Authors: Neil Spring
The Ghost Hunters (14 page)
It was clearly unwelcome news to Price that he was not the sole repository of unusual stories, but as he leaned back against the nearest workbench, watching the reporter carefully, he did at least seem interested. He produced some tobacco paper and proceeded to roll and light a cigarette, before eventually pointing at the letter in Wall’s hand and saying, ‘Let’s hear it then!’
‘Very well,’ said Wall. He snapped out of his reverie and I watched, intrigued, as the journalist unfolded the letter and began to read.
Note
1
The first of V.C. Wall’s articles in the
Daily Mirror
, 10 June 1929.
A PLEA FOR HELP
Borley Rectory
Hall Road
Borley
Suffolk, England
8 June 1929
Sir,
It is not without some hesitation that I write to request the assistance of your newspaper in connection with a series of troubling occurrences that have recently been observed in and about our residence, Borley Rectory, in East Anglia.
My wife and I arrived in England last year, having travelled here from India in pursuit of a quieter life on account of my wife’s poor health. After receiving my Holy Orders, I was duly offered the living at Borley, following the death of the previous rector, Harry Bull, whose family has lived in these parts, I am told, for some sixty years or more.
We were delighted to have found a suitable home so soon, in a quiet parish, in a beautiful setting. But then we learned that we were not the first to have been offered the living at Borley. No less than twelve
rectors before us had come, looked over the place and left with no explanation as to why.
It was then, to our dismay, that we heard the troubling stories that went with the house and its history. The surviving members of the Bull family, the sisters of the late rector, informed us that the Rectory has a macabre history. And those villagers who are willing to talk (and they are few) speak of a phantom coach and the spectre of a woman appearing in the grounds of the Rectory and near the churchyard.
Under normal circumstances we would dismiss such ‘sightings’ as superstitious nonsense. I am not a man who has ever believed in ghosts. But the weight of our experience in the short time that we have lived here, combined with stories imparted to us in confidence, compels us to entertain, reluctantly, a different view. Though we have not witnessed these phenomena ourselves, we have been privy to other, less dramatic but no less queer occurrences. There have been unusual happenings here; events quite beyond our understanding.
We had not occupied the Rectory some three months before the troubles began. Noises in empty rooms, loud thumps, the sound of footsteps in hallways where no one was present. Voices, bells ringing, whisperings on the first-floor landing, objects that vanish only to be found in the most unusual of places in and about the house. And then there is a light seen regularly by passersby from outside the Rectory shining in the window of one of the unoccupied rooms on the first floor of the house; the very room where the Reverend Bull, my predecessor, and his father before him passed from this world into the next.
I would add that my wife is of a very nervous disposition and I would be grateful, therefore, for your timely assistance with the matter. Perhaps you might be so kind as to provide us with the address for the Society for Psychical Research so that it may dispatch an expert in these matters to help us. For I am certain what is happening to us demands professional attention.
Yours
Reverend Guy Eric Smith
Rector of Borley
Beams of sunlight slanted through the shuttered window, catching particles of dust and the wisps of smoke that drifted up from Price’s cigarette and wreathed around his head. He was lost in thought, perhaps wishing he had listened when I first mentioned the story of a haunted rectory in the northernmost tip of Essex.
‘Well?’ Wall said, as he folded the letter and tapped it back into his jacket pocket.
‘I agree it is interesting,’ said Price, gazing intently at the handsome young man. ‘You said that you have spent time with this rector?’
Wall nodded.
‘Did he appear sincere?’
‘Yes, sir, most sincere; charming and gracious too. He and his wife are from Calcutta.’
‘And this peculiar light that appears in the window of the upstairs room – did you witness that during your visit?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Some anomaly of optics and illumination, perhaps—’
‘No,’ insisted Wall. ‘I saw the thing clearly, Mr Price. An orange
globe of phosphorescent light. It was swinging back and forth behind the glass. Not regularly, and yet not randomly, either. It pulsed, Mr Price. Do you see? It was trying to catch our attention! The rector went to investigate.’
‘And … ?’
‘When he reached the bedroom in question, the Blue Room they call it, he found it in complete darkness – and yet from outside my observation of the light persisted. I could see it, Mr Price, as clearly as I see you now! And there was something else. The area immediately outside this room, on the landing, was icy cold, sir – cold enough to make you gasp. You stepped into it like plunging into a river.’
‘Weren’t you frightened?’ I broke in. All this time I had been making detailed notes.
Wall smiled at me thoughtfully. ‘Frightened … no. But it alarmed me, Miss Grey. The whole experience confounded all reason. In my occupation one is accustomed to discovering facts and reporting them – accepting them. But when I remember what happened at that house I am unable to explain it to my satisfaction. Either what I saw wasn’t real, or the bedrock of modern science is entirely inaccurate.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t see how it can be otherwise.’
The comment had its effect on Price, who was leaning forward, his eyes alive with curiosity. ‘You’re quite certain of everything you have told us?’ he asked, his voice serious.
‘But of course!’ Wall answered. ‘How puzzling and extraordinary the world is, Mr Price; so beautiful and painful. Who are we to deny its magic?’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot deny the possibility of these events. I can ignore hearsay, I can resist legends, but I cannot deny the proof of my eyes.’ He shook his
head, raising his voice with passion. ‘Surely you can appreciate the reason for my excitement?’
Price nodded, lips pursed.
‘And in any event, Mr Price, how many hauntings have you investigated in your career? I mean real hauntings, the genuine article?’
There was a slight pause. ‘You know the answer to that question.’
‘Then come with me to Borley,’ Wall urged, ‘and you will have your chance.’
I watched as Price considered the proposal, inhaling deeply on his cigarette stub.
‘Just think, Mr Price, we both have a role in this affair: I scoop the story, you catch the ghosts! Isn’t that what you’re looking for? What you’ve promised your backers?’
I was certain that my companion’s reluctance to help the reporter sprang from envy. The story of Borley Rectory was undeniably Vernon Wall’s story; he had already published one article about it in the
Daily Mirror
, and he clearly had plans to publish more. But I could tell, from subtle changes in Price’s poise and demeanour, that curiosity was taking hold. I think we both sensed further mysteries.
‘Of course if you are too busy, Mr Price, I could always approach the Society for Psychical Research.’
‘Wait!’ Price stretched out an arm, then regained his self-control and lowered it. ‘Yes, all right. I will take the case.’ It was as though the decision somehow transformed him. Mobilised him. He snapped off orders. ‘Sarah, kindly send a telegram to the Reverend Eric Smith and Mrs Smith requesting an appointment to visit this Rectory as soon as possible. And prepare a bag. We’ll need cotton, sealing wax, three electric torches, batteries, matches … oh, and steel tape. And flour!’
‘You are sure you want to come, Mr Price?’ the reporter asked him.
An expression of resolve settled on Price’s face. ‘Yes, my boy, I am sure. I’ll come. And I’ll show you, the rector and his wife just how easy it is to be duped by the mundane. You will have to do your level best to keep up. Ghost-hunting is a gruelling test of reason, accuracy and will!’
Reverend Smith’s response to our telegram came back within the hour. Its tone was urgent: ‘Thank God. We are in your debt. Come quickly, tomorrow. Will expect you …’
*
Later that evening Price reminded me to pack a night bag for the trip. ‘We will set off from here first thing in the morning.’
‘How long do you suppose the investigation will last?’
‘As long as it takes. Why?’
‘I’ll have to explain to Mother, that’s all.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘It’s awkward,’ I admitted, rising from my chair.
‘What’s her name, please?’
‘Frances. Frances Helen Grey.’
‘A lovely name. Doesn’t she trust me?’ He covered his eyes, making me think of a naughty schoolboy: a little reckless but impossibly endearing.
‘Harry, like so many people she thought you were a believer.’ I drew close to him, standing beside the glass cabinet which housed props seized from offending mediums. ‘She hoped your work would serve as a connection to Father in the afterlife.’
‘Whatever for?’
I didn’t want to tell him about the secrets she believed
Father had kept back, so I shrugged. ‘She finds your methods unconventional, in poor taste. She thinks her friends will consider me odd, working for someone whose beliefs contradict their own.’
‘Well, we must give your mother the reassurance she deserves,’ said Price. His smile was open and bright and confident. ‘Tonight I shall escort you home. If you’re anything like your mother, then I can’t wait to make her acquaintance.’
‘Harry, no—’
His finger flew to my lips. ‘My enemies are legion. We must keep them at bay by keeping them close.’
*
By the time we reached my house on Gloucester Street I was excited about the next morning’s trip and eager to go indoors, out of the thickening dark, but I couldn’t shake off my growing discomfort. I hadn’t felt this nervous since Price had found me poking around in his study. How would Mother react to his unexpected arrival?
The answer was obvious on her face the instant she opened the front door, and as we entered the drawing room I felt myself close up with embarrassment. The fire was dead, the room as cold as Mother’s mood.
‘Well,’ said Price, dropping into my father’s old armchair beside the window. His eyes roamed the room, moving between the faded red curtains and the wallpaper peeling at the corners. ‘What a lovely home you have here, Mrs Grey.’
He spoke without a hint of sarcasm, but his compliment failed to have any effect on Mother, who had selected my favourite deep red armchair in the far corner of the room. She perched in it rigidly, her back straight as a gentleman’s cane.
‘These town houses are quite splendid. Such a shame so many are being converted into flats.’ Price scowled. ‘Noisy things, flats! Not private.’
‘Mr Price … Why did you say you were here?’
‘I didn’t.’ His face lifted into a wide smile. ‘But hello!’
‘What …’
‘I came to say hello! Sarah’s told me so much about you, madam.’
We told her then about our planned investigation at Borley Rectory.
‘With Sarah helping me, I can be sure of a thorough investigation. Your daughter is so helpful. If anything’s out of place, I can rely on her to put it in order. Even my tie.’ He smiled. ‘She’s wonderful.’
‘She
is
wonderful.’ Mother’s tone was sharp. She raised her chin. ‘But tell me this, Mr Price: will she be safe?’
It amazed me that Mother should have taken against Price just because he wasn’t the believer she had hoped he would be. Price, too, looked taken aback at her frank approach and he adopted an expression of wounded concern.
‘Sarah isn’t just my employee, Mrs Grey, she is my friend.’
‘Your friend. I see.’ An awkward silence stretched out. Then: ‘Are you married, Mr Price?’
He nodded, folding his arms.
‘Then, forgive me for asking, but where is your wedding ring?’
I found myself dropping my gaze to Price’s lap where his large, rough hands were resting.
‘I leave it at home to keep it safe, especially when I’m using the forge in my workshop.’
‘Oh, he’s always tampering with some gadget or other,’ I cut
in. I tried to laugh, but my embarrassment made the attempt sound forced. ‘You’re practically on first-name terms with every hammer, aren’t you?’
‘Any other hobbies?’
‘I collect coins.’
‘Oh, so you
profit
from your ventures too?’ Mother said in a thin voice. ‘And tell me, do you find pleasure in picking apart other people’s beliefs?’
‘Well, really!’ My reaction was quick, untempered, but clearly had an effect on Mother, who looked aside quickly with self-conscious reproach.
‘No, no, Sarah, it’s quite all right,’ said Price. His gaze fell on the telephone by the door. Then he gave Mother a bright, reassuring smile. ‘Madam, I quite understand your position, but we owe it to the fallen, and to the those mourn them, to show that there are no hot-lines to the other side.’
‘Your experiments make that very clear. But such sensationalist demonstrations, Mr Price – why?’
‘The public is hungry for wonders. You might say I have a thirst for answers, madam. Nothing else matters to me.’ Leaning forward a little, he smiled and added, ‘I’m sure that
you
can understand.’
The loaded comment made Mother flinch and as she caught my eye I felt heat rising in my face.
‘Now that is a wonderful photograph!’ Price remarked suddenly. ‘Such flattering lighting.’ He was pointing towards a delicate silver frame on the mantelpiece: a photograph of our family before the fracture. Father was smart in his uniform; I sat at his knee, in a floral dress; Mother stood tall next to him, in a dress that had bunched sleeves and wide shoulders. Her oval
face was smooth and untroubled. ‘It must be very difficult for you both, two women all on your own.’
‘We get by,’ said Mother. It was an unfair response to such genuine concern. ‘But tell me, Mr Price: how did you spend your time in the war?’
