smiled. She was, Fay thought, the sort of woman – sharp, poised – you wouldn't mind being like when you were older. That is, you wouldn't mind so much being older if you were this relaxed.

'I don't quite know what came over me. You were just so completely still that the thought occurred to me that there was nobody at all sitting next to Dad, but I was seeing Grace.'

Jean said, 'The time you really did see her – when you saw – whatever it was you saw – where was this?'

'In the house. In the office, which used to be her "best" room. The room that, when she was alive, I suppose she thought of as her sacred place – so neat and perfect because nobody really used it. Maybe she thought this room had been violated by my desk and the equipment and everything. Or maybe I thought she'd be angry and so I conjured up this fantasy…'

'You don't think that for one minute,' Jean said.

'No,' Fay admitted. 'All right, I don't think that.'

'Then please, only tell me what you do think. And stop looking at me as though you're wondering what I might change you into.'

'Miss Wendle…'

'Jean.'

'Jean. Look, I'm sorry, but it gets you like this after a while, Crybbe. I've been here nearly a year, and it gets to you.'

'You mean you can't relate to the people here. You don't understand what makes them tick.'

'Do you?'

'Well, I think…' Jean lit the cigar at last. 'People talk a lot about energy. Energy lines, ley-lines. Trying to explain it scientifically. Makes them seem less like cranks if they're talking about earth energies and life forces.'

She inhaled deeply, blew out a lot of blue smoke.

'The pronouncements of New Age folk are wrapped up in too much glossy jargon. Concealing massive ignorance.'

'What are you doing in Crybbe, then, if you think it's all bullshit?'

'Oh, it isn't all bullshit, not by any means. And at least they're searching. Trying to reach out, as it were. Which itself generates energy. In fascinating contrast to the natives, who appear to be consciously trying not to expend any at all. And perhaps to the electricity company, who can't seem to summon sufficient to see us through an entire day.'

'I'm sorry. What are you saying?'

'I'm saying that perhaps the people of this town are as they are because they've known for generations what a psychically unstable area this is, and most people – sadly, in my view – are afraid to confront the supernatural and all it implies. For instance, I should be very surprised if you were the only person who was seeing the shades of the dead in this town.'

Fay shivered slightly at that. The shades of the dead… sounded almost beautiful. But Grace wasn't.

'I try to avoid letting anything get touched by the dead hand of science or indeed pseudo-science,' Jean said. 'But let's suppose that in certain places certain forms of energy collect. Our friend Joe Powys says in his book that the border country is… Have you read it?'

'The psychic departure lounge.'

'Yes, and poor Henry Kettle, the dowser, couldn't abide such terminology because he was really awfully superstitious and terrified of admitting it."

'Nothing psychic.'

Jean waved her cigar. 'A terrible old humbug, may he rest in light. Henry, of course, was just about as psychic as anyone can get. Anyway, your ghost. Grace. Did she speak?'

'Not a word.'

'And she didn't move?'

'No.'

'Harmless, then.'

'I'm so glad,' Fay said sceptically.

'Can I explain?'

'Please do.'

'OK, if we stick to our scientific terminology, then pockets of energy can accumulate in certain volatile areas, and in such areas, the spirits of the dead, usually in a most rudimentary form, may appear. Like a flash of static electricity. And they go out just as quickly. Or you'll get sounds. Or smells.'

'The scent of fresh-cut lilies or something.'

'Or fresh shit,' Jean said harshly. 'It depends.'

'I'm sorry. I wasn't flippant when it was happening to me.'

'I doubt you were,' Jean said. 'All right, sights or sounds or smells – or tastes even. Rarely anything simultaneous, because there's rarely sufficient energy to support it. If there was a massive accumulation of it then one might have a complete sensory experience.'