Someone in the House (21 page)

“I don’t know what I would do without Frances,” Father Stephen said, after she had gone. “But there are times when her notions of what constitutes proper behavior for a man of the cloth makes me as restless as a teenager. She leaves my desk alone, thank heaven, but sometimes I have a reprehensible urge to dance wildly around the room, or scatter crumbs.”

As he had probably planned, this seemingly ingenuous confession made me more relaxed. But I was careful to cross my legs left over right, in an attempt to hide the hole in my jeans.

“Where is Roger?” Father Stephen asked. “I’m surprised he would pass up a chance to play devil’s advocate.”

“He went rushing off to develop his latest photographs,” Bea said. “Leaped out of bed at the crack of dawn….” She turned a pretty shade of tomato red. Father Stephen tactfully pretended not to notice, and after a moment Bea went on, “To be frank, Father, that’s why I called to ask if I might come early. I wanted to talk to you without Roger being here, jeering at everything I say.”

“I see. Has anything new occurred?”

Bea shook her head. Father Stephen turned to me. “What about you, Anne?”

“I’ve been sleeping like a baby since I changed rooms,” I said, somewhat inaccurately. I went on to tell Father Stephen about Roger’s cameras, and his decision to plant them in the cellar. Father Stephen smiled and shook his head.

“Roger and his playthings. He seems not to recognize his own inconsistency. I thought he denied that your disturbances had anything to do with the brass.”

“The cellar was a concession to me,” I admitted. “Last night I started getting weird ideas.”

“You began to wonder whether Ethelfleda’s earthly remains are in the crypt,” Father Stephen said. My surprise showed on my face. He laughed outright, his eyes twinkling. “I ought to claim that I read your mind; wouldn’t you be impressed? Conditioned as we are by long centuries of traditional beliefs, it is not surprising that such a thought should occur to both of us. But I’m sure you decided, as I did, that the question is irrelevant. In any case, we would never be able to determine the facts. Even if Kevin would permit—”

In my excitement I interrupted him. “We wouldn’t have to dig her up. There must be records, lists, made when the house was moved.”

“Hmm. That’s clever, Anne.”

“And I thought you might have those records, if they were part of Miss Marion’s estate. You were her legal guardian—”

“No, no; the legal aspects were handled by a young lawyer appointed by the court—a member of the firm that had represented the Karnovsky family locally. She gave them very little to do, in fact, having only a small income, and, of course, title to the house.”

“But these would be papers dealing with the house,” I said. “Wouldn’t they have to be available to a prospective purchaser? To prove the title was clear?”

“Very possibly. The point I was endeavoring to make was that I have no papers of any kind. I suppose I might ask Jack—John Burckhardt, that is—the lawyer in the case. I don’t know what excuse I could give for my curiosity after so long a time.”

“Kevin would have a logical excuse,” Bea said. “He is the only one who could legitimately inquire.”

“I don’t think we ought to involve him,” I said.

“But he is already interested in Ethelfleda,” Bea argued. “He didn’t appear to be upset by my questions yesterday, or—”

Father Stephen brought his hand down sharply on the table. The gesture was so violent and the distress on his face so pronounced that Bea stopped talking and we both looked at him in surprise.

“That is the difficulty, don’t you see?” he exclaimed. “Kevin’s unconcern is, in my opinion, a most alarming symptom. I have the feeling that we are dealing with something extremely unstable, like a heavy stone balanced on edge. The stone may appear solid, but the slightest touch could send it toppling over.”

After a moment I said hesitantly, “Have you seen something in Kevin that we’ve missed?”

“I can’t produce evidence you would find convincing, Anne. I can only cite my own feelings. But I’ve had a good many years of experience in such matters. Admittedly, I have never run into a genuine example of possession—”

“Possession!” Bea cried. “You can’t be serious.”

The pastor sighed. “Confound it, I didn’t mean to say that. My tongue ran away with me. Let me put it this way. We must consider the possibility.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve already stretched my imagination till it hurts. That’s too much.”

“He has changed,” Father Stephen said. “Hasn’t he?”

I didn’t answer; but after a moment he nodded, as if acknowledging a reply. “I won’t press the point. I am far from convinced myself. We haven’t enough information as yet to defend any interpretation.”

“Exactly,” I said. “What about Ethelfleda? That’s information we might be able to get.”

Father Stephen shrugged. “There is no reason why I shouldn’t ask. I could tell Jack that the present owners of the house are interested in its history.”

“Father, we can’t let you lie for us,” Bea said.

“That’s not a lie, it’s the truth. Perhaps not the whole truth—but that’s my problem. It may prove to be a vain quest. For all we know, the relevant papers may have been handed over to Mr. and Mrs. Blacklock at the time of purchase. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the procedure.”

“It would be nice if you would try,” I said firmly. Let Bea and Father Stephen worry about his conscience. I myself approve of lying in a good cause. What kind of world would this be if everyone told the truth all the time?

“I’ll be happy to do so. But I must make it clear to both of you that I think you are on the wrong track. You especially, Bea. You mustn’t fall into the error of materialism. I need not cite Scripture to you—”

“‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return to God, who gave it,’” Bea murmured. “I agree, Father, that the whereabouts of Ethelfleda’s remains are unimportant. All these theories—Roger’s foolish toys—none of them can help me decide what I ought to do.”

“There is a ceremony—”

“No, Father. Not exorcism.”

Father Stephen grimaced. “I dislike the word too. To conduct such a service would make me feel like that ineffectual idiot in the book that was so popular a few years back. A vile canard, not only on the cloth, but on every aspect of the Christian faith! However, it is an accepted and recognized rite of the Church. Why are you so opposed to it?”

Her eyes downcast, her hands nervously pleating the soft cotton of her skirt, Bea spoke rapidly. “I couldn’t give permission for something like that without consulting my sister and brother-in-law. I’m only a guest in their house, after all. And even if I wanted to worry them, and perhaps interrupt their trip, they would never consent.”

“It undoubtedly would worry them,” Father Stephen agreed with a wry smile. “But what makes you suppose they would not consent?”

“You’ve met my brother-in-law,” Bea said.

I hadn’t met the gentleman, but I saw her point. I had a feeling that if I ever did meet Mr. Blacklock, I would find an older version of Kevin—charming, gentle, stubborn, skeptical. No, a man like that wouldn’t cable back, “Proceed with the exorcism.” He would cancel his trip, fly home—and gently but forcibly evict the crazies who were trying to tell him his son was haunted.

“It’s difficult,” Father Stephen said thoughtfully. “But I have the feeling you aren’t being honest with me. What is your real reason for rejecting my suggestion?”

Bea sat in silence for a time, her head bowed. When she spoke, her voice was so low I had to strain to hear it.

“It means—casting it out—into darkness, annihilation.”

“Ah.” Father Stephen nodded. “I feared as much.”

“No, listen to me—please. Is there any limit to the mercy and loving kindness of God?” Even I knew the answer to that one. Bea didn’t wait for Father Stephen’s reply. Passionately she went on, “Then how can we be other than merciful to a soul He would save? If we—”

“Stop.” Father Stephen’s voice was not loud, but its stern tone made it as peremptory as a shout. “Be careful, Bea. You are starting down a perilous road. Oh, I understand, and I admire your compassionate heart. But you are making an unwarranted assumption.”

“You think it’s evil,” Bea said.

“Evil exists.”

Bea’s tightly clasped hands and tormented eyes showed how much she disliked being at odds with her friend, but the strength of her convictions overcame lesser scruples. How long they would have argued, and what the outcome might have been, I will never know. They were interrupted by a vehement bang on the door.

“Roger,” Father Stephen said. “I know that knock of his. Bea, we aren’t really in disagreement; I beg of you, don’t do anything rash. These matters—”

Roger, tired of waiting for a response, shoved the door open. “So there you are,” he said, glowering at Bea.

“Come in, Roger,” said Father Stephen.

“I am in. What have you been saying about me?”

“The usual slurs, insults, and sneers,” said Father Stephen.

“No, seriously,” Roger said.

“We haven’t agreed on any course of action, if that’s what you mean,” Bea said.

“No exorcism?” He returned her startled look with a grim smile. “Given the current state of the so-called literature on the subject, and Steve’s anachronistic views about good and evil, that was a logical guess. Why not try it? It’s stupid but harmless.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Father Stephen demanded.

“You’d like to believe in demons of darkness, wouldn’t you? It would get you off the old uncomfortable hook—if God is all-powerful and utterly good, why does He inflict so much pain on the world? Grow up, Steve. There is no such thing as an evil spirit—none, at least, that would be moved by the sight of a meaningless symbol.”

“What about Borley Rectory? Helene Poirier? The Illfurt case?”

The names were Greek to me, but Roger settled back with a smile, as if he felt on familiar ground. “Classic cases of hysteria—the last two, certainly. As for the poltergeist at Borley—”

Bea rose. “If this is going to degenerate into idle gossip about ghosts, I’m leaving.”

“Don’t you want to see my photos?” Roger asked.

“Well…”

“I do,” I said.

Roger waited until Bea had resumed her seat before he said cheerfully, “They really aren’t worth looking at. I got what I expected—nothing.”

What he had was a series of rather blurry shots of the small cellar room where Ethelfleda’s brass constituted the pièce de résistance. These had been taken by a new gadget—a camera that swung on a limited curve, automatically taking shots at set intervals. The other cameras, which only operated when the switch was tripped, had not produced anything.

I studied one of the photos. It had been taken at an angle, showing Ethelfleda’s brass and another stone beyond.

“This is odd,” I said. “I thought the brass was flat against the floor. This line here, between the brass and the stone—it looks like a gap, a space almost an inch wide.”

Roger glanced carelessly at the picture. “It’s just a shadow. I told you the crypt was not the center of the disturbance.”

“Then what is?”

“Aha. Time will tell, my dear. Wait till I finish my investigation.”

I think he was hoping someone would press him for further details. Nobody did. We broke up soon after that, Father Stephen saying only, “Please keep me informed, Bea. I am ready to act whenever you say the word.”

The sun was high in the sky when we emerged from the house. Roger refused a ride, saying he preferred to take his own car. He would follow us shortly.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Bea said, as we got into the Mercedes.

“What? Drive himself?”

“No, no; I’m talking about his attitude. This is only an intellectual game to him; he isn’t taking it seriously.”

“I feel the same at times,” I admitted. “My emotions seem to swing from extreme concern to utter skepticism. Makes me wonder about my stability.”

Bea didn’t give me the reassurance I wanted. From her abstracted frown I realized she was thinking about something else.

Like Father Stephen, I was uneasy about her. Not only had she personalized the bizarre phenomenon that troubled the house, but she had developed a passionate sympathy for it. She had no children of her own. That line of reasoning might or might not explain Bea’s reaction, but it didn’t give me a clue as to how to deal with it. She wouldn’t confide in me. She had written me off because of my lack of faith.