My Name Is Rachel Read online

  MY NAME IS RACHEL

  BY

  LORNA PEEL

  Copyright © 2020 Lorna Peel.

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published in 2016 as The Image of Her.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Cover by thecovercollection.com

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Rachel Harris was abandoned as a baby on the steps of a church-run children’s home, fostered and later adopted. Who was her birth mother and what were the circumstances which led her to give up her baby?

  Searching for someone who doesn’t want to be found seems a hopeless task until Rachel meets Matthew Williams, a Church of England clergyman.

  Then the anonymous and increasingly frightening attempts to end their relationship begin. Are these actions connected to the mysterious events surrounding Rachel’s birth?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Other Books by Lorna Peel

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Hot Vicar Alert! The email screamed at Rachel out of a sea of spam and she glanced at the sender. Kathy Roberts. Hmm. It could mean anything but was doubtless some rubbish joke doing the rounds or, worse still, one which Kathy in her infinite wisdom had dreamt up herself. Rachel braced herself and opened it.

  Hi Rachel,

  That caught your attention, didn’t it? Anyway, I know HOT and VICAR don’t belong in the same sentence but trust me on this one, okay? Reverend Sykes is on holiday and this guy is the locum, or stand-in, or whatever they’re called in the Church of England, and he’s GORGEOUS. I managed to be at Gran’s when he was doing the rounds of the pensioners and he’s just WOW – tall, dark and handsome – the works. So off you pop to morning service in Upton on Sunday, have an ogle, and you can thank me profusely on Monday, okay?

  Kathy

  Have an ogle? In church? At the vicar? Well, thank you, Kathy, subtle as ever. Rachel closed the email then began to wade through the rest. It was high time she got one of those spam filter thingies. A second email from Kathy caught her eye and she opened it, wary of its content.

  Sorry, Rachel, I forgot to mention that I managed to arrange for said HOT VICAR to call around to you in the next couple of days about the weird noises you’ve been hearing at the cottage. With a little luck, he won’t think you’re nuts and it’ll take your mind off your mum’s nagging for a bit. Good luck with the job interview tomorrow. Found a lodger yet? Ask HOT VICAR to move in?

  Rachel’s mouth fell open. Oh, God, Kathy had told a complete stranger about the weird noises. Resting her forehead on the laptop keyboard, she groaned. She ought to be worrying about her job interview, not this. Hot Vicar? She couldn’t help but laugh. It was a complete contradiction in terms.

  The job interview went well, Rachel mused the following day, as she treated herself to lunch in town. She’d just managed to clear her mind of vicars – hot or otherwise – and weird noises for the half-hour duration. Collecting her car from the garage, she tried not to wince as she paid for the new back bumper, then drove home. She’d better get the job now – and try to remember to bring the advertisement for a lodger with her the next time she went out.

  A green Volkswagen Golf was parked outside the cottage as she pulled up. Zippy, her Irish terrier, yapped at the garden gate but she shushed him before going to see who the visitor was.

  The driver’s window lowered. “Rachel Harris?”

  “Yes?” she replied, shading her eyes against the sun as a tall man dressed in black got out. “Sorry, I’ve been in town.”

  “That’s okay.” His response sounded cheerful. “Your friend wasn’t sure what time your job interview was.”

  “My friend?” She tried not to sound suspicious and, to her relief, he laughed kindly.

  “Mrs Roberts asked if I could call. My name is Matthew Williams.”

  Surely, this wasn’t Hot Vicar already? If so, he was scarily eager to learn more about the weird noises. She’d better make sure.

  “Sorry, I’m not with you. Are you a Jehovah’s Witness, or something?” She cringed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Now you’ve said so, he must be. “Because, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not—”

  “I’m Church of England, actually. I’m standing in for Reverend Sykes while he’s away on holiday. Here.” He fished into his jacket’s inside pocket, handed her a business card and she squinted at it.

  Reverend Matthew Williams. Editor of The Message – The Magazine of the Church of England Diocese of Aldabury. He lived in Aldabury but – she noted the address – in one of the awful 1960s apartment blocks on the north side of the city and not in a vicarage. This had to be Hot Vicar but, she raised her gaze him again, he wasn’t wearing a dog collar either, just a plain white shirt under the black suit.

  “I’m not a churchgoer, sorry.” She made an awkward shuffle from one foot to the other. “I don’t know what Kathy’s been saying. I know I’ve had a lot of bad luck lately, what with my gran dying, my job disappearing, and then pranging the car. But these things come in threes, don’t they, and I’ve just had my third so…”

  “I’ve come about the house, actually.” He gave the old stone cottage, covered in Boston ivy, an appreciative glance. “Your friend was worried about you, er, hearing noises..?”

  Okay, he was definitely Hot Vicar. She shouldn’t have asked him if he was a Jehovah’s Witness, though. She peered at him, trying not to make it obvious. He seemed normal enough, with short dark hair and brown eyes. But hot? It was hard to tell with the sun in her eyes and especially as he was staring back at her with quite a puzzled expression, waiting for her to reply. But good-looking? Oh, yes, which was a pity as he was probably a bit of a nutter and one who clearly thought her one, too.

  “It’s up to you whether you would like me to come in, but I must admit I am curious. I don’t get many calls about weird noises, to be honest.” He gave a comical shrug and smiled.

  “There won’t be a sudden thunder and lightning storm the moment you step inside, will there?” she asked and he chuckled and glanced up at the sky.

  “I hope not.”

  “Do you, um, feel things? Presences and… things..?” she added and he froze as if he had never been asked such a question before. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Well done, two stupid questions in about as many minutes.

  “No, I’m not psychic, though there have been times I really
wish I was. I’m not in the Ministry of Deliverance and I don’t carry out exorcisms.” Pulling his wallet out of his trouser pocket, he extracted his driving license. “Here.” He held it out to her and she took it. His photograph stared back at her and the address matched the one on the business card so she passed it back.

  “Thanks. Um, so what in particular do you do, if you don’t mind me asking? If you’re not in this Ministry of Deliverance, I mean? I’m not sure how this sort of thing works.”

  “Mrs Roberts rang the diocesan offices and explained your problem. The first point of contact is the local minister and as Reverend Sykes is away, that’s me at the moment.”

  “And if you believe it’s necessary, you’ll refer the problem to this other ministry?”

  He responded with a grave nod. “If it’s necessary.”

  “You’d better come in, then,” she said and opened the front door.

  “Thank you.” He returned the driving license to his wallet and followed her into the hall, closing the door behind him. “This is an old house, that’s for sure.” Reaching up, he patted an oak beam. “Very old.”

  Shrugging off her suit jacket, she hung it up, realising she could still smell the chicken and mushroom pie she had cremated the previous evening. She had spent a delightful hour scraping its remains out of the oven before it set like concrete when she should have been preparing for her job interview.

  “Sixteenth century. But it’s been added to a good few times and the thatch is sadly long gone.”

  “You’ve done some research into its history?” he inquired, peering around the dark wood-panelled hall.

  “No, not yet.” She hesitated, wondered if she should bring him straight into the living room. The smell of burning in the kitchen would be awful, as she hadn’t opened a window that morning, and he’d just think her even more odd. “Gran told me. She died two months ago and left the house to me. Mum doesn’t like me living here on my own, though. I hope she and Kathy haven’t been talking behind my back.”

  “Well, according to what I’ve been told, you’re hearing things,” he said and she flushed. Thanks, Kathy. Make me sound like a right weirdo why don’t you?

  “Yes, I do hear things – and it sounds ridiculous – rustling noises – and a potted plant in the bathroom has ended up on the floor five times – and I deliberately left it right in the middle of the window sill.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “No, not at all,” she gushed in relief. “Top of the stairs on the left.”

  “After you.”

  “Thanks.” She went upstairs, into the large bathroom, and saw a pair of panties and a bra on the floor. She’d aimed for and missed the laundry basket in her hurry to get ready that morning. “Bugger,” she muttered, picking them up and throwing them into the basket. Only then did she realise she was walking on soil. “The potted plant’s on the floor again.”

  “Hmm.” Matthew stepped over the remains of the plant and went to the window. “See this?” He pointed to marks on the glass – on the inside. “Something’s been trying to get out.”

  He lifted the laundry basket to one side before continuing across the room to the toilet. He looked into the bowl then crouched down and peered around the back.

  “Here we are.” Straightening up, he held out his hand. In his palm was a tiny bat. “Dead, I’m afraid.”

  “Lovely.” She grimaced.

  “They’re quite harmless,” he assured her. “The wings make them look big. Look how small this one’s body is. The poor little thing seems to have flown straight into the window.”

  “Yes, but would a bat be strong enough to dislodge a plant?” she asked, placing the laundry basket in the shower cubicle out of the way.

  “Look at the wings.” Gently, he extended one. “If it flapped hard enough in its panic, then yes. Have you heard or noticed bats here before?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve barely been here – just a few nights on and off before I moved in full-time last week – and the place creaks and groans like mad, anyway.”

  “Do you keep the windows open all the time?” He jerked a thumb towards the sash window.

  “No,” she replied, wishing she did. The acrid burning smell had made its way upstairs, too, and he must have noticed by now, poor bloke. “Only in the mornings after a shower and Gran only opened the others in summer.”

  “Hmm. Would you mind if I took a look around?”

  “No, go ahead.” She gestured to the door then rushed to the window and forced it open as he walked out onto the landing and looked up. She followed his gaze, noting how the hatch to the attic was a little ajar.

  “Your answer could be up there,” he said. “Do you have a torch?”

  “Downstairs. I won’t be long.”

  She retrieved the torch, throwing open the kitchen window and back door while she had the chance, and reluctantly exchanged it for the dead bat. Matthew brought a chair from her bedroom to the landing, climbed up and pushed open the hatch.

  “Good God.”

  “What is it?” Her heart began to pound and she tried to peer up into the attic but his shoulders filled the entire hatch and she couldn’t see a thing.

  “You’ve got quite a bat roost up here,” his muffled voice told her.

  Oh, no. Oddness, bad smells and now a bat roost. “There’s a lot?”

  “Hundreds.” He closed the hatch fully, climbed down and brushed dust and cobwebs from the black suit. “Well, they explain the rustling noises.”

  “How can I get rid of them? Humanely, I mean,” she added, in case he got straight on the phone to an animal charity.

  “You might not be able to, but I’ll find out for you. You need to be careful and go through the proper channels because they’re a protected species. Disturbing bats can result in a hefty fine or a prison sentence. And you have more than a few fines and prison sentences up there.” He pointed to the hatch and she threw a wary glance at it again. “They’re quite fond of churches, too.”

  “Yeah, but not many people live in them.”

  “No,” he replied, returning the chair to her bedroom. “Not yet.”

  “Well, I’m relieved it’s only bats,” she said, her eyes widening as she spotted a blob of what could be bat poo on his shoulder. Uh, oh. Should she tell him or keep quiet? “Um—” she began.

  “You were worried, then?” He took the dead bat from her before she could continue. “I’ll bury this poor little fella in the garden.”

  “Well, I was beginning to wonder. Would you like a coffee?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the blob. What if it dried and left a stain? What if it started to smell and someone said something?

  “I’d love one, thanks.”

  “Oh. Good,” she murmured, unable to stop herself glancing at his shoulder again. He is very tall, maybe no-one will notice.

  “Are you all right?” he asked and she jumped, hearing his thoughtful tone.

  “The burning smell is last night’s dinner,” she explained. “I put a pie in the oven and completely forgot about it. Other things on my mind. Sorry.”

  He smiled and made a dismissive action with his hand. “Been there, done that. Don’t worry about it.” He followed her downstairs and into the kitchen and as he closed the door to the hall, Zippy ran in from the garden and began to sniff his shoes and trousers.

  “I’ll keep Zippy in here while you bury the bat,” she told him. “There’s a trowel in the bucket on the step.”

  A couple of minutes later, he was back in the kitchen washing his hands, and she was trying to rubberneck the blob on his shoulder without him noticing. It was starting to dry and she squirmed. She was going to have to tell him.

  “Zippy?” he inquired, tipping his head towards the dog. “After the character from Rainbow? The children’s TV programme?”

  “Um, yeah…”

  “It suits him. I loved Rainbow, too.”

  “You did?” She didn’t quite know whether to believe him
and passed him a towel.

  “Ye-ah! I’m only thirty-eight,” he explained and pointed at the black suit. “I know this makes me look like Methuselah but it’s my age, I promise.”

  “Um, about the suit.” She cleared her throat with embarrassment. “You got plopped on in the attic. On your shoulder. I’ve got some cleaning stuff here somewhere.”

  Crouching down, she began to rummage about in the cupboard under the sink and emerged with a clean cloth and some stain remover and passed them over.

  “Thanks. I wonder if it’ll bring me good luck?” Slipping the jacket off, he began to deal with the blob and she felt him glance at her as she put coffee and water in the machine then switched it on. “Real coffee, great. Bungle was my favourite character, though.”

  “I bought an apple pie at the farmer’s market in Aldabury the other day. Would you like a slice?” she asked as he held the shoulder of the jacket under the cold tap before dabbing it dry and hanging it over the back of a chair. It seemed to have escaped pretty much unscathed. He pulled a ‘do you have to ask?’ expression and she smiled and opened the cupboard.

  “Real coffee and homemade apple pie… almost makes me wish you did have a presence.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she cried and spun around to face him.

  “Just a joke.” His hands flew into the air in a defensive response. “It’s something which shouldn’t be messed about with.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Utterly,” he replied solemnly. “I get a lot of false alarms, though.”

  “Like bats?”

  He smiled and went to take a look at the huge inglenook fireplace in which the Aga cooker stood. It was so big two chairs could stand on either side of the cooker without causing a fire hazard. She hadn’t lit the Aga so he was able to crane his neck and peer right up the chimney. She told herself to stop staring at him but she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. He had a face which could change from being full of good humour to complete seriousness in a flash.