Anniversary
Can’t find anywhere suitable,” Beth sighed, scrolling down Places To Stay In East Sussex. “A lot of these hotels don’t have websites. I just don’t want to take a chance. It is our anniversary, after all.”
Joe bent over her shoulder.
“That place looks nice,” he suggested, pointing to a stately Georgian pile done up as a hotel.
“Far too expensive,” Beth reproved.
“Fair enough,” Joe agreed placidly. “I’d rather keep some money for the meal. That place there has a good restaurant, it says.”
“Nouvelle cuisine,” Beth sniffed. “I looked up the menu.”
“I like that one,” Joe said. The photograph showed a pretty pub with hanging baskets.
“So do I, but it’s only got a three-star rating. Wait – look at that!” She pointed to a picture of an ancient beamed inn. “That’s lovely!”
“Yes, but go back for me and look up the website for the other place first,” Joe urged. Beth clicked.
“Too dear for what it is,” she said. “I’ll go back to that old inn.” She tapped at the keys, then tapped again. “That’s funny. It was on this page, I’m sure, below that one.”
“You’ve gone back too far,” Joe told her.
“No, it was here. It’s just disappeared.”
“Perhaps they’ve taken it off because it’s full.”
“Do they do things like that? Can they?” Beth was often confused by modern technology. Joe shrugged.
“Okay,” he said decisively, “Here’s the deal. We drive down to Sussex and take pot luck. When we see a place we like the look of, we can go and check it out before booking.”
Beth brightened. “That’s a great idea. We could go early, to allow ourselves plenty of time.”
Joe kissed her. “Can’t wait!” he muttered, nuzzling her ear.
They left the main road before Lewes and drove south across country towards Battle. It was a warm, drowsy, late-August day, and England was basking in sunshine, its landscape a tapestry of greens and vivid florals. By three o’clock, they had inspected and rejected three hotels, and were becoming the tiniest bit demoralised, for they had hoped to check in with time to spare to visit Battle Abbey and enjoy afternoon tea in a quaint little café nearby.
As luck would have it, they saw the sign just north of Battle. White wood, with black-painted letters. “The Fighting Man. First left. Historic Inn offering Good Food and Accommodation.” Slowing the car, Joe looked at Beth.
“Shall we try it?”
“Why not? It sounds lovely – but let’s see!”
They turned left and drove down a shady lane until they saw a pub sign depicting King Harold pierced with an arrow through the eye. It stood on a well-kept green in front of a beautiful old timbered building with a brass-studded oak door and diamond-paned mullioned windows glinting in the afternoon sunshine. Through a brick archway to the right, they could see chairs and tables in a sheltered walled garden.
“Wow!” Beth breathed. “Isn’t that the one we saw online? The one that disappeared?”
“I’m not sure, but I think we’ve hit the jackpot,” Joe smiled. “Let’s investigate.”
He parked in the deserted car park on the left. The sun was beating down, and the air seemed unusually heavy – and still. They walked to the door, which opened at a touch. It led into the bar, but instead of boasting the predictable horse brasses, ladder-back chairs and chalkboards typical of a country inn, it was smart with beige walls, sleek, dark wooden tables adorned only by large, unlit candles, and high-backed chairs upholstered in aubergine tweed. There were beams, but they looked modern. Blue LED lights illuminated the rows of bottles and glasses ranked behind the bar. The room was empty.
Joe leaned across the bar and called, “Hello!”
“Look, here’s a menu,” Beth said. “Mmm, this looks good.”
There was a thudding as if somebody was running down carpeted stairs, and a man in his thirties entered the bar from its further end. He had spiky, ruffled short hair and an earring, and wore combat trousers and a white T-shirt. He appeared to be a little out of breath, but his smile was friendly.
“Good afternoon,” he welcomed them. “Can I help you?”
“We were wondering if you have a double room free for tonight?” Beth inquired. Her eyes were drawn to some raw red patches on the man’s neck and arms. She looked away quickly. It was rude to stare.
“Of course,” he smiled. “We have two. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes please,” Joe replied. Their host led them through a doorway and up a narrow, uneven staircase carpeted in soft beige. Upstairs, three doors led off the landing. One was closed.
“There’s no one else staying, so you can take your pick,” the man told them.
He pushed open the nearest door, and again, Beth noticed the angry skin on his arms. Then her attention was distracted, for the room was delightful, painted in restful cream and furnished with a four-poster, tasteful antiques and good toiletries. Somebody had evidently taken a lot of trouble restoring this place. But there was a strange, sour scent in the room, and the bed looked as if it had been made in a hurry…
Beth wrinkled her nose, and looked at Joe. He made a face.
“That’s an odd smell,” he remarked.
“I can’t smell anything,” their host said, looking puzzled.
Beth turned away and walked into the second room. It was done up in soft lilac tones and smelt of fresh lemons.
“I like this one,” she said happily. “What do you charge?”
“Normally 90, but you can have it for 75, as it’s just the one night.”
“Done!” agreed Joe.
“Pay me on the way out.” With a smile, he opened the shut door and quickly disappeared through it. As it closed behind him, a girl’s giggle could be heard. Beth raised her eyebrows, and Joe grinned.
They unloaded their small case, then drove to Battle Abbey as planned, congratulating themselves on finding such a delightful place to stay.
“I’m surprised it’s not on the Internet,” Beth said, as they stood on the ridge of Senlac, gazing down at the peaceful meadows where the Conqueror’s Norman hordes had gained their bloody victory.
“Perhaps it’s only recently opened. Be grateful it’s not online – a place like that would be mobbed.”
“There was an odd smell in that first bedroom,” Beth said. “Like charred wood – and something else that I couldn’t identify. I couldn’t wait to get out. Anyway, that menu looks delicious.”
When they got back to The Fighting Man, they bought some drinks and took them outside, enjoying the mild breeze as the sun set in a fiery haze of glory. When the glasses were empty, they rose and, by unspoken mutual consent, went upstairs, where they lay down on the bed, luxuriating in crisp white sheets and downy pillows – and in each other. At 7.30, they showered in the black-tiled en suite with its fluffy, snow-white towels, and dressed for dinner. Before they went downstairs, Joe pressed a tiny box into Beth’s hand, and she found inside a delicate gold heart pendant on the slenderest of chains.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” he said, taking her in his arms once again and kissing her.
Their host was waiting to show them to an intimate corner table near the open fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers. The candles had been lit, and the lounge bar looked warm and inviting. But strangely, there were still no other patrons in evidence.
“Where is everybody?” Beth wondered. “A lovely place like this…”
“Probably a lot of competition around here,” Joe observed. “Or the food’s rubbish!”
“I hope not. You know, it’s almost eerie. Not quite right. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You’re imagining it. I like the sense of peace here – it’s relaxing.” He winked at her.
“Is it normally this quiet?” he asked, as they ordered the wine – a fruity Verdicchio.
“It’s unusual for this time of year,” their host shrugged, “but it’s a Monday night, of course. Come the weekend…”
“Have you been open long?” Beth asked.
“My girlfriend and I bought the place just over a year ago,” he replied. “The idea was to offer something different from the usual pub grub and ‘olde worlde’ atmosphere. But it’s been a struggle, I don’t mind telling you. People around here don’t go to pubs for fine dining. I wish we had more customers like you! Now, are you ready to order?”
The stuffed mushrooms were delicious, and the blackened Cajun salmon that followed was a dish to die for. As for the brandy syllabub…
“That was superb,” Joe said, folding his napkin.
“We must come here again,” Beth enthused.
Their host took their plates and their order for coffee, then came back with two small schooners of limoncello.
“On the house,” he beamed.
Back in bed, beneath the waffled cream blankets, Beth and Joe lay replete with good food and wine. Just as Beth felt a great tide of desire, Joe reached for her ardently. God, she thought, some while later, it hasn’t been this good in years! What’s got into us? In fact, it hadn’t been that good ever. It was almost as if they had been taken over by something that was no part of either of them. Could this place have something to do with it? As dawn broke, however, she dismissed this idea as pure imagination. “It must have been the wine,” she told herself, smiling.
After a hearty late breakfast, served at the same table, but this time with the sunlight flooding through the ancient windows, they paid their bill.
“Do come again,” the proprietor said. “It’s been a pleasure to have you.”
“We certainly will,” they said, and thanked him, then went to collect their case from the room.
“Just leave the keys on the bar on your way out.”
They did just that, along with a ten-pound note in recognition of his warm and friendly service.
They were in no hurry to return to London, so spent the day in Hastings, wandering around the castle and the caves, and enjoying fish and chips at a little seafront restaurant in the Old Town. They were still singing the praises of The Fighting Man, and when it came to the time to drive home, Beth was thoughtful.
“Joe, are you in any hurry to get back tonight?”
“No. I’ve brought some manuscripts home to read. I wasn’t planning to go back to work until Friday. Why?”
“Well, I thought we could go back to that place for one more night. It was so lovely. And I don’t have any appointments tomorrow.” Beth was a speech therapist, with her own private practice.
Joe looked at her delightedly.
“Why not?”
They drove back to Battle, dusk settling around them, until the trees were black silhouettes against the red-gold sky. North of the town they took the road that led the way they had come the previous day, and watched out for the white sign.
“I’m sure it was closer to Battle than this,” Joe puzzled, after they had driven about three miles and it was growing quite dark.
“Perhaps we missed it.”
“I’ll turn round and go back,” Joe said, but they still did not see the sign.
They stopped at a garage to get petrol and buy water.
“We’re trying to find a pub called The Fighting Man,” Joe told the plump lady who was swiping his credit card. “Do you know it?”
“I did,” she said.
“Did?” Beth asked, startled at her use of the past tense.
“Nice place it was. And the couple that bought it spent a lot doing it up.”
“Was?” Joe echoed.
“All gone now,” the woman went on. “They’re still sorting out the insurance, I heard. There wasn’t a will, you see. It was all in the local paper.”
“Gone?”
“Burned down a year ago this month. Terrible tragedy. Those poor souls. They were ever such a happy couple.” She leaned forward. “Faulty wiring. It was the middle of the day. Found them in the bedroom, you know. In that four-poster bed.” She gave them a knowing look and shook her head sadly.
“Burned down?” Beth cried. “It can’t have. We stayed there last night!”
“That must have been somewhere else,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Joe put in, folding an arm round Beth and steering her towards the door. He was trembling. “We must have got it wrong. Sorry to have troubled you.”
When they got outside, Beth was shaking too. The raw patches – the burns – on the man’s skin; that smell of scorched wood; the silence; the emptiness; the giggling girl hiding upstairs, waiting to return with her lover to that terrible room, on this first anniversary… and that inexplicable burst of passion. They were all starting to make bizarre, horrible sense…
“This is crazy!” Beth wailed. “She must have been wrong.”
“Wait!” Joe fumbled in his shoulder bag. “Look! The credit card receipt. It says The Fighting Man, Northiam Lane, by Battle. Come on, we’ll find someone else to ask.”
As they drove back towards Battle, they passed an AA man, sitting astride his motorbike in a lay-by, drinking coffee.
“Excuse me, do you know Northiam Lane?” Beth called.
“Keep going, it’s next on the right,” the AA man replied.
It was, but there was no sign that they could see, and the road was well-lit.
“That’s odd,” muttered Joe. Beth shivered. Suddenly, she didn’t want them to drive down that lane, didn’t want to discover what lay at the end of it. But Joe was accelerating forward, his face set, as it always was when he was nervous and didn’t want to show it.
There was no welcoming pub sign. Just a roofless ruin of blackened bricks, jagged timbers and rubbish. A makeshift barbed-wire fence had been erected around the site, with a notice saying “Danger, Keep Out”. The whole place was repellent, sinister. Where only last night there had been warm lights and laughter, there was now just a tragic silence and the dark, windy sky.
Joe moved forward, flashing the torch he always kept in his pocket for emergencies.
“No!” Beth cried, her instincts telling her to run.
But Joe had seen something.
There was no door, although its frame remained. A little way inside lay what was left of the bar. There was something on the floor. His feet crunched over the ash and the rubble.
“Joe, be careful!” Beth warned. But Joe did not heed her. He bent down and picked up something, then something else. Then he turned to face her and held out his hand. His face was shadowed in the torchlight, but she could sense the tension in him.
“We were here,” he faltered, his voice unsteady. “Look. The keys. And my ten-pound note.” They lay there in his trembling palm.
Read Alison Weir's writing tips
Read our review of The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir
