The Ghost Hunters (16 page)

I put my hand on Price’s arm and made a face at him, trying to restrain him. Visions of spending all afternoon scouring the countryside made the farmer’s stories seem suddenly less funny.

My employer turned to me and snapped, ‘No, Sarah, it’s too much, really it is.’ He waved a hand in the man’s direction. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t crossed himself or made the sign of the evil bloody eye yet! Every time we tackle a new case we find ourselves beset by credulous nincompoops who want to scare us off.’

He checked himself, visibly reining in his temper so that his face took on a mask of polite formality. Then, turning to the farmer, he said smoothly, ‘Sir, please, be a good fellow and tell us which road to take.’ He checked his wristwatch and looked up again, the picture of reasonable patience.

‘Very well, your choice,’ said the farmer reluctantly. ‘You want
Hall Road; that’s first to the left, carry on for half a mile till you see the disused railway tracks, then take the next right at Rod-bridge Corner, over the bridge. You’ll see some cottages and the old school. Carry on up the hill. You won’t miss it.’

Price turned to me, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘I hope you got that!’

In the rear-view mirror I saw Wall’s expression of surprise echo my own. ‘Actually, Harry, you’re the one who’s supposed to be navigating.’ Swinging open the heavy door, I climbed down out of the saloon, went round to his side and opened the door. ‘Come along, you can take us the rest of the way.’

His jaw dropped open. ‘Sarah … ?’

‘Hop it!’ I instructed with a gesture of my thumb, and as he gave up his seat in the manner of a grumpy child, I stifled a laugh. Climbing up into the passenger’s side I caught Wall’s wide, nodding smile through the back window. Inwardly I was glowing: his smile seemed to say, ‘Well done.’

*

It took twenty minutes to travel the last three or four miles to Borley, picking our way through the narrow lanes and contending with wrong turnings and dead ends. But my high spirits never wavered. Passing by open meadows and low hedgerows sprinkled with honeysuckle, the smells of the season were beguiling. I had quite detached myself from the idea that we were supposed to be visiting somewhere reputed to be threatening and sinister.

Eventually, and to the great relief of everyone in the car, we came to a small junction where a battered wooden sign indicated that the uneven mud track to our left was Hall Road. At last! The lane ran upwards on a gentle trajectory and was bordered on either side by low hedgerows and high trees. As we
drove we saw no one, not even a house, just wide open fields and, beyond, the Essex marshes sparkling in the sun. I began to imagine what it must be like to live out here, somewhere so remote and breathtakingly beautiful.

At the roadside another small sign, with peeling paint and barely legible letters, informed us that we had arrived in Borley. Someone, probably a youth, had attempted to add the word ‘haunted’. But there was nothing to see at first, only a solitary church spire reaching out of a cluster of trees. The road ahead veered to the right and brought us to a clearing. I stopped the car and we all climbed out. ‘Well, this is the place,’ said Wall.

To my right I saw Borley church, a small, pretty twelfth-century building approached by a narrow path and surrounded on all sides by crumbling gravestones, clipped yews and mature chestnut trees. In front of us a crooked centuries-old building was identified by a plaque on its side as the Tithe Barn. But there was little else beyond the three small cottages visible further down the road.

Just the Rectory.

*

Borley Rectory was the perfect manifestation of a haunted house. Standing in the shadow of tall cedars, the place had a decayed and neglected air and was startlingly large. Its windows – I counted twelve on one wall alone – were narrow and covered with iron bars, giving the impression of a prison or asylum.
¹

The immediate area, from the quiet lane that ran from the spot where we now stood to the little churchyard on the opposite side of the road, had an air of utter isolation. I had never been anywhere that felt so remote. As I glanced around, taking in the sweeping views of the countryside, I felt oddly calmed by the
quietness – the complete absence of any noise, not even a singing bird – and thought it peculiar that anyone could come here and feel afraid. What was there to fear? Surely nothing as mundane as a foreboding red-brick house and a neglected garden.

Only Wall seemed uneasy, his eyes darting this way and that. I moved to his side and said gently, ‘Are you all right?’

He shot me a defensive look. ‘Yes, Miss Grey. Quite all right, thank you.’ And then he added, rather quietly, ‘Listen, are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I glanced back at Price. ‘He hasn’t been well recently. This is good for him.’

‘Very well. This is where the mysterious light appeared the other night.’ He pointed to a window in the centre of the house, immediately above the glass verandah that opened on to the wide garden. ‘And down there’ – pointing to a path in the tangled garden – ‘is the summerhouse, where the family that lived here before used to watch for the nun.’

‘Have a look at this!’ Price interjected. He was pointing to the wall immediately to the left of the Rectory’s turreted entrance. ‘The stonework here seems oddly discoloured.’ He ran his hands over the area. ‘Yes, I do believe these are new bricks. There was a window here once. It’s been bricked up.’

‘Perhaps because of the window tax?’ I suggested.

‘No, I don’t think so. The window tax was a long, long time before this building.’ His eyes roamed the high walls of the house. ‘And there are a great many windows – more than twenty, I would say. Why brick up just this one? It’s curious because—’

‘Good afternoon!’

The sudden interruption caused us all to turn around. A kindly looking bespectacled man wearing a shirt and cardigan was emerging from the Rectory’s open front door. ‘Hello again,
Vernon. Glad you could come. Ah now, and this must be the enigmatic Harry Price. I have read about your exploits, sir, of course. An honour to meet you.’

The two men shook hands as Price apologised for our lateness, gesturing towards the saloon which I had parked at the end of the gravel driveway. For such a grand vehicle, the tyres looked woefully small. ‘You see, it’s this infernal contraption of Miss Grey’s here!’

Ignoring the remark, I extended a warm handshake to the rector. He was a portly man with an open, friendly face, his dark skin confirming his Indian descent. ‘What a beautiful plot you have here,’ I said, ‘tucked away behind these trees, away from the road. So perfectly private and quiet.’

‘You think so?’ There followed a brief silence before the rector turned to Price and said, ‘You found Borley without too much trouble, I trust?’

‘I rather think this place has found me, sir. Strange events and places have a habit of doing so.’

‘Yes, I have heard as much. I have read a great deal about your work in London, Mr Price, and I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you are here. The house is peaceful now, but these last few days have been rather … unsettling for my wife and me.’

Price raised his eyebrows at this. ‘You’re referring to the hauntings, I assume?’

‘We prefer to regard them as highly inconvenient disturbances, Mr Price. I’m not certain that I believe in … well …’ He looked embarrassed.

‘I understand entirely,’ said Price, giving the rector a reassuring smile. ‘Ghouls are for the gullible!’

‘Indeed! And believe me, before coming here we did not pay very much attention to the stories about this house. We
didn’t for a moment think there could be any hint of truth to them.’

Price leaned forward. ‘
Is
there truth to them?’

‘I think you had all better come inside,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘I’m afraid what you have heard so far is only the beginning of the story.’

Note

1
The Rectory seems to have left an unfavourable impression on anyone who visited it. William Crocker, lawyer for the insurance company which covered the building, described it as being ‘as ugly as the bad taste of 1863 could make it’.

‘I am engaged in investigating one of the most extraordinary cases of poltergeist disturbance and alleged haunting that has come under my notice for years.’

– Harry Price,
Journal of the American Society for Psychical Research
, August 1929, pp. 435–36

We had enjoyed a good lunch of ham and potatoes accompanied by a fine wine and were now sitting in the spacious dining room among the slanting shadows cast by the grimy French windows. As the conversation flowed and coffee was poured, I tried to imagine this part of the house as it had once been: elegant and well-furnished, a place of comfort where the Bull family would have taken breakfast, dined and entertained. But I could not. There was only a sad, neglected air, the same that I had noticed in the dark hallway on our arrival and remarked upon to our delightful journalist friend.

I wanted to be outside in the glorious sunshine, but having heard from our hosts of their life in India before moving to these shores, the conversation was now turning to darker matters and I knew that we would be sitting here a while longer.

‘Rudi Schneider? I regret I haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet the man,’ said Price, answering the question put to him by the rector. ‘Although I confess I would very much like to.’

Reverend Smith nodded. His character and faith inspired confidence; but although he was welcoming and friendly, I thought I detected a slight wariness in his eyes. ‘My wife and I have read
in the newspapers that Mr Schneider is a very respectable and talented young man, a medium of some promise.’

I couldn’t tell whether he was hoping for a positive response or not.

Mabel Smith, who was sitting next to her husband, reached for his hand. Like him, she struck me as sensible, intelligent and articulate, and her gracious nature was evident in her efforts to make us feel at ease. She must have been no more than thirty-five, but the Rectory seemed to have aged her prematurely and she struggled to disguise her agitation.

‘You see, Mr Price,’ she began, ‘when we discovered that Sir Conan Doyle himself was convinced of this man’s abilities … well, naturally we questioned ourselves about the goings-on in this house.’

‘Sir Conan Doyle is convinced of many things,’ said Price with a smile, ‘but that doesn’t make them true. Reverend Smith, Mrs Smith – like you, we have heard much of Mr Schneider’s purported abilities and I am confident we will come upon the truth very shortly. I have invited him to my rooms in London later this year, and I hope to judge for myself.’

Reverend Smith was looking at Price with an expression of deep professional interest. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you are an intensely active man, Mr Price – so very enthusiastic.’

Price smiled, clearly warmed by the flattery.

‘You understand, sir, that Mr Price is a sceptic,’ interjected Wall.

The rector searched my employer’s face. ‘Is this true, Mr Price? You do not believe?’

‘I am intensely sceptical, yes, but scrupulously impartial, I assure you.’

Reverend Smith raised his chin with interest. ‘Tell me, are you a religious man?’

‘Certainly, I am a Christian.’

‘Indeed?’

‘You sound surprised, sir.’

‘I am a little.’

‘Why ever so?’ asked Price.

‘Spirit entities, communication with the dead – these aren’t subjects that sit well with Christian teachings, are they?’

Price shrugged. ‘I believe that both this world and the next are centred in God. I believe in Jesus Christ.’

Reverend Smith was frowning now, concerned for the implications of these phenomena on his faith. ‘Yes but, philosophically, how can a Christian such as you deny the existence of spirits and the supernatural power of mediums like Mr Schneider? One could argue that the soul, being immortal, naturally survives, surely?’

‘What I question is whether that soul can return to earth and demonstrate its power.’