The Forgotten Cottage - Helen Phifer The Annie Graham crime series

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was dusk by the time they had finished and Betsy said goodbye to them as they sat around Mrs Whitman’s small kitchen table drinking tea. She went to her own house and paused at the front door; on the step was a bunch of freshly picked meadow flowers and a note. Bending to pick them up, she smiled to see Joss’s name on the note. How sweet of him to have taken the time to bring them. Forgetting all about her deadly crime, she went into the house and over to the sink where, on the kitchen windowsill, there was a glass jar. Joss was so tall and handsome; he had such a sweet smile. Her mother had rarely smiled at Betsy, even as a child, whereas Joss grinned the moment he saw her, making her feel special. No one had made her feel like that since her father had died and she liked it.

      Humming to herself, she filled the jar with water and put the flowers inside. Turning to put them on her small kitchen table, she gasped when she heard a groan come from behind the curtain where her mother’s bed was. Her fingers slipping on the wet glass, she almost dropped the jar, just managing to put it down before it fell to the floor and smashed into a million pieces. She stood still, her head cocked to the side, listening for the sound again. It was dark in the cramped room and she really needed to light some candles but she was afraid to move. Behind the curtain, she could see the outline of the wooden coffin containing her mother’s corpse. How could this be—had she not been told herself that the woman was dead? The doctor had said that she was dead—maybe she had just been in a deep sleep and not dead at all. Betsy did not dare to move and stood there waiting, but there was no more noise so she convinced herself it had been her imagination then set about washing her hands and lighting candles. The curtain was drawn and there was no way on this earth she would open it and look at her mother’s cold body. Mrs Whitman had placed fresh flowers around the kitchen and the sweet fragrance filled the air. Betsy took a candle and made her way up the stairs, as far away from the coffin as she could get.

      Upstairs, she changed into her white cotton nightdress and climbed into the cold bed; she settled herself down and pulled the soft blanket up to her face. Her eyelids felt so heavy, she was glad for small mercies and leant across to the wooden bedside table and blew out the candle. She closed her eyes at the same time so she did not have to see the shadows which filled the corners of her room. Within no time at all she was asleep, too tired to dream.

      The next thing she knew, the clock in the kitchen chimed three and Betsy opened her eyes; she had been restless for the last half an hour, too tired to wake up, but then she heard the scraping noise. This was different to the mice she could sometimes hear scurrying around up in the attic; it was much heavier, as if someone was moving a piece of furniture around downstairs. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she realised that someone was in her house. The sharp sound of breaking glass made her flinch. Scared beyond anything she had ever felt in her life, she summoned the courage to get out of bed to go and see who it was. She felt around for the candle and managed to light it on the third attempt. Who would be so disrespectful to break into her home with her mother’s dead body still inside? Opening her bedroom door, she took a step forward onto the small landing and froze. The dragging sound was approaching the stairs and every hair on her arms began to stand on end.

      ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice wavered and she did not feel very brave as whatever it was continued to move in her direction.

      ‘I will scream if you come near me. Get out of this house at once before I open the window and scream until everyone in the village comes running to see what is happening.’

      There was no reply but the dragging sound ceased. Betsy began to breathe a little slower. Whoever it was had gone, scared at her threats. She would give them time to leave the house and then she would go down to see what they had been doing. There were some rascals in the village but she did not think any of them would be so low as to come into her house when she was all alone in the middle of the night. She counted to one hundred and was about to step forward when the dragging started again, this time quicker and in the direction of the stairs. Terrified, she stepped back then turned to run into her bedroom, but as she turned she caught a glimpse of the figure that was now at the bottom of the stairs. It was almost bent double, wearing her mother’s funeral clothes. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut, throwing her back against it, and began to scream.

      It was Seth, Mrs Whitman’s son, who came to see what was happening. He hammered on the front door and she ran to the bedroom window and leant out.

      He looked up at her. ‘Blimey, Betsy, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter with you? Screaming loud enough to wake the dead up yonder in the churchyard!’

      She whispered, ‘There’s someone in the house, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Please help me.’

      He rattled the door handle but it was locked. ‘I can’t get in; it’s locked up tight. Did you leave a window open—how did they get in? I’ll go fetch my dad; he might be able to get the door open.’

      ‘No,’ she shouted after him and he turned back to look up at her face.

      ‘Well, what am I to do?’

      ‘Please don’t go, don’t leave me. Kick the door in and if you cannot then break a window. I don’t care as long as you come inside and chase away whoever is downstairs. I’m so scared.’

      He bent down and ran at the door with his shoulder as hard as he could. The door, which was old and not in a very good state of repair, cracked and then splintered and he fell through it onto the cold stone floor of the kitchen. He couldn’t see much because of the stars which were flashing in front of his eyes. Betsy shouted down to him and he dragged himself up onto all fours. He squinted as his vision adjusted to the dark and looked around. There was no sign of anyone standing at the bottom of the stairs or anywhere else and he shouted to her, ‘Everything is all right; there is no one in here…well, except for you and me, oh, and your mother.’

      Betsy ran down the stairs and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, my Lord, I have never been so scared. Thank you.’

      She lit two more candles and looked around the room. The flowers she had placed on the kitchen table were now lying on the floor in a damp puddle amongst the broken glass of the jar she had put them in.

      ‘Look—see, someone was in here and it looked as if they were wearing my mother’s clothes. Please take a look inside her coffin and make sure she is still wearing her best dress.’

      Seth squirmed but then did as she asked; he didn’t want her to tell everyone he was afraid of a dead body. Picking up a candle, he walked over and drew back the curtain. He paused and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Stepping closer, he looked down into the coffin then stepped away again and turned to Betsy.

      ‘Your mother is still wearing her Sunday best that she wore to church every week. Are you sure you weren’t having a bad dream? I mean, you’ve had a shock and all that; it’s bound to have been playing on your mind.’

      Betsy, who had finished sweeping the broken glass, turned to look at him. Could it have been a dream or maybe it had been her guilty conscience? You couldn’t just take another person’s life and not expect to be affected by the matter. She nodded her thanks to him but she knew deep down that it had been no dream. How had the jar been smashed? There was no wind tonight and they had no animals in the house, not even a rat would be interested in a jar of flowers. She didn’t want to stop in this house a minute longer.

      ‘Please can I come back with you? I don’t want to be in here on my own.’

      He looked across at the coffin and then at Betsy. She was only two years older than him and he tried to imagine how it must feel to have to share a house with just your dead mother and a cold chill ran down his back.

      ‘Course you can, but you’ll have to stay on the chair downstairs. I don’t want my mother accusing me of things that are not true.’

      She frowned at him, too wrapped up in her own world to realise what he was trying to say, then she nodded. Too scared to look in the direction of the coffin, she left the house and shut the door behind her, locking it and locking her mother inside.

      Mrs Whitman was already awake when they went inside and

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