Page 22 of The Haunting of William Thorn
“My family is from Stonewell; we just haven’t lived in the village in a long time.”
“Why should I believe anything that comes out your mouth?”
“That’s actually a very good question.” Edward, or whoever he was, lowered his arms down to his side, not bothering to wipe away the dribble of blood over his chin.
Already, the skin around was darkening to a blue-black bruise.
“I think trust is earned. And clearly, I need to work to gain it again.”
“Don’t fool yourself. I never trusted you,” William sneered.
“And yet you shared a bed with me last night. That suggests you did, at least, a little.”
“That was different. You tricked me. You lied.” Heat rose in William’s cheeks, so hot and sudden he grew dizzy for a moment. His arms were aching from holding the branch up and poised, ready to bludgeon this man if the moment required it.
“William,” he said, trying to disarm the furious man by using his name. “I swear, I haven’t lied. My name is Edward, or Ed if you prefer, and my family comes from Stonewell. Although currently, we reside in Oxford…”
“Edward is the name of a man who died here long ago. He worked on the manor’s gardens, just like you said you did. But that was a lie because the gardens are a fucking state. So, you are either shit at your job or that was a lie.”
Edward sagged his weight on the side of his hip, his brow furrowing. “Okay, I admit. That was a lie. But if you just let me explain, and put down that staff, I might actually have the chance to–”
“Go on then, why did you do it? Convince me and then I might consider putting this down.” William shook the branch, which was beginning to ache the minimal muscles in his arms. “What was the point of lying about gardening when it was so obvious no one has?”
Obvious to anyone but me.
Edward pondered the question, his eyes falling to the monstrosity of the stone gatehouse at his back.
William hadn’t noticed it before now, but the door was ajar.
He peered enough inside to see a sleeping bag on the floor, amongst what looked to be a camping set.
This must’ve been where Edward had been staying.
And from the puddles of muddied water surrounding the sleeping bag, it explained why Edward hadn’t slept here during the storm last night.
More lies. More deceit. More reasons to distrust him. All until the next words left his torn lips.
“Because my great-uncle was called Edward, that was who I was named after. Yes, he used to work in the gardens, and it was the only thing I could think to say when you opened the door. I… didn’t expect someone like you to have actually moved into the property. It threw me off.”
Edward only mentioned one detail that mattered to William. “Teddy was your great-uncle?”
“Teddy.” He swallowed hard as if the admission was a painful one. “Yes. He is why I’m here.”
William couldn’t stop the nasty words from falling out of his lips. “Then maybe this will be a surprise but Teddy died many years ago, actually. You won’t find him here…”
“Ouch, William. Hit me, threaten me with that branch, but don’t speak ill of the dead. They might be listening, you know.” Edward’s face paled, his eyes darkening with surprise and, most notably, pain.
It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise, but who was William kidding? He wasn’t brave enough to say it. And regardless if he’d just crossed a line, it was Edward who’d lied his way into William’s home. He was the bad person in this situation.
“What do you want from me?” William asked, breathless from the rush of emotions.
“Actually, it’s Hanbury Manor who owes my family something, not you.
” Edward took a long inhale in, rolling back his shoulders.
“I want to find out the truth about what happened to my great-uncle.” Edward fished into his pocket and withdrew a folded – yet crumpled – piece of paper.
He was careful not to let any of his blood drip on it as he handed it over to William.
“Here. Consider this as me being honest.”
William took it – curiosity and all that. He unfolded it, reading the ink-printed letters that looked like a Times New Roman wet dream.
It is with profound sorrow I inform you that Edward Jones was killed in action on 25 December 1939 in the performance of his duty and service to his country. Remains have not been recovered. Please accept our heartfelt sympathy.
“What is this?” William asked, reading it over again.
“It’s a telegram, one that suggests my great-uncle died in service to his country during World War Two.” Edward took that moment to step forward, closing the space and testing how safe he was in William’s presence.
William thought back to what Barbara had said in the shop.
“Then you have your answer to what happened to him,” William said, handing the telegram back to Edward.
He took it, warm fingers brushing William’s for a moment, reminding him that William had actually contemplated that Edward was a ghost for a few minutes.
“And yet I still have a problem,” Edward said. “Odd that, isn’t it?”
“Which is?”
Edward locked eyes with William, his expression serious and sharp. “Someone lied. My great-uncle Teddy never went to war. He never served his country. I believe this telegram was forged, and I intend to find out why. Because I can’t help but wonder that if Teddy never died at war, where did he go?”
“And you think that answer lays in Hanbury?”
Edward lifted his darkened eyes over William, looking back to the looming face of the manor. “Yes, actually, I do.”