Cardamon and Clementine Marmalade

Today my kitchen smells of clementines. Their sweet aroma, mixed with some upper notes of green cardamon is so good that if I could figure out a way of bottling it I'd wear it behind my ears for special occasions!

I've played around with the flavours to produce a light fragrant, not-too-sweet marmalade. Cardamon is one of my favourite flavours, and these green cardamons marry beautifully with the floral, citrus taste of the clementines, which I've ramped up further with the Cointreu. I'd say it's a flavour match made in heaven!

Would you like to make some for yourself? Well, no worries, here's my recipe :

Ingredients

1200g clementines - about 8 clementines
2 medium sized lemons
2 kg jam-making sugar
2.5 litres of water
1 tablespoonful of green cardamon pods split lengthways
8 tablespoonfuls (120 ml) of Cointreau
Certo apple pectin for emergency use if you can't get the mixture to set as you may not have enough pips in the clementines to give you all the pectin you need.

Method

A: Day 1

1. You really need to start this recipe the day before. The first thing to do is wash the fruit in some fresh, clean water. Then juice the clementines and lemons, finely slice them and let them soak overnight in their juice to soften up the skins a bit and release some of their natural pectin. I half them and extract all the precious pips, which I place on a saucer for safe keeping. These are full of pectin, and will help your marmalade to set.

2. Take all the pips and tie them in a little square of muslin. Draw the four corners together, and tie them with a piece of kitchen string to make a parcel like this:

3. Place the skins in a large ceramic bowl, pour the juice over the top, and pop your parcel of pips into the mix. 

Cover with cling film and leave overnight to allow the juice to work its magic on the skins.

Day 2

4.Take an old saucer and put it in the freezer to get it really cold. You will use this to test the consistency of your marmalade later in the process.

5. Put your citrus skins/juice/pips mixture in a large saucepan. Add 2.5 litres of fresh water and bring to the boil. Once it reaches the boil, turn down the heat and leave to simmer gently for about two and a half hours until the skins are soft and slightly translucent.

6. While you’re waiting for the skins to cook you should sterilise your jam jars. Wash both the jars and their lids in hot soapy water. Rinse well with warm clean water. Dry the outsides but not the insides. Place them on a baking tray (open top ends up) with the lids (top sides up) on a separate tray in an oven pre-heated to 150 degrees Celsius for about 20 minutes to half an hour.

7.You should also warm your sugar. With about half an hour to go before the lemons are ready, weigh it out and put it in the oven at about 150 degrees Celsius in a large flat dish.

8. When the citrus skins in the saucepan have been boiled to the point where they are soft and translucent, add the sugar, cardamon pods (split in half length-ways) and a knob of butter (this helps to stop it burning, according to my mum) and bring to a rolling boil, which is a gentle boil that isn’t too violent – think of gently churning rapids downstream from a large waterfall. Stir occasionally and let everything boil for another fifteen minutes or so until it starts to set. You could use a thermometer for this stage to check the temperature. The marmalade should start to set somewhere around 104 degrees Celsius.

9. When it reaches this stage, and you see it starting to thicken, you need to do the frozen saucer test. Take your saucer from the freezer and drip a little drop of the marmalade onto it. Leave it for a few seconds and then gently push it with your fingertip. If the marmalade is ready it should have formed a thin skin on top and you should be getting wrinkles when you apply pressure. It may still seem to be too liquid for spreading on your toast, but if there is a very thin skin with wrinkles you are good to go. The mixture will thicken/ solidify a bit more once it cools, and sometimes it will carry on setting for a few days after. This is the trickiest stage of the process, so do keep your eyes peeled.

Anyway if you haven’t reached this point let the mixture boil on for another three or four minutes and test again. Keep going until you get that skin-and-wrinkle-thing happening on your saucer, but be really careful as it can easily burn if it overheats (and, believe me, cleaning the bottom of the saucepan when it does is a nightmare job).

If you can't seem to get the stuff to set you can always add a spoonful or two of pectin and watch for it to do its magic. I keep a bottle of Certo apple pectin for these occasions.

10. Once the marmalade has started to set remove the saucepan from the heat, and add the Cointreau. Be careful as the hot mixture may spit a little when you introduce the cold liquid. Stir thoroughly and leave for about 15 minutes to cool. Skim the cardamon pods out of the mixture with a slatted spoon while you're waiting for the mixture to cool down.  This cooling will also allow the mixture to set a little more. Stir it again before you ladle it into the sterilised jam jars. By stirring it once it has thickened like this you will ensure an even distribution of peel throughout the mixture.

11. Top the jars of marmalade with waxed disks and put the lids on.

12. When everything has cooled down a bit you can add some stick-on labels.

Enjoy with hot buttered toast and a good cup of Rosie Lee!

All the best,

Bonny x

and if you've got the marmalade bug you might also like to try my lemon and lavender recipe, which you can find:  here.

Autumn at last ... Where have you been?

Autumn has finally arrived! We've gone from balmy Halloween, celebrated in T-shirts and flip-flops, to Jack Frost nipping at our noses in less than a week. Congratulations to our barmy British climate. It's all a bit bonkers, really.

I'm so glad that I managed to squeeze in some time last weekend to walk in the woods with Emi and Maxi, and admire the wonderful colours of the leaves against the most perfect blue sky.

There were lots of other people out, taking the air as well. Several parents came up and asked if their little ones could stroke Maxi. He's everyone's friend, and he especially loves children, although his exuberance can sometimes startle them.

We collected leaves. I'm a compulsive leaf collector at this time of the year, and it's rubbing off. Emi also returns clutching a bunch of foliage as though it were a bouquet of fine flowers.

Aren't those maple leaves exquisite? I was so inspired by their brilliant colours that I dusted off my old flower press and we spent a happy hour placing some of our better-looking trophies between pages of blotting paper and card for pressing. We went out in our garden to see what else we could find.

There were some heroic geraniums and nasturtiums still going strong, so we harvested a few of those to go in the press as well. I'm not sure what we'll do with them all when they're done, but they seemed to give the most perfect spectrum of my favourite fire colours. I hope they don't fade too much as they dry.

We've had a busy time of it recently. Emi has finally got his project on the Romans done and dusted. We had a lovely day at the Roman Baths just before his half-term holidays finished, which gave him loads of material to write about.

And I've been busy baking  Boozy Bejeweled Christmas Cakes, which have left my kitchen smelling like a cosy little corner of heaven.

My favourite Turkish grocer has started to stock the new season's clementines, which are positively divine: juicy and sweet and aromatic. Yesterday a bunch of them called out to me and positively begged me to make them into some marmalade. How could a girl resist? I mean just look how inviting they were:

I used my tried-and-tested method and had a lot of fun playing around with the flavours. I chose to enhance the zesty, almost floral flavour of the fruit with some green cardamons and a decent glug of Cointreau to max out the orangeness. I had a hunch that the flavours would marry well, and they did - with bells on!  If you're interested in my recipe I'll try and write it up soon before I forget. I still like to play with my food and a lot of my cooking is done on the hoof, improvising as I go along, which is fine, but sometimes makes it difficult to get the same result twice. 

Anyway I hope you're enjoying the autumn too, and all the best for a splendid weekend,

Bonny x

As shared on Friday Finds, image-in-ing and Our World Tuesday

PS I've just written up my recipe and you can find it here: Clementine and cardamon marmalade

Boozy Bejeweled Christmas Cake Recipe

Now is a really good time to get cracking with your Chrimbo cakes. They really do improve, just sitting in the tin, waiting for the Big Day to arrive - especially if, like me, you treat them to the occasional tipple along the way.

Emi and I were really busy last week, during the half term holidays, baking loads of cakes. I like to make a few extra for friends and family whilst I've got the wind in my sails. My recipe is an old family one that I've tweaked a little bit to suit my own personal style. My Grandma used to make these cakes using sherry, but I prefer Marsala wine. I've also chosen my favourite dried fruit from my local Turkish grocer, which is a rather different combination from the one she used. In fact I'm sure my dear old Gran, living in rural County Tyrone twenty years' ago, would never have heard tell of things like dried barberries. I've also chosen not to decorate the cakes with marzipan and icing. I love almonds, but I really dislike almond flavourings, so marzipan is not a favourite of mine. Instead I'm using glacé fruits with a glaze. I love the colours and the glossiness of this topping, and it's a super quick, easy way to decorate a cake. I also like to make small cakes (6"/ 15 cm diameter) rather than big cakes so that people don't get bored with them, although they will last for months in their tins.

If you'd like to give this little number a go, it's a very quick, simple cake to make. Here's the recipe:

Ingredients for 2 small 6"/ 15cm diameter cakes or 1 large 12"/ 30 cm diameter cake 

1 kg/ 2 lb 4 oz of mixed dried fruits.  I used 250 g/ 9 oz golden jumbo raisins, 250 g/ 9 oz brown jumbo raisins, 250 g/ 9 oz dried cranberries, 125 g/ 4 1/2 oz  dried barberries and 125 g/ 4 1/2 oz dried papaya, but you can chose whichever mix of dried fruit you prefer.

175g / 6 oz plain cake-making flour

200g/ 7 oz soft brown sugar

zest and juice of 1 large orange

zest and juice of 1 large lemon

250g/ 9 oz butter at room temperature

100g/ 3 1/2 oz ground almonds

100g/ 3 1/2 oz flaked almonds

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

2 heaped teaspoonfuls of mixed spice

1 heaped teaspoonful of powdered cinnamon

1/2 teaspoonful of powdered cloves

4 large eggs - beaten

1 teaspoonful of vanilla extract

150 ml/ 5 fluid ounces of Marsala Wine

Method

1. Choose a large saucepan. Place the dried fruit, orange and lemon juice and zest, Marala wine, butter and sugar in the saucepan and heat over a medium heat until the mixture comes to the boil. Then reduce the heat and allow to simmer gently for 5 minutes. Mix thoroughly and remove from the heat. Leave to cool for about 30 minutes. 

2. Whilst the mixture from 1. above is cooling heat your oven to 150º C/ 130º C with a fan/ Gas Mark 2 and line your cake tins with grease-proof baking parchment. You'll need a circle for the bottom and a long rectangle to line the sides. I usually fix it in place with a spot of melted butter. I also like to use spring release cake tins, which make it easier to get the cakes out at the end of the process. 

3. When you've got them lined on the inside, wrap them with newspaper on the outside and tie it in place with some string so that they cook, and cool down afterwards, really slowly. This ought to help prevent your cakes from cracking.

4. After your mixture from 1. has cooled down a bit add all the remaining ingredients, sieving the flour and mixing it thoroughly to make sure that everything is evenly distributed and there are no pockets of flour. 

5. Tip the mixture into the prepared baking tins and place them in the centre of the oven. Cook for about 2 hours - until a skewer inserted into the top of the cake comes out clean. Remove from the oven and leave to cool. 

6. Make a few discreet holes with a skewer - going in from the top. These will form little channels so that the wine that you feed the cake between now and Christmas gets evenly distributed. 

7. When the cakes have completely cooled, wrap them in some grease-proof baking parchment and store them in cake tins. Feed each cake every 10 days or so with 2 teaspoonfuls of Marsala wine. Don't feed it for a week immediately before you decorate it.  

And would you also like my recipe for the decoration on top? Ok, no problem.

Ingredients for cake topping

1 heaped tablespoonful of apricot jam or honey

2 tablespoonfuls of brandy

Whatever combination of glacé fruits and nuts that you'd like to use. I chose some glacé cherries and apricots with some roasted pecan nuts.

Method

1. Place the jam and brandy in a small saucepan. Place over a medium heat until the jam melts, stirring until the two are evenly mixed.

2. Leave the jam and brandy mixture to cool. I keep mine stored in a small jam pot in the fridge so that I can use it for the other cakes that are in the pipeline.

3. Arrange your fruit and nuts over the top of your cake, and very gently brush them with the jam and brandy mixture using a pastry brush. 

4. Wrap up your cake for presentation. I used a rectangular food doily, cut lengthways as an internal wrapper with some brown paper on the outside tied up with a festive ribbon. 

Enjoy with friends and a nice cup of Rosy Lee. 

All the best,

Bonny x

As shared on Creative Mondays

The Roman Baths ... in Bath ...

Yes, we're still on the trail of those pesky Romans, as Emi works his way slowly through his half-term homework assignment.

On our way back to London from Devon we stopped off to take a look at the Roman Baths in ... Bath. No prizes for guessing how this city got its name!

I've been here so many times I think I could hire myself out as a tour guide. Everyone who comes to visit us from overseas gets dragged down to Bath at some point during their stay. It's such a great place to visit, and it was a real pleasure to show little Emi around. He's been pushed around the sights in his pram before, but claims not to remember a great deal about it.

Have you ever seen a more timeless looking place than this?

It's like an onion with every skin a different age. 

Before the Romans the Celts lived here. Some of their gods are still in evidence at the complex.

This sacred trinity of mother goddesses was dug up at Bathwick. They were being venerated here long before the Romans started polishing their lances and wondering whether or not they should cross the Rubicon.

And even after they'd been conquered the ancient Britons still managed to do Roman things their way. Take a look at this wonderful carving that once stood proud on the central plinth of the temple here in Bath. Is it a (male) Gorgon with the snakes for hair, Neptune, god of the seas or our good old Green Man, Master of the Celtic Wild Wood? It's anyone's guess, but whichever way you cut the cake he's gorgeous.

The temple here was dedicated to Sulis Minerva, the goddess of the heavenly hot spring.  Is it just me, or does anyone else think she looks a bit like Margaret Thatcher? Maybe it's just the way she's had her hair curled.

And when we got right down to pool level there were still a few Romans hanging around enjoying the party. I wonder what they're talking about. Where's the best place to get your chariot serviced? Why doesn't anyone in this country know how to cook a decent stuffed dormouse? I wouldn't know where to begin, but at least they did a good job of blending in with the tourists (not).

Here's another chap who's been standing around for so long that he's turned to stone. I think he's drawing his sword to clear a way through all the tourists to get to the pool. It was standing room only when we passed through. And everyone - absolutely everyone - was listening to the talkie guide they hand out at the door.

The water rises out of the ground heated to a steaming 46º C (115º F). It's the only place in the UK where this happens, and those old Romans thought that it was the work of the gods.

It would be amazing to go for a dip in that ancient pool with all those regal statues looking on. These days they've got an amazing modern spa where you can do just that. The best bit is the rooftop pool where you can drift around admiring the view of the rooftops through the steam rising off the water.

It's a brilliant spot to pass an afternoon and Emi seemed to learn a load of stuff about the Romans. But it would be magical to go at night and have the place to yourself. Can you just imagine floating around in the hot water with a glass of something cool and delicious, watching the stars twinkle overhead? How very decadent!

All the best,

Bonny x

The Lonely Grave of Rosa Bevan ... #photostory #halloween

It's Halloween ... .

Do you want to hear a spooky story?

This one's a weird tale, and, if I  live to be a hundred, I don't think I’ll ever be able to come up with a rational explanation for what took place that day. 

It had been a bitterly cold October. Normally in London, we enjoy soft, gentle autumns with just a hint of summer lingering on into November. 

But that year winter had come early. 

Back then I'd been working as a junior reporter for a small suburban newspaper, an old rag that had been around since the year dot and rarely got read by anyone under fifty. It wasn't a great job: I spent most of my time brewing up and doing the photocopying, but everyone's got to start somewhere.

That day I’d been sent to the cemetery by my editor. 

Look for a story, a scary story. Find something we can print for Halloween, he’d said. 

It wasn't exactly news, which probably explained why he'd trusted me to run with it. My editor liked to punctuate the passing months with the occasional seasonal piece that would appeal to the reader's sense of tradition. It usually featured in the doldrums of the paper, somewhere round about page 33, before the news morphed into the sports section.

So there I stood, clutching a takeaway coffee for warmth in the cold dampness of the old cemetery. From memory I was in the unconsecrated bit, where they'd buried the unbelievers, the dissenters and all the other folk who'd not been in the embrace of the Established Church at the time of their passing. 

The grass was veiled with a half-hearted frost that was slowly melting in the watery sunlight, leaving everything wet and slimy in its wake. The sun hung low in the sky, throwing great elongated shadows across the ground.

I walked around for fifteen or twenty minutes, my breath condensing in the cold air, as I wondered where I could find a story.

Maybe the inscriptions on the headstones would give me a start, I thought, taking a slug of the hot coffee and looking around at the massed ranks of graves and tombs that surrounded me. 

Then one particular headstone seemed to call out to me from the shadows. It was in the form of a long, thin gothic arch, carved from Portland Stone. It listed slightly to one side, touching its neighbour, as though it were leaning on the shoulder of an old friend. 

How very understated, I thought, contrasting its simplicity with the extravagance of its neighbours. I’d always thought the Victorian love of ornamental angels and wreathed funeral urns was a bit over the top.

I stood squinting at the stone, trying to make out what it said. The surface was weathered and pitted with the passage of the years, making the engraving hard to decipher. 

In Loving Memory 

of

Rosa Bevan

Wife of Charles T. Bevan

Died August 28, 1884, Aged 24

"Thy Will be Done."

The words seemed sparse and controlled. Surely a life lost at the tender age of 24 ought to have elicited a greater out-pouring of emotion. In fact the Thy Will be Done bit spoke of a certain indifference to what had taken place. And then there was the expanse of unused space that stretched all the way down to the earth beneath, which suggested that, in the fulness of time, other names ought to have appeared there too, names such as Charles T. Bevan, the husband left behind with his loving memories and his economical way with words. 

I was suddenly overcome by the blackest depression. I felt desperately sorry for poor Rosa, keeping her lonely vigil in the shadows, at a discreet distance from the main path. I had a strong sense of her unfinished business. I don’t understand why. There were hundreds of other life stories carved into the various memorials and tombstones round about that could have touched me, but it was Rosa’s cold, sad presence that reached out.

I was lost in my thoughts when I heard a twig snap behind me. I looked round, but couldn't see anyone.

Then a man's voice whispered urgently in my ear, My Will be Done.

I could have sworn that I felt his breath, cold and clammy, against my skin as he exhaled the words.

The whispered words jarred with the inscription on Rosa's headstone: Thy Will be Done.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose in terror. I had a sense of someone of imposing stature standing right behind me. I turned and looked again, but there was no one there.

'Ello, Miss. Lost your way, Miss?  

Startled, I turned around and saw a young woman walking towards me from the other side of Rosa's grave. I'd been distracted by what I thought was going on behind me and, as a result, I hadn't noticed her approaching.

She smiled at me, as though she sensed I was afraid and was trying to reassure me. Although now that I think about it, the smile on her lips never quite reached her cold, black eyes, which seemed to look right through me, as though they were searching for something - or someone - hidden amongst the graves behind me.

I'm fine, thanks. I said, noticing that she was wearing a long, black dress that looked as though it had been created by a Victorian seamstress. 

W-why are you dressed like that? I asked. 

I'm an actress, she said, pinning a wispy strand of light brown hair back into place in the bun that she wore low on her head.  I've got an audition up in town later this afternoon.

I thought it strange that she should be wearing her stage clothes before she got to the theatre, but said nothing more about it as I was distracted by the sound of footsteps, walking off briskly along one of the side paths behind me. I looked round, but could see nothing other than some branches moving in the undergrowth where someone had brushed past them.

Pass no remarks on him, she said. He's always here. He doesn't like it when I talk to anyone.

Why not? I asked. Who is he?

He's nobody important, not any more, but he's worried I'll tell you his secret, she said, smiling that strange half-smile, that never touched her eyes. Come with me, Miss. You've come looking for a story, haven't you Miss? You've got to write a proper, good story before the end of tomorrow, ain't that right, Miss?

Surprised that she seemed to know my reason for visiting the cemetery, I conceded that she was, indeed correct, and that I would face the wrath of my editor if I hadn't produced a few pages of copy before we went to print.

She beckoned me to follow her, and then set off between the tombstones, but before I could take a step I felt a sharp poke in my ribs, and then the urgent, disembodied voice whispered in my ear again.

 My will be done, it said in tones that suggested it would broker no contradiction.

This time I couldn't control myself; I shrieked in fright.

Oh, don't go upsetting yourself, Miss. He just doesn't want anyone to know his secret. You pay him no heed, Miss.

By this stage she was fast disappearing down the pathway, and, as I had no wish to be left on my own with whatever it was that was poking me and insisting that its will should prevail, I rushed after her. 

The old cemetery is in two parts, the East Cemetery and the West Cemetery, one divided from the other by Swiggin's Lane, a winding alleyway, only just wide enough for a hearse to drive up. I'd lost sight of her by the time I reached the gate, and, when I set eyes on her again she'd already gone across to the West Cemetery. I could see her pale face and shadowy form waiting for me on the other side of the railings.

I was out of breath, and panting as though I'd run a mile by the time I reached the lane. I could hear my blood pumping in my ears, and it felt as though my heart would burst through my chest, whether from running or from fear I'm not sure.

Perhaps I went too slowly across the lane, and didn't pay attention. I don't remember. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a horse-drawn hearse was bearing down upon me. The horses, all frothing at the mouth, and red in the eye from their exertions, were moving at breakneck speed, their tall feathered head-plumes dancing in the air. In the very nick of time, I came to my senses and jumped out of the way as it went careering past, missing me by millimetres.

Stunned, I watched as it disappeared noiselessly round a sharp bend in the lane.

How strange they didn't make any noise or stop here at the gate to the cemetery, I thought, as I caught my breath. I was badly shaken up, as you can imagine, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't give voice to my thoughts.

Their kind never make any noise, she said, by way of answer to my unspoken question. He's not stopping because he's got no business in here today, other than in trying to stop you coming through the gate, Miss. 

Turning around she set off at a brisk pace up the hill.

I had no wish to be left on my own, so I set off after her, although, now that I think about it, a wiser person would have made a break for it, back down Swiggin's Lane to the land of the living.

We passed tall plinths, bearing veiled funeral urns, any number of stone angels and the large, ostentatious stone vaults of the better-off dead.

Finally she stopped in front of a handsome tomb. She paused and, resting one frail, white hand on its heavy pediment admired it in contemplative silence for a moment.

It was in the form of a classical casket with elaborate scrolled edges but little other decoration. The proportions were handsome, the carving had been expertly executed on good Portland Stone and the overall design, whilst restrained, was pleasing to the eye. 

 He always had such good taste, much better than mine she said, looking up at me as though she were checking that I was still there. It's just right, isn't it Miss? He's made it look so distinguished.

I was struck by the note of pride in her voice, as though she harboured some affection for the person responsible, and as though his good taste somehow reflected well on her.

But the thing is, Miss. The thing I want to tell you is that he made me do it. He wanted me out of the way so that he could be with her. 

She looked at me with a pained, beseeching expression as though she were desperate to be believed.

Come on over here, Miss, and have a read of this, she said, waving me towards her, and pointing to the inscription on the side of the tomb.

Sacred to the memory of
Charles T. Bevan

Died 1st November, 1896

Aged 41 years.

And of his infant son
Joshua Bevan
Died 21st January, 1885.

And of Caroline Jane Bevan
Wife of the above Charles and
Mother of the said infant.

Died 31st January, 1901

Aged 37 years. 

As I was bending closer to decipher the writing for myself I felt a sharp push in the small of my back. For a moment I lost my balance, and fell towards the tomb. Putting my hands out I was able to stop myself before my face smashed into the stone.

Come on Miss, we'd best be off. He's getting angry now. Let's go, but remember when you tell them my story, Miss, you have to tell them that he did it. 

She started walking off, back down the hill to the cemetery gate, but this time she was going so fast that I just couldn't keep up. She seemed to glide over the ground. 

At one point she paused, and turned around to look back at me.

He made me do it, Miss. That's all I want the world to know. He stood over me and made me drink it all down. 

Do what? Drink what? What are you talking about? I asked, but she'd turned around and was quickly disappearing from sight. 

I ran after her as fast as I could, but I slipped and came crashing to the ground. By the time I'd gathered myself up and made it down to the cemetery gates she'd already crossed Swiggin's Lane and was back in the East Cemetery. 

Wait for me, I called. Where are you going?

For a brief moment she turned and, for the first time she looked me directly in the eye, as though she were surprised by the question. Her gaze chilled me to my core. The black eyes were lifeless pools of unspeakable sadness; they had a hypnotic draw that left me powerless to look away.

Sorry, Miss, she said softly. I've got to leave you now, and where I'm going, you can't follow.

And then she disappeared off between the tombstones. I went into the East Cemetery and looked around for her, but she had gone. Vanished into thin air. I didn't feel like lingering long on my own in case the other thing caught up with me again, so I made my way back to the gate. 

By this time there were a couple of people standing around in Swiggin's Lane waiting for a funeral or something. I asked them if they'd seen a pale lady, dressed in a black Victorian dress. They looked at me, shaking their heads as though I were mad, and walked off without replying. 

As I stood there, alone and embarrassed at having been taken for a nutcase, I heard the urgent voice, whispering in my ear. 

Ain't you scared? It asked. She's gone somewhere you can't follow. 

And then it laughed a horrible mirthless laugh.

I didn't bother to look around for it.  I knew there would be nobody there. Instead I ran down Swiggin's Lane, towards normality and the office, as fast as my legs would carry me. 

When I got back my editor wanted to know what I was planning to write about, and I was so shaken up that I told him, straight out, exactly what had happened.

OK, he said. It sounds mad, but let's search the archives for the month and year she died. We've got all the old back issues on microfiche so it should be easy. 

He must have been impressed by my sincerity, because he came down to the basement with me to look through the files for himself. 

We pulled up the year 1884 and leafed our way through the months to August. Then we picked out the 28th of August. It was a Thursday. And there she was on the front page of the evening edition, wearing the same black gown she'd worn in the cemetery.

Rosa Bevan, celebrated stage actress, and much loved wife of Charles T. Bevan of Bayswater House, Porchester Terrace, died  this morning following an overdose of Laudanum. Early accounts suggest that she died by her own hand. We understand that the police are not treating her death as suspicious. 

She committed suicide, my editor said.

My will be done.

He made me do it, Miss. He made me drink it all down.

Their words rang in my ears.

No, I said. She didn't and what's more I think she'd like the world to know the truth.

And that was my very first story, although my scoop would probably have sat more comfortably in a history book or a compilation of ghost stories than on page 33 of the newspaper.

All the best and Happy Halloween,

Bonny x

As shared on Friday Finds, Our World Tuesday and image-in-ing