Long Term Tenants

Frances goes to the country and has a holiday she hadn't bargained for.

 

LONG TERM TENANTS

 

Frances was alone during the day, as her daughter and son-in-law were at work and their children were at school. Being unused to the country, Frances found it hard to entertain herself. The walk to the nearest town was: on foot, forty-five minutes; by bus fifteen minutes. Frances chose to walk. She was having a short stay at her daughter’s house in order to see her grandchildren. Seeing Frances in a village it was obvious she was not a local. From her hair down to her boots she was pure city. The make-up was the final touch, no one wore such a lot. That morning it was good to be outside even in November. The sun shone just enough to take away any greyness that might have been  left over from the previous night. The houses were all detached, not jumbled up together as in a city. The traffic was light and the walk was proving to be quite pleasant. No noise or bustle.

As Frances was on the point of crossing over a small road, she saw a woman outside a fairly large red brick house. There was a For Sale by Auction notice in the front garden. Frances saw that the woman had a problem trying to open the front door. “May I help you?” Frances asked the worn out woman.

“I’m having trouble with the lock on this door. It doesn’t want to turn.” The woman was struggling hard to turn the key in the lock.

“Here, let me have a try,” Frances said. The lock was stiff. “What you need is oil, have you got anything that might do to lubricate it?”

“I’ll take a look in my van, there might be something that will do,” the woman said to Frances.

The woman returned with a small can of oil, “I think this will do.” The two women saturated the key and the lock with the pungent smelling oil

“By the way, my name’s Frances. What’s yours?”

“Esma,” the woman said dryly, at the same time twisting the key in the lock. It turned and the door opened.

“Is this your house?” Frances asked.

“No, it isn’t. I work for a lady who does house clearances with her husband. Today they have gone to another house. I’m here to make sure nothing has been left behind.”

“May I come in with you?” Frances asked out of sheer nosiness.

“You might as well,” Esma replied.

 

The smell that met their noses as the door opened was that of a total lack of fresh air. At the opposite end of the hall, pushed against a wall, was an old fashioned sofa and sitting on it was a woman and two children. Their clothes were floating and colourless. The sofa had no colour either. There was no substance to anything at all.

“Can you see them?” Frances said, staring at the figures on the sofa.

“Yes, I can. What are they doing here. This house is meant to be empty,” Esma said rather crossly.

“They are ghosts, they live here. Look, they are showing us where we have to go. We  have to go up the stairs.”

Frances and Esma climbed up the staircase following the indications of the three downstairs. At the top of the stairs on the right hand side there was a door. Together, Frances and Esma pushed the door open. The room was empty. A light dust covered the naked floorboards. There was a built-in cupboard, Esma opened it, and it also proved to be empty.

Frances had a feeling of impending doom. She stared at the far wall, nudging Esma she said, “They’re in the wall. I can almost see them through the plaster. That’s why they were sitting there waiting for us or anyone else who would enter and help them.”

“What a load of rubbish, I’ll call the police, if it’ll satisfy you.” Esma rang the police on her mobile phone. “I shan’t say we’ve seen ghosts but strangers in the house.”

When the young constable who was on duty answered the phone call from Esma, he was having a cup of coffee with his mates. “Good morning, how can I help you?”

“My name is Esma Hart and I’m at 38, Shawcross Lane. It looks like there have been intruders in the house.”

“I’ll send someone round to check.”

“I think there’s something in the wall,” Esma wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Very well, Madam. Don’t worry, a car will be arriving shortly.”

Esma turned to Frances and said, “I hope you’re right and there is something behind the wall.”

Frances said to Esma, “Let’s go and wait outside for the police. It’s too shut in up here.”

They went back downstairs. The sofa had gone and with it the three figures.

The sound of a police car arriving came to their ears. Two policemen got out of the car and accompanied Esma and Frances back into the hall and up the stairs. As they went past where the sofa had been Frances noticed that there were glass doors and not a wall as she had supposed. But the sofa had been against a wall. She wondered if Esma had noticed it too. They showed the police the room and the wall where Frances said she had seen the three persons through the plaster.

The police looked closely at the wall. “We’d better get a pick to this wall. In case this lady is right and that there are bodies in there.” The older of the two policemen spoke to Esma and said, “We’ll get an expert in these things round to break up this wall. Do you know who the owners of this property are?”

“No, my job is to make sure that the clearance people haven’t left anything behind.”

“It would be much appreciated if you and the other lady would come down to the station to make declarations.”

 

Esma handed the front door key to the policeman and the four of them got into the police car and drove off into town. Frances thought the morning was turning out to be rather more than interesting. And she didn’t need to walk into town, she was being driven, albeit in a police car. Their declarations took very little time. Esma was told not to say a word to her employer, and Frances loved having such a great secret to keep.

 

Back at the house, two special policemen were working on tapping walls. One of them had a pick and began attacking the wall.

“Oh, no! Just look at this!” The policeman with the pick in his hand stood staring open mouthed at a small skeleton that had come loose with the breaking of the plaster. The other policeman helped him to carefully break up the rest of the wall.

Forensics were called to the spot and a tent was set up in the front garden.

The neighbours nearby were visited by the local police, but were unable to help. The police next called the auctioneer who had been in charge of getting rid of the property.

 

Frances walked around the town in happy ignorance of what was going on at the house. Esma had suspected that Frances was somehow to blame, so I shan’t say anything about my being a bit psychic, thought Frances. Anyhow, she also saw the ghosts. Poor people!

The idea of a train ride appealed, so Frances bought herself a ticket and rang her daughter to inform her that she was going to eat out and would be home late. The last thing Frances wanted was her family asking questions about how she had spent the day.

 

Esma was of a different type, she was a country woman and, unlike sophisticated Frances, she hated anything that wreaked of weirdness. She was the touch of face powder and lipstick type. Getting back home, she made herself a strong cup of tea to which she added some chocolate digestives and sat back in an armchair and stroked her cat and dog. Later that day, after preparing dinner, she would take her dog for a walk making sure not to speak to anyone. She asked herself who Frances was but knew by her accent she wasn’t from that area. Esma knew that the TV would be on to the story of the bodies in the wall like lightning. The ghosts frightened her. Why had she seen them, and Frances too? It was then that Esma made the decision not to talk to the press or the TV. Let Frances do the talking, she seemed the more ready of the two to confront the cameras and the public and any flack that might come from it.

 

The reporters asked the detective in charge of the investigation if they had any idea of who the skeletons might be. There was no indication of their identity yet, but they knew that the skeletons were a woman and two children. No mention of how they had died or how they had got into the wall. Frances and Esma weren’t mentioned. The state of the bones suggested that they had been in the wall for about a century. So they looked up the 1911 census and discovered that Randall Chambers, his wife Emily Chambers and their two children, Edward and Hope Chambers, had resided at 38,  Shawcross Lane.

The police knew it would be a sheer waste of time to go house to house asking if anyone remembered the family. After a hundred years everyone associated with them would have died. “We’ll have to look for any relatives who might have heard of an uncle or aunt who went missing,” the detective inspector commented.

“The man went missing, so we can assume that he killed off his family for some reason or other, and simply walked away,” the detective sergeant said.

 

The first thing they did was to look at the old newspapers which had been microfilmed by the local library. The area wasn’t that big, and a hundred years ago even smaller. They finally found the report of how a local family had disappeared while on holiday.

 

The police were telephoned by an elderly man who wanted to meet with them. The elderly gentleman was called Barnaby Clark, who lived in a tiny cottage with birds for company and the occasional visit from his children. “Pleased to meet you, come on in, it’s rather cold out here.”

The living-room was tiny but very cosy, the detectives grateful for the warmth. After receiving a cup of tea and fruit cake from Barnaby, they sat and listened to his story, at the same time recording it. “A long time ago my grandmother had a pretty blonde little sister called Cissy, who was something of a flirt. A man called Chambers used to say she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. He was mad about her, my gran said. They knew he was a married man with a family, and told Cissy not to encourage him. Then one day she had gone, and Chambers and family had gone, too. It’s not much, but I’m getting on and I heard this a very long time ago.”

“Have you got a photo of your great aunt Cissy?”

“Yes, Sir, I have. I knew it existed, so I got it out for you.” Barnaby handed the old photo over to the detective. Both men saw a pretty face of the Edwardian era, with dark curls and a large hat.

“Did anyone ever hear from her again?”

“Not that I know of, but my gran thought she saw someone like her but, older, many years later, when she was in the outpatients waiting to be seen.”

“Did she speak to that woman?”

“No, not my gran. She was of the old school, you never approached anyone unless you were sure of who they were.”

The detectives stood up and bade farewell to Barnaby.

In the car, “We have to find out who the owner of the house is.”

 

That night, on late night television, there was a report mentioning that skeletons had been found plastered up inside a wall in a house that was to be auctioned

 

“During the years following the disappearance of the Chambers family, the house had been rented out by the estate agents. Chambers had seen to that before taking off. It made sense especially if he thought of returning one day.” the detective inspector said to all of his colleagues in the force.

“If he had murdered his family do you really think he would show his face here again, however much later,” one of he policemen commented.

“The villagers reckon that tales of ghosts in the house have abounded for years. Nobody has ever stayed in it for very long. Some tenants said they heard crying and banging noises. It just shows you those tenants should have been taken more seriously.”

 

The next day the forensics delivered their findings on how the victims had been strangled from behind. They then informed what the age of the three had been at the time of death.

“After such a long time is it valid to spend public money on investigating a cold case? What would be the good of publishing Cissy’s photo in the papers or online? She would have been a great grandmother if she were alive now. I wonder if she ever knew what she had run off with?”

“I’m all for putting her photo in the papers,” the detective sergeant said.

 

A few days later while the story was still hot, Cissy’s photo was seen in the newspapers and on TV. It had an immediate response with a call from someone claiming to be her granddaughter.

The same detectives who had visited Barnaby paid her a visit. “My name’s Louie Dale. Cissy was my grandmother.”

“How long have you lived in this flat?” Louie lived in a small retirement flat in a better district than the village. The flat was all mod-cons, which meant it was easy for an elderly person to maintain.

“I came here a couple of years after my husband died, as I didn’t want to be alone in a house. Why was my grandmother’s photo in the press?” Louie asked. From the look of her, she had spent a very easy life, not one who has had much bad happen to her.

“We wonder if it’s possible that your grandmother disappeared with a man called Chambers, whose family went missing at the same time,” the detective inspector said.

Louie was not impressed by this remark at all. “ My grandmother married a man called Wilfred Wood. My father was called Alan Wood. I was Louie Wood before marriage.”

“Have you lived in this area all your life?” the detective inspector asked.

“No, I haven’t. My husband had to move a lot because of his job, so we were never very long in one place.”

“Have you got a photo of your grandmother Cissy?”

They stared at the aged wedding photo that was in a silver frame and standing on an occasional table with other family photos.

“We don’t know what he looked like, but this is definitely Cissy.” The detective inspector’s companion said.

“Thank you very much for receiving us and showing us the photo. Very grateful, I’m sure.”

Louie showed them to the front door and carefully shut it after them.

 

“It won’t be difficult to destroy her story,” the detective inspector stated. “But I don’t think it’s necessary. After all this time those poor souls should be given a decent burial and left in peace. If Chambers did kill them, then he also died a long time ago. I wonder how he lived and who he lived with for the rest of his days?”

“Who cares? That elderly lady wasn’t alive when it all happened. Cissy ran off with another man. Or, maybe Mr Wood was really Mr Chambers. Or, on the other hand, she may have been afraid of Chambers. We could go round in circles with this story. One more question, how did those two ladies know about the bodies buried in the wall? Fancy paying them a visit?” suggested the detective sergeant.

“Why not? You never know what you might find out.”

 

Esma kept true to her decision and when the detective asked her how she knew about the bodies in the wall her answer was short and simple, “It wasn’t me that knew, it was her, Frances, she guessed. If that’s all, may I get on with preparing the dinner, my gentleman friend will be round soon.”

“Thank you for your time.”

 

“Now let’s go to see the other lady. See what she has to say for herself.”

Frances was in her bedroom when the detectives arrived at her daughter and son-in-law’s home. “Mum, there are two detectives who want to speak to you. Can you come down, please,” her daughter Harriet called.

“We’d like to have a word with you, if we may.” The detective stared at Frances as if she were a visiting celebrity.

“Of course, please follow me. It’s quieter in here, away from the children. Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like something to drink, there’s just about everything here.” Frances showed them the drinks cabinet.

“We’re on duty, thanks for the invite. Another time perhaps.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“We’d like to hear the whole story. The other lady, Esma, isn’t speaking. She referred you to us, so here we are.”

 

Frances told the story of how she had felt a bit bored alone in the house and had decided to walk into town. On the way she had met up with Esma, and the sight of the ghosts sitting on a sofa. She also told them about the bodies she had seen in the wall and then how she had seen that the wall behind the sofa was later glass doors. That Esma refused to talk to her, but she didn’t know why. The detectives listened to her, fascinated by her account, which she gave in its entirety.

“Do you have these intuitive things happen frequently?” the detective inspector asked.

“Frequently, no, only when it’s necessary for something to be revealed. What’s going to happen to the skeletons?”

“In time they’ll be buried in hallowed ground.”

“I’d like to be present, if that’s all right with the police force. After all I helped them to be found. I don’t think Esma will be interested. She was afraid of them. As if a skeleton could harm anyone.”

The detectives stood up and shook hands with Frances, “Thank you for seeing us. You will be informed when the burial takes place.”

She beamed at them, “Thank you, goodbye.”

 

The rain had stopped at nine o’clock that morning, and the shoes of the detectives who had turned up for the burial of the mother and children’s bones, crunched over the wet gravel. The grass was emerald green in its wetness and the flowers were clean and bright on the recent graves. The sky was blue with white clouds that might or might not bring more rain, but for the moment the air was heavily damp.

Frances arrived, alone, by taxi, from the station, wearing a long black coat and carrying a big black umbrella. She had travelled from her home in the city to put closure on the strange affair.

Esma was not present. She had put it out of her mind a long time ago during the hard winter.

The three coffins, one larger than the other two, were on view, surrounded by flowers which had been anonymously delivered. A metal plaque on the lids of each coffin carried the name of the contents. One by one the coffins were lowered into their separate graves.

 

Frances threw white flowers on each coffin in its grave, and stood for a while, wondering at the cruelty of human nature. Had their murders been because the head of the family had fancied a younger woman, or just because he wanted out. She knew that no one would ever know, and all those who had been involved in the case would from time to time ask themselves similar questions.

 

Frances had nothing more to do. Neither did anyone else. And soon the graveyard was peaceful and quiet again.