Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,12
Their host gestured in the general direction. “That sighting struck me as particularly odd, if it was indeed Edward’s ghost paying a visit, because he absolutely hated that place. I’ve said he was a rather strange little boy and he always screamed if we passed the chapel while out taking the air, even when he was safe in a carriage. He insisted on being taken away from it. I asked my mother if the lad she’d seen had been distressed at all: once she’d upbraided me for referring to my brother merely as the lad, she said Edward had seemed at ease, apparently picking his way carefully among the fallen masonry. As though whatever used to scare him could no longer touch him, now that he was no longer bound to the earthly realm.”
Jonty and Orlando shared an intrigued glance. If the mystery they’d been asked to solve was half as interesting as this story, they were in for an investigational treat.
“Where was he the third time?” Orlando’s demeanour suggested he was taking this story as seriously as he might have taken the account of an unsolved murder.
Their host, evidently appreciating the gravity which his story was being accorded, said, “The last time my mother saw Edward, or perhaps I should say believed she saw Edward, was by the summerhouse. We’re heading that way now, so you’ll soon see it, once we turn the corner of this path. The building has an oblique connection to the mystery I wish to consult you upon.”
Whatever stories the summerhouse held, it was a splendid construction and as well-kept as everything else they’d seen on the visit so far. Stone built, glass panelled, ornately decorated, it reminded Jonty of the orangery on his maternal grandfather’s estate. It commanded glorious views over the local countryside, including the area where the Roman villa was being excavated and caught the evening sun beautifully. Basking here on a summer’s evening would be a true delight.
“I imagine,” Henry said, once they’d drunk in the vista, “my ancestors—because I think of those folk living in their roundhouses two thousand years ago as my ancestors in spirit if not in blood-line—sitting contentedly watching the setting sun. Year on year, whether in a wattle and daub hut, a stone-built villa or a timbered hall. A wonderful sense of continuity.”
“Yes. There is a certain atmosphere redolent of it. As one sometimes gets in a church where folk have worshipped for centuries. Our colleague, Dr Panesar, he of the eagle eye and aeroplane, who first spotted your remarkable remains, believes it to be purely a chemical thing,” Orlando said, shading his eyes against the low sun. “Our emotions cause us to produce said chemical—Panesar is never quite clear on what it actually is—then it infiltrates our surroundings and lingers there. Other folk come along later, subconsciously detect the substance in the air and we have a similar emotional reaction to the person who went before.”
“Dr P has a scientific answer for most things, although the theory is not necessarily borne out by evidence.” Jonty waved his arm, taking in the scene. “I prefer a less prosaic, genius loci type of ideas.”
Henry nodded. “Yes. I think I tend that way, too. Edward was certainly always sensitive to the atmosphere of a place. Hence his love for here and the lake and his hatred of the ruined chapel. I used to ask him why he felt the way he did but he was probably too young to express himself adequately enough for me to understand. It came down to that the chapel was a bad place and this was good. Mother believed this was the last place he came to as a spirit because it faced west. The old notion of the setting of the sun and the sunset of life.”
“So the times Edward was seen, was it always outside?” Orlando asked.
“Yes. Here, he was sitting on the step, looking out over the view. Just as he always liked to do.”
“Do you know if your mother attempted to make contact with Edward?” Jonty asked.
Henry’s eyes widened. “What, via a séance or some such nonsense?”
“No, I had something more practical in mind. If she saw him here, wouldn’t she want to come and be near him? Or talk to him? Although now that you mention a séance, I’d be interested in that, too. I know there’s a fad for such things among some people and supposedly-helpful folk saying they can contact those beyond the grave.” Jonty, taking