Prologue
Reverend Bernard Paltoquet pulled out the sheet of paper from his wordprocessor and added it to the manuscript pile beside him on the desk. It had taken him many years to discover the truth behind the tragic events in that small, insignificant South London terraced house, and now at last his work was done.
It had cost human lives, the latest being his dear friend, Dorothy Plunkett. He’d received the news earlier that day by phone. Her live-in companion, Hetty, could hardly speak through her tears. He blamed himself for her death: if he hadn’t asked her to help him she would probably still be alive. But she had insisted on helping him. And he was deeply grateful to her, if not a little heartbroken now that she had gone.
The mystery behind the series of violent deaths in 57 Bockhampton Road that had taken place sporadically since the late 1890s had finally been solved. He now hoped that the publication of his manuscript would clear the names of the innocent and put the blame fairly and squarely where it belonged. But he didn’t know, even now, if his research would be believed. He had found it hard to believe himself.
His association with the events in 57 Bockhampton Road had led him to find horror and happiness in equal measure. It had been a saga of murder and mayhem, and more than once along the way he felt his heart would break. But then there had been much joy too.
He rose from his desk and switched off the reading lamp. Deciding to have a brandy before bedtime, he made his way from the study to the cosy living room where the fire was burning merrily in the hearth. It wasn’t a real, open fire anymore, more’s the pity he thought. But it looked authentic enough. It cast a warm glow around the room.
He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly midnight. His mind was still very active and he didn’t think he would be able to sleep, even though his body was exhausted. As he climbed the stairs he heard the clock chime the witching hour, and a shiver went up his spine.
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