The Ghost Hunters (18 page)

‘Oh, but there
is
more,’ said Reverend Smith, a touch desperately, I thought. ‘I have witnessed an apparition: the tall, dark figure of a man which appeared in one of the passageways on the
ground floor. And once, late one night outside the Blue Room, I heard a woman’s voice cry out, “Don’t, Carlos – don’t!” And then, of course, there is the matter of the nun.’

I leaned forward: at last, the centrepiece of the drama.

‘As long as there has been a house on this site she has been seen – the solitary figure of a nun, telling her beads and pacing the garden, down towards the stream.’

Wall raised his eyebrows. Price smiled softly and said, ‘I don’t believe it. If there was such a thing then surely by now someone would have proof of the apparition – a photograph perhaps?’

Reverend Smith fixed him with an unwavering stare. ‘I cannot blame you for being sceptical. We did not believe it either.’ He paused then, pondering the matter as he leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers lightly on the dining-room table. Perhaps, I thought, he is not the sceptic he claimed to be. ‘But consider the facts: since 1863 the spectre has been seen by three successive rectors and their wives and families. Ethel and Freda were the first, the sisters of the late Harry Bull. They saw the dark figure of a holy sister crossing the garden in the summer of the year 1900, in the plain light of day.’

‘And don’t forget what Mr Chipp said in his letter,’ I broke in, addressing Price. ‘Harry, you can’t deny it. He mentioned a nun. And he was here, in this same house, decades ago!’

‘Well then, perhaps it was a woman,’ Price suggested. ‘Someone in fancy dress. A
living
woman!’

‘No, sir,’ said Mrs Smith, shaking her head. ‘The apparition vanished into thin air right in front of the Bull sisters. You understand, the whole Bull family was fascinated by ghosts. The church organist tells us that Harry Bull spoke about the happenings often, as if they were normal to him. There was no doubt in the old rector’s mind that the phenomena were real.
We have heard that Mr Bull was a pragmatic man, not given to flights of fancy. Yet apparently he once distinctly heard knocking outside the church, starting from the south side and continuing the whole way round the building.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, remembering yet more details from the letter in Price’s Laboratory. ‘Harry, the story tallies.’

‘It is said that he locked the church one night only to find that the nun had followed him back to the house. Afterwards, it became his custom to watch for the apparition at dusk, from the summerhouse.’

‘And the Bull sisters – they stick to their story, do they?’ asked Price.

‘Yes, indeed they do. They have pointed out to me themselves the area of the garden where the nun first walked. They accepted that as plain fact. And they are very down-to-earth, practical women.’

‘And what about you, Mrs Smith?’ said Price. ‘Have you seen this mythical nun?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Nor I,’ said Reverend Smith, taking his wife’s hand. ‘But the maid, Mary, has. I can only hope that we do not suffer the same misfortune. There is a bad air about this house; I believe that whatever awful events once happened here have left their mark in more ways than one. You see, over there …’ He gestured to the wall opposite and we all turned to look. ‘There was a large window there once, but it was bricked up.’

‘Yes, we did wonder about that outside,’ said Price. ‘Well, to be more specific, I wondered about it. I’m not sure Mr Wall here even noticed.’

Wall resented this comment, his eyes telling me so in a furtive
glance across the table. I looked away immediately and returned my attention to the rector.

‘Legend records that the Dark Woman would appear at that window and peer in through the glass as the Bull family took their meals in here. So regular were her visits that Mr Bull decided the only course of action was to remove the window. As you can see, he did so.’

‘Now, that is an entertaining story,’ Price said lightly. He leaned back in his chair, arched his fingertips together and sat like this for some time, frowning as he stared through the dirty French windows out to the garden beyond.

Listening to this tale of a spectral holy sister, I couldn’t help but think of my old school in Pimlico, St Mary’s – and its nuns. They walked quickly and quietly, but we always heard them coming. It was the rustling of their habits and the clink of the rosary beads which hung from their waists which warned of their arrival. Those women were remote and severe – incapable, I believed, of enjoying a close relationship with anyone at all.

One nun in particular frightened me: Sister Regis, a towering, gaunt woman with hunched shoulders, a fierce grey face and eyes that hinted at suppressed resentment. By the time she advanced into the classroom you had already prepared yourself for the sound of chalk striking and scraping at the blackboard, or for the way her searching gaze would find you and attack with the possibility of punishment.

If she asked you a question, then you made sure you knew the answer.

The rector’s wife said suddenly, ‘Mr Price, whatever these forces might be, wherever they come from, I have the strongest feeling that they resent us living in this house.’

‘I doubt that very much, Mrs Smith,’ Price said evenly. ‘This is
a very large house, isn’t it? Have you counted the rooms?’

‘I think there are twenty-eight. We are strict in ensuring they are always kept locked. The place is too draughty for us to bother with all of it.’

Price nodded. ‘I hardly need remind you that in rambling old country houses like this, the slightest disturbances can play havoc with the imagination. Most of the troubling sounds you have described might be caused by any number of things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Normal sources,’ said Price. ‘Rats, wood shrinking, birds in the chimney stack or between double walls, or the wind perhaps. In the spring I’ll wager that the north-east wind must sweep right down the Stour Valley. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.’

‘Can you be sure of that?’ Wall challenged him. ‘You speak of simplicity as if it means the same thing to different people. What if the forces in this house are beyond our understanding, Mr Price? Intelligent forces.’

‘People are intelligent,’ Price replied, looking not at Wall but at the rector. ‘And don’t forget, there are the locals. Perhaps the culprit is someone from the village out to cause mischief – a dissatisfied member of your congregation maybe? Someone who wishes to drive you away from this place.’ He nodded, warming to his own hypothesis. ‘Yes, that’s possible, isn’t it? Why, anyone could be hiding in a house this size!’

But Reverend Smith was shaking his head in disagreement. ‘I find that idea most implausible. You can hear now, Mr Price, the Rectory is quiet. I know it is empty.’

‘Houses may be quiet, sir. It does not mean that they are empty.’

‘But surely we would have seen the intruders by now? As
we have told you, most of the rooms are inaccessible and kept locked.’

Price looked blank, and then demanded, ‘How many staircases are there?’

‘Three: the main one in the hall, the service stairs and another for the staff at the back of the kitchen passage.’

‘I see. And any attics or cellars?’

‘We have both.’

‘Excellent!’ Price cried. ‘Then that’s where we’ll begin. I find cellars to be such curious places, don’t you? Full of interesting odds and ends – there’s no telling what might turn up in a cellar.’

Mr Smith looked at his wife uncertainly. ‘Er … yes. What are you proposing, Mr Price?’

‘That we seal them up. We’ll seal them all up, every single entrance or possible hiding place. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with.’

‘Mr Price, wait a moment …’

‘My dear people,’ Price continued, quickening his speech, ‘the scenario you have just described is fascinating – no, it’s more than fascinating, it’s
incredible
 – and there’s the problem! It is far more likely that there is a natural explanation for all of the events you have described.’ He smiled at the rector. ‘I do not think you need fear for your faith.’

‘I appreciate your reassurance, Mr Price, but—’

Already Price had sprung to his feet and was striding now to the French windows overlooking the lawn. As he opened them wide what remained of the afternoon sun streamed into the dining room. He turned to face us all, his broad form starkly outlined against the daylight beyond. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ he announced. ‘First, Sarah and I will conduct a meticu
lous examination of the Rectory, the courtyard, the schoolroom and bedrooms – every passageway, every staircase. Above and below we will go, up into the attics and down into the cellars, behind pictures and under carpets. All doors will be sealed, all entrances blocked. No one comes in and no one leaves. From this moment on, the Rectory is in lockdown.’

‘And then?’ asked Wall.

Price’s eyes glistened. ‘We wait.’

‘For what?’

‘For whatever might happen,’ he said with a grin, his eyes now wide and bright. ‘But you may rest assured, if there is anyone concealed in this house I will find the intruder, and one way or the other we will come upon the truth.’

He marched towards the main hallway, crying out as he passed Wall, ‘What are you waiting for, man? Come along, come along!’

I felt sorry for the journalist as he seemed startled by Price’s sudden and forthright attempts to dominate the proceedings, but he rose obediently from his chair and I did the same.

‘All right, Sarah?’ asked Price cheerfully.

I nodded at him and followed the two men as they headed into the hallway, feeling within me the first stirrings of excitement for the exploration ahead.

Note

1
The second of V. C. Wall’s articles in the
Daily Mirror
, 11 June 1929.

We were standing in the central hallway. A more dispiriting atmosphere could hardly be imagined: an unpleasant, musky odour pervaded the air, the walls were covered with dirty oak panelling, and the sky visible through the arched window above the stairs was streaked with brooding clouds. But there was at least one redeeming feature: a wide and intricately carved wooden staircase that dominated the hall and pulled the gaze up to the first floor, where the infamous ‘haunted bedroom’ awaited our inspection.

‘There are ten rooms on the ground floor alone,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘The living room, dining room, library, kitchen, scullery—’

‘Where’s the entrance to the cellar?’ Price broke in abruptly.

‘Down there, by the kitchen,’ said the rector, pointing to a dark passageway that stretched to the back of the house. ‘The cellars are vast though, Mr Price. Must you go down?’

‘We have no choice. Most likely they’re full of rats and mice – the cause, I have no doubt, of your unusual noises.’

Vernon Wall looked embarrassed and the rector seemed less than impressed with the idea that his house was infested with
rodents, but when he saw Price’s cynical glower he nodded his agreement, sighed and asked us to follow him. We did so, passing down a narrow lamp-lit corridor where the windows were barred with iron. ‘These bars were fitted, we’re told, during the Bull residency to keep burglars out, and to keep maids from slipping out into the night when they should have been in bed.’

‘And to prevent gentlemen callers from getting in, I imagine,’ said Price.

‘I’m afraid there is very little in this house that actually works,’ explained Reverend Smith as he led the way. ‘We have no running water, no electricity and no heating.’

No wonder Mrs Smith had been unwell. I tried to imagine what a dismal place the Rectory must be during the depths of winter: they would heat only the living rooms and bedrooms to conserve coal, and would use icy water from the well outside for washing. The thought gave me the shivers.

‘These are the servant bells you mentioned?’ asked Price, stopping under a row of bells suspended on wires that ran above our heads. ‘The ones that ring apparently of their own volition?’

The rector nodded.

‘How do they work, exactly?’ asked Wall.

Price gave him a scathing look for his ignorance. ‘The invention of a non-electrical internal bell system was first advertised – I think I am correct in saying – in London in 1744, as an invention that would enhance privacy. What we have here is a more up-to-date example. With this bell system, servants didn’t need to be an unwelcome presence in the main rooms of the house. They were simply called up from the kitchen level as and when the need arose.’ He smiled. ‘I imagine the Bulls had endured quite enough unwelcome presences in this house. But wait …’
He leaned closer to the bells, his eyes narrowing, his mouth dropping slightly open.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘These wires have been cut.’

‘Indeed,’ said the rector, ‘I cut them myself; I had to. When they all ring at the same time they make the most infernal racket.’

What surprised me most about this statement was the matter-of-fact way in which it was uttered, as if it were the most normal thing in the world that more than twenty bells, disconnected from their wires and touched by no one should ring of their own accord.

‘I do believe you are serious.’

Reverend Smith nodded. ‘I’ve never been more serious, Mr Price.’

Ringing bells. Any sober and rational adult should have laughed at this, but for some reason none of us did.

We stopped at a small wooden door which was beginning to rot. The thought of descending into the bowels of the house filled me with dread, for I have always hated dark and enclosed spaces. I said so then, but Price insisted I follow him down to take notes.

‘Watch your step,’ said the rector with some kindness as he handed each of us an electric torch, which he had taken from hooks on the wall. ‘It could be slippery.’

He pushed the door and it creaked slowly open.

*

I peered into the gloom in fearful expectation, and shuddered. It was pitch black below and the air that crept up to greet us was thick with the odour of damp. The staircase leading down was half-rotten with age, and as I stepped forward my foot snagged
on a piece of the structure that had come loose. I stumbled, almost fell and cried out. Suddenly, to my relief, Vernon Wall was beside me. I melted into his embrace as he said gently, ‘Here, Sarah, let me help you.’ Then he stepped in front, guiding my way, his hand wrapped tightly around mine. It was a sweet gesture, but I did not dwell on it for long, my attention now focused on scouring the darkness for any recognisable objects.