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Contents ( 89)
  1. The Secret of Cold Hill
  2. Table of Contents
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. 79
  82. 80
  83. 81
  84. 82
  85. 83
  86. 84
  87. Acknowledgments
  88. About the Author
  89. The Cold Hill Ghost Stories

Beneath, plainly and poignantly, was the symbol of a cross.

Husband and wife and their daughter? Again, all died on the same day? Another accident? Again, he took a photograph, then strode slowly over towards the gardener, who had a green tool bag lying on the ground beside him. As he approached, he caught a sweet whiff of cigarette smoke.

When he was some distance off, not wanting to creep up and startle the man, he called out.

The man turned and stood, bent roll-up dangling from his lips, a trowel in his gloved hands. He had a weathered, outdoors face.

Approaching him, Jason said, ‘You’re doing a great job – this is a very beautiful graveyard.’

The cigarette bobbing as he spoke, the man said in a rural accent, ‘Always something to do here.’ He waved a hand at the graves. ‘And none of these lazy buggers are going to give me a hand, are they?’

‘I doubt it! That cigarette smells good.’

‘’Bout the only place I can smoke in peace these days without the missus or someone else yelling at me. At least the dead don’t mind; they don’t give me any grief about it.’

Jason chuckled. ‘I’m looking for the vicar – I was told he was here a short while ago.’

‘Vicar?’

‘Yes. The Reverend Fortinbrass.’

The man’s demeanour changed. He looked bemused. ‘The Reverend Fortinbrass, did you say?’

‘Yes, I wanted to have a word with him. Have you seen him?’

‘Oh yes, I see him most days – he’s here all right and he isn’t going anywhere.’

‘What do you mean?’

The man pointed a gloved finger towards the far wall. ‘Over there, second row, third one in. He’s another of the lazy buggers, he is.’

Jason’s first thought was that the man was pulling his leg. But there was no trace of humour in his face. Feeling very strange, he turned and headed swiftly, heart in mouth, towards where he had been directed. A row of gravestones.

Second row.

Third one in.

He read the inscription on it with a chill rippling through every cell in his body.

44

Tuesday 18 December

THE REVEREND

ROLAND FORTINBRASS

14th September 1967 – 21st September 2015

He Loved and Served This Parish

Jason stood, stock still, staring at the name. Shaking.

It wasn’t possible, there had to be two Roland Fortinbrasses, there had to be.

Dammit, he’d seen the man yesterday, he’d come to their home! Emily had seen him too, and so had Louise.

He walked straight back over to the gardener, who was back on his knees again, working out the roots of a dead plant with his trowel. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again. Are there by any chance two Reverend Fortinbrasses?’

‘No, sir,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Bit of an unusual name for there to be two of them.’

‘But I met – my wife and I met – the vicar of this parish yesterday. He came to our house – we’ve just moved into Cold Hill Park.’