The Mysterious and Amazing Blue Billings

  The Mysterious and Amazing Blue Billings

  A Black & Blue Novel

  Lily Morton

  Copyright © 2019 by Lily Morton

  Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  www.natashasnowdesigns.com

  Photo: © Regina Wamba

  Professional beta reading and formatting by Leslie Copeland, editing by Courtney Bassett www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Ford Focus, YouTube, Marmite, The Samaritans, Trip Advisor, Budweiser, North Face

  All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Warning

  This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Contents

  Author Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Contact Me

  Also by Lily Morton

  For my dad who gave me my love of reading.

  You taught me how to be funny and how to tell a story.

  I love you

  Author Note

  Chapter Eleven features a few scenes that deal with grief and bereavement. If that is going to upset you, it’s possible to skip that chapter and not miss a major plot development.

  “’Tis the witching hour of night,

  Orbed is the moon and bright,

  And the stars they glisten, glisten,

  Seeming with bright eyes to listen —

  For what listen they?”

  John Keats

  Chapter 1

  Levi

  The massive golden expanse of the York Minster fills my eyesight as I drive up to it, keeping a wary eye out for the pedestrians around here who appear to be part lemming with their insistence on blithely sauntering out in front of cars.

  “Take the next right,” Brian Blessed growls. Well, not the real Brian Blessed. That would be epic. Unfortunately, this is the satnav version, and he’s quirky.

  “I can’t take the next right,” I mutter. “Not unless I fancy ploughing through a fucking house.”

  “Turn round at the next available opportunity,” he booms, and I’m sure I’m not imagining the note of condemnation in his voice, but my attention is diverted when I spot the street sign I’ve been looking for.

  “Yes,” I say, punching the air. “Take that, Brian Blessed.”

  “You’ve taken the wrong turn, you steaming pillock,” he growls again, and I stick my middle finger up at the dash. Then I think better of it and pat the dashboard.

  “Sorry, Brian,” I mutter before clicking on the indicator and taking the next left. The wheels of the Ford Focus bump over the cobbled lane, and I slow down, my eyes everywhere. I spot the man waiting on the narrow pavement immediately. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and an irritated expression while checking his watch, so it’s a safe bet that this is the person I’m meeting.

  I pull up next to him and lower the window. “Mr Fenton?” I ask, and he nods, relief spreading over his face. “I’m so sorry I’m late. There was an accident on the motorway, and I got lost once I got into York.”

  “It’s not a problem,” he says in a smooth, posh voice. “There’s a row of garages at the end of the cul-de-sac. The second one from the right is yours, so you can park in front of it for now.”

  I raise my fingers in a low salute and do as he suggests. The garages are neat and orderly, all of them freshly painted with shiny black doors. All of them except one. Mine. That’s got peeling paint and looks like a poor relation at a wedding.

  I turn off the engine and get out of the car, stretching up to my full height with a grateful sigh. The journey had been hellish with massive tailbacks. My mood hadn’t been any better, being filled with a sense of excitement mixed with a very strong melancholy at what I was leaving behind.

  I shake the thoughts clear of my head and turn back to the car before coming to a stop at the sight before me. The street is narrow and cobbled and the houses are, by and large, Georgian from the looks of them. But what strikes me most is the towering majesty of the Minster which is literally at the end of my street. I can see the huge arched windows and the massive entrance. If I squint, I can even see the intricately carved gargoyles.

  It’s been a cold April with no sign of any sunshine and the wind hits me now, cold and biting. I shiver and reach into the car to grab my jacket before moving towards the man waiting for me. He’s examining the house in a slightly nervous fashion. Wondering if I’ve made him late for an appointment, I pick up my pace.

  “Sorry,” I say again as I get close. “Have you got the keys? I can do this myself.”

  He buttons his coat up and shakes his head. “Shall we get this done?” he says somewhat grimly.

  I laugh. “Don’t ever officiate at weddings.”

  He flushes. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just that it’s getting dark, and I can’t be doing this then.”

  It sounds very much as if he’s got a curfew, but since he’s about sixty, I’d hope that isn’t the case. “Okay,” I say mildly. “Thank you for waiting. Have you got the key?”

  He digs in the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a set of keys on a blue plastic key fob. “I have to warn you that the house is in some disrepair. It’s been empty for a long while.”

  “You said in your letter.” I follow him to the house and look up at it with a sense of muted excitement. It’s three storeys tall in a warm brick with the traditional Georgian barred windows giving it a neat and symmetrical appearance. “I’m afraid the letter wasn’t very clear on the chain of events.”

  He pauses on the step. “It’s been empty for rather a long while. The man who had it a few years ago did a fair amount of work to the house, particularly in the cellar as he was thinking of renting that out as a self-contained flat. The lady who bought it after him never ended up living here at all. She took against it for some reason, but she died before she could sell it. Her will was a bit of a mess, and so we set agents to finding any kin. Your mother was a second cousin of hers.” I wince, and his gaze sharpens as he obviously goes through his memory banks. “Ah,” he says suddenly, realisation dawning. “Can I just say how sorry I am for your loss?”

  “Thank you,” I say, my throat closing and tightening. Willing him to drop the subject, I gesture at the door. “Shall we?”

  He jerks as if startled and darts another look at the house before visibl
y steeling himself and inserting the key into the lock. The click as it opens is almost anti-climactic, and I follow him in. A wave of dusty, cold air, liberally scented with damp wood and something unpleasant, hits me and makes me cough.

  “Yes,” Mr Fenton says dryly. “There is that. I think it might be because the house has been closed up for such a long time. Either that or a rodent has died or something. A builder talked to the previous owner about buying the house and turning it into flats, which has become the fate of a lot of these old buildings, but it never came to anything since she died.” He looks towards the stairs and shudders.

  I gaze around curiously. We’re standing in a hallway which is long and thin with stairs off to the side. Cobwebs festoon it, and the air tastes dusty.

  “I can’t believe this is mine,” I say softly, and he shifts awkwardly, darting a glance around, looking almost hunted.

  “Well, it is,” he says abruptly. “Let’s go all the way through the house, and I’ll hand you the keys and deeds and my duty as your solicitor will be discharged.”

  I nod, following him into an old kitchen at the front of the house. Half the cabinets have been torn out, probably as part of the renovation before the previous owner died. What few remain are old and grease-stained and the wallpaper is yellow with cooking fat, but the room is big and airy, and the view through the huge paned window is filled with the sight of the Minster.

  Mr Fenton clears his throat. “Have you any plans for the house? I think I have the name of the builder who was previously interested in buying it. You’d get a pretty penny.”

  “No,” I say slowly, still staring out of the window. “My plan is to do it up and live in it. I’ve got a builder meeting me here in an hour to go over the house.” He makes an agitated gesture, and I tear my gaze away from the view. “Are you alright?”

  “Do you really want to live here?” he says in an urgent tone of voice.

  “Not just want. I’m fully intending to. Why?”

  He makes an aborted movement that doesn’t seem to fit his staid character. “It’s not a place I’d think you’d want to live in.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I stare at him. “This is amazing. I could never have afforded something like this.”

  He looks hard at me, something crossing over his face before he turns and walks out of the room. “So, you’re Carol’s son?” he throws over his shoulder.

  I follow him into a small room which would be good as a dining room, and then into a lounge which is large and airy but has horrible plastic-looking French windows.

  “I am.” I’m struck by his tone of voice. “Did you know her?”

  He nods, a smile crossing his face that makes me realise how uneasy he looked before. “We used to play together as children when she visited her aunt who lived a couple of streets over. We played princesses and knights on the abbey ruins in the Museum Gardens a few miles away.”

  My sudden burst of laughter is unfamiliar. It’s something I wouldn’t have been capable of a few months ago. “I bet she was a brilliant knight.”

  His own chuckle seems to take him by surprise. “I ran into her once when she was older.” He stares at me. “I must say you do look like her. Same hair and eyes.”

  I push my hands through my thick brown hair. “It has been said,” I say lightly and move over to stare out of the window into a small garden out the back. High, old brick walls make it private. Although anyone sitting out there would need a machete to get through the waist-high weeds first.

  “Hmm,” he says contemplatively, coming to stand next to me. “Are you a gardener?”

  I smile. “I never had the choice before. We had a flat in London, so the only thing I had was a herb tray on the windowsill.” Memories of the sunshine shining through the windows and the sound of Mason’s laughter hit me, and a pang of loss goes through me. It’s small, an echo of the pain I’d felt at the time, and I shake my head to clear it.

  “Let’s have a look at the upstairs,” I say briskly and frown as he looks almost reluctant. As he turns away, something creaks loudly upstairs. My head shoots up. “What was that?”

  “Just an old floorboard,” he says quickly, his gaze flitting everywhere.

  The noise comes again, louder this time.

  “That’s weird. It sounds like there’s someone in the house,” I say. It’s too loud, and the words seem to ring in the air. The noise stops abruptly, and for a mad second, it feels like someone is waiting and listening.

  I look over at the solicitor and do a double take at how pale and sweaty he is. “No, of course there isn’t,” he says quickly. “It’s probably because it’s such an old house. You’ll find that they shift and make a lot of funny noises.” My eyes narrow as I watch him dab his face with a handkerchief he takes from his pocket. He looks like if I said boo to him, he’d orbit the top of the building.

  The floorboard creaks again, but this time it sounds like someone is deliberately standing on it with all their weight. Then comes the unmistakable sound of footsteps, heavy and solid as they move slowly overhead.

  “There is someone up there,” I cry and dart out of the lounge, taking the winding stairs up as fast as I can and hearing Mr Fenton’s cry of protest from behind me.

  Cobwebs fall around me and dust rises in a sparkling cloud as I pound up the stairs. I come out onto a small landing off which are four open doors and another staircase winding upwards and out of sight.

  I pause there, aware of Mr Fenton’s puffing gasps of breath in the hallway downstairs. The slow, deliberate creak comes again from one of the rooms, which a quick reckoning tells me is the one above the lounge where I heard the footsteps. Only this time I’m close enough to hear a rustle of clothing.

  “If someone is here, you’re trespassing,” I say clearly and loudly.

  The sound stops again, and for a second I’m sure I can hear someone chuckle. What the fuck? Rage fills me. This is my fucking house. I dart into the room only to come up short so quickly that I sway.

  The room is completely empty. There isn’t a stick of furniture anywhere, just the dim light filling the room that presages nightfall. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, swaying in the breeze from the opened door. The floorboards are bare and covered in a thick layer of dust. I stare at them. Thick, undisturbed dust. No one has stood on them for a long time.

  Flummoxed, I stand inside the doorway, hearing my breaths coming fast on the frigid air in here. Then I subside and laugh, hearing it echo around the room as Mr Fenton comes in.

  “No one’s here and I’m going mad,” I say. “Please forget you ever heard me call out and warn an invisible trespasser.” He stares at me. “I’m not used to old houses,” I explain and then smile. “I suppose I’d better get used to this one quickly or I’ll be on first-name terms with the police, thinking I’m being burgled every five minutes by the Invisible Man.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he directs a haunted glance around the room. It’s the same quick glance I used to give when I was little and my mum made me look under the bed to show me there were no monsters. At five years old, it didn’t matter what my mum said. I still knew monsters weren’t always visible.

  “I need to go,” he says so abruptly that he startles me.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine with looking over the rest myself.”

  Incredibly, he looks like he wants to question that, but instead he presses the keys forcibly into my hands along with a large file full of papers.

  “The deeds to the house. Welcome to York,” he mutters and goes to turn away, only to hesitate. “You have my number, Mr Black. Please call me if you need anything.” He pauses. “Anything,” he says with a funny sort of emphasis. “Carol’s son can always call on me.”

  “Thank you.” The words are said to his back as he turns and practically runs out of the room. I stare after him. “Weird,” I say out loud and then shake myself. There’s a tour of the house to do before the builder arrives.
<
br />   The light gets dimmer as I poke my head into the empty bedrooms. Two are a good size, but the one I’ll have as my own is the big room at the front of the house. I stand at the window, and smile in delight. I can see the Minster through the branches of a large tree that hovers over the lane like a drunk outside the pub at kicking-out time. There’s a high old brick wall that runs alongside the lane, and beyond it is a large neat garden that obviously belongs to the big house set back from the road. The room is light and papered in a rosebud-patterned wallpaper, giving it an air of quiet femininity.

  I wander into a bathroom before backing out just as quickly. “Nope, not looking at that in too much detail.” Already I can feel the builder’s quote getting bigger, and we haven’t even met yet.

  I hesitate at a set of stairs that must lead up to the attic rooms. Cobwebs festoon it, like the entrance to one of Indiana Jones’s adventures. I put my foot on the steps, but for some reason I pause. It looks so dark up there. I shake my head and move to go up, but at that moment my phone rings startlingly loud in the absolute hush of the house.

  I look down at the display and swear. Connecting the call, I say, “Mason?”

  There’s a pause and then my ex’s voice. “Levi, you alright? Was the drive bad?”

  His voice is so familiar to me. I’ve heard it in so many permutations. During rows when it’s been raised, over the breakfast table sleepy and slurred, and at night in bed, hushed and intimate. It makes me wonder when I stopped listening out for it.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “The drive was on the motorway. When isn’t it bad?”