The Ghost Hunters (20 page)

‘He’s full of contradictions,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘but that makes for an exciting job.’

‘But is he, I wonder, a
good
man. A noble man. Please, I mean
no offence, Miss Grey, but in my career I am trained to see every angle of a story. And in Mr Price, well …’

‘What?’ I urged.

‘I fear he has many dark corners. And to be entirely honest, I can’t help but wonder how anybody who is as thoughtful and as sensitive as you can tolerate spending so much time with someone who is as short-tempered, irascible and restless as Mr Price. One never knows what he’s about to say or do next! I’ve met people like him before, and they all have one thing in common: they become blind to the consequences of their own actions.’ He looked sharply across at me through the dust and the darkness. ‘As others become blinded too.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘It’s not necessarily
him
I don’t like,’ he said slowly.

‘Then what?’

‘It’s the way he speaks to you, the way he put you down in front of me – a stranger – like he did the other day in your office, and just now outside the cellar. In parts of east London they say that the Midnight Inquirer is a gentleman.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But to be frank, I see little evidence of that. He has an enlivened sensitivity to any matter that directly benefits him.’

I smiled my appreciation to be polite, but in truth I had no wish for Price and myself to be analysed in this way. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr Wall, but—’

‘But why?’ he interrupted. ‘Why do you put up with it? Don’t you see it? Or do you pretend
not
to see it?’

I pondered this for a moment before a memory of something I had witnessed just a few weeks before at the Laboratory came to me: a touching exchange of letters between Price and someone to whom he had extended a wonderful kindness. ‘You shouldn’t
rush to judgement,’ I said. ‘I have seen his better side, his generosity, his modesty.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘Some weeks ago we received a letter from a Mrs Helen Bobby, who had written to Price thanking him for his work and his books which her daughter, Joan, was fascinated by. Poor Joan was terribly unwell and in hospital in Germany, so the books made a wonderful distraction. I wasn’t going to show the letter to Price – he had enough on his plate handling the demands of the Spiritualists – but when he saw me writing out a thank-you note he asked me more about the matter.’

‘And you told him?’

‘I did. I assumed that would be the end of it.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, Harry did everything he could to help, of course. Joan Bobby wanted nothing more than flowers and fruit and someone to talk to, but he continued to write and to send copies of his books and articles. Oh Vernon, they were such beautiful letters, about art and birds and the country! It was as if he was reading her thoughts.

‘Then news came that Joan was going to die. Harry was propelled into action, convinced he could help. He wrote letter after letter to the family insisting they accept his help – he even offered to fly out the best surgeon in London to treat her. But of course there was no one who could help, not even Harry.’

‘Such passionate concern for a stranger?’ The young journalist was clearly struggling with the concept. ‘It’s as though he can’t have real relationships, so he conducts them anonymously by letter.’

‘The possibility of altruism isn’t just a possibility, Vernon, it’s
very real. I know because I have seen it in him. His friendship with Joan was something unique – beautiful.’

‘And you envy that?’

‘I do, in a small way, because I have had to work hard at getting it right.’

‘You’re still working hard at it.’ His voice, his eyes, his smile – the kindness in each was sincere.

‘Sarah, friendships, relationships – the ones that matter, the ones that last – they’re not supposed to be difficult.’

‘Yes, they are,’ I said simply. ‘Whatever we fight for, in the end, we value the most.’ I looked straight at him then and said politely, ‘Harry needs assistance. Yours and mine. Every day throws up new challenges. Spiritualists like Conan Doyle are baying for his blood. His nerves are so highly strung and his brain is so agile it’s always two jumps ahead of him. He never stops working. If he did, his thoughts would be free to wander; he’d have to face the way life is, not how he wants it to be. I don’t tolerate any nonsense, Mr Wall – I speak my mind. But Harry needs me and I see good in him.’

‘And you … what do you need, Miss Grey?’

‘Excuse me?’

He took my hand with warm affection. ‘Sarah, please do me this favour,’ he said slowly. ‘Please remember that there are always choices, and always people who care who will help you make those choices. Remember that for every moment in your life that passes, there is always another that might have been.’

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’

He stared at me intently. ‘Don’t waste your life living his. That’s all.’

I blinked and for a few short moments said nothing at all. It
was as if someone had placed a mirror before me and was forcing me to stare at a reflection I had no desire to see.

I can admit now that my feelings for Price went beyond those of a secretary for her employer and they were more than platonic, but up to that point I had denied myself any conscious recognition of this frailty. The realisation caused my heart to quicken and I felt suddenly wary of Mr Wall and whatever else he was about to say. And as I stared into his handsome face, inwardly deciphering his expression, it struck me that, apart from Price, I had never felt so intrigued by a man. Before Wall could speak again the front door banged open and he let go of my hand. Relieved, I allowed it to drop to my side.

‘It’s really clouded over out there,’ I heard Price say as he approached, ‘and the wind is picking up. It’s muggy. I think there’s a storm coming.’ He dropped the substantial suitcase he had retrieved from the saloon at his feet, then stooped down and peered in at us under the stairs. ‘Now then, you two, how are we getting on down here?’

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Wall. ‘Mr Price – whatever are you wearing on your feet? Why, they look like slippers!’

And his shoes weren’t the only aspect of Price’s attire to have changed. A long black coat, which fell to his ankles, now concealed most of his favourite tweed suit and the pockets looked stuffed full.

‘Mr Wall, your talents in observation are really something to behold, I must say,’ said Price. ‘Of course they’re slippers – essential accessories for creeping about in big old houses like this one! Young man, take off your shoes. You too, Sarah. Can’t have you both clumping around this house making suspicious noises.’

Once we had come out from under the stairs we dutifully removed our shoes, Wall lending me his arm for support. As he
did so, the journalist’s gaze fell upon the suitcase at Price’s feet. ‘I say, what have you got in there?’

‘My ghost-hunter’s toolbox,’ said Price proudly as he flipped open the lid. ‘I have packed everything we will need for our little adventure tonight.’

I was actually the one who had packed the case, but I decided this wasn’t the appropriate moment to make the point.

‘Steel screw eyes, fine thread and adhesive surgical tape. I’ll use this to seal up the windows and doors – anything on a hinge.’

Wall nodded. ‘And what’s that?’

‘A bowl of mercury.’

‘Why do we need that?’

‘Why do you think? For detecting tremors in rooms or passages. I can make silent electrical mercury switches too.’

‘Of course,’ said Wall. ‘How silly of me. And this?’ He pointed to a small leather case.

‘Cinematograph camera with remote electrical control, and films. And next to it, a packet of graphite and a soft brush for developing fingerprints.’ His speech was rapid now. ‘Mr Wall, you might wish to record the details of these items for your next article. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, of course, but I really think such detail would give your readers a richer insight into the practical techniques of the ghost hunter.’

‘Do you indeed?’

‘Yes,’ Price insisted, ‘I do. And because I’m usually correct, you would be well advised to listen to me. Now then, what have we got here?’ He delved into the depths of his bulging pockets before producing several items: a ball of string, a stick of chalk, matches, a torch and candle, wires, nails, electric flex, dry batteries and switches, pencils, bandages, even a hairbrush – the oddest item of all, given that Price was bald! ‘See here, Vernon
– a steel tape for measuring the rooms and corridors and calculating the thickness of walls. If there is a hiding place or secret compartment anywhere, I expect us to find it.’ He peered under the stairs, his eyes wide with fascination. ‘Now then, what about under here? Did you find anything while you were poking around?’

Of course we had found nothing suspicious under the stairs, and I quickly told him so, though I felt my cheeks flush as I spoke.

‘Then we shall progress to the attic,’ Price replied, giving me a searching look. ‘Plenty of room for someone to hide up there, I’m sure!’

‘Righty-ho,’ said Wall with unconvincing cheer. ‘Lead on, Mr Price!’

He did.

And I followed.

Note

1
In April 1942, Reverend Alfred Henning, the then rector of Borley, wrote to Harry Price relating the peculiar way in which objects had been displaced in Borley church after the building had been locked up: ‘I thought you might be interested to know of … matters connected with Borley Rectory. The first is the sanctuary lamp, which is kept burning near the Tabernacle on the altar, where the Sacrament is reserved. Mrs Pearson looks after this, lighting the small wick each morning and putting it out at night. For about a fortnight the wick was frequently moved. She told me this, and I suggested putting a book or cover over the lamp glass. She put a psalter over it, after putting the light out, and then locked up for the night. She was very surprised the next morning to find the book on the floor, especially as both doors were locked and no one could possibly have got in during the night. She next put a book-cover over the lamp, and this was removed on two occasions’ (
The End of Borley Rectory
, p.78).

If I had known that our excursion to Borley Rectory would require me to dress in unflattering overalls and crawl through cobwebs and grime along the joists under the eaves of the rambling house, I might have thought twice about going in the first place, but of course with ghost hunting anything can happen and mostly never does.

We were up in the attic inspecting the bell wires, the light from Price’s torch throwing shadows across the rafters. Up ahead of me, Mr Wall was saying something about how annoyed he would be if Mrs Smith published any account of the Rectory’s alleged macabre history, and I was sure Price felt the same, for both men had a vested interest in making the story of the Rectory their own, and each would have their own particular versions of the tale. But my mind was on other matters, in particular Wall’s stirring words to me. Their meaning was clear: he was interested in me in a way that went beyond professional regard, and he had forced me to see myself properly for the first time in my life.

Was I to resent him or thank him? In truth I wanted to do both, for I was now preoccupied with the very same question
that had invoked Wall’s emotional confrontation downstairs: why was I so irresistibly drawn to Price? Why was I now thinking not about the peculiar mysteries of Borley Rectory but about my employer and where he would be sleeping that night? And where I would be sleeping.

As we had yet to find anything of much interest in the attic, I was about to suggest we go downstairs when I heard Price announce excitedly that he had discovered something. Scrambling up next to him, I watched as he shone his torch on to one of the rafters. ‘There’s something written here.’ I duly recorded the faint inscription in my notepad:
Bells hung by S. Cracknell and Mercur, 1863
.

‘This confirms it,’ said Price. ‘The Rectory has stood for only sixty-six years.’

‘Surely haunted houses are far older than that,’ I remarked.

Price smiled. ‘Precisely, Sarah. You would think so, wouldn’t you? Now then, move back and watch out for any bats.’

We made our way cautiously out of the attic, sealing the entrance behind us, before continuing down to the first floor of the house. Here everything was unnaturally quiet and permeated by a frigid air that reached along the corridors, filling every corner of the vault-like rooms, the chill and the bleak bedrooms inspiring little confidence in the possibility of a peaceful night’s sleep. Everywhere about us were the scents and sights of neglect with damp patches blackening the walls and broken furniture lying about like firewood. I wondered how any house that was occupied could possibly feel so abandoned. No wonder so many rectors had refused to live here.

When we had examined the fireplaces and chimneys in all of the ten rooms on the first floor we came, finally, to the Blue Room at the top of the main staircase – the source of
the house’s most disturbing influences. But before we could even enter the room, Price came to a sudden standstill and motioned at us to halt.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

He remained quite still for long seconds before his fingers gradually came to life, gently caressing the air as if testing its quality or temperature. Then he said, ‘I fancy it is much colder in this spot. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘I wasn’t addressing you, Sarah.’ He turned his challenging gaze on Wall. ‘I was talking to you.’

The growing tension between the two men was making me anxious, but Wall, who gave Price a disarmingly cheerful smile, seemed perfectly relaxed. ‘You’re the expert, sir – you tell me. Or consult one of your many instruments.’

Price stared. ‘You find my methods disagreeable, sir?’

I kept my gaze on the young man as he stepped forward, his chin raised against my employer. ‘Your scientific instruments are attuned to the physical world, Mr Price. Physical, not spiritual. Why assume they should be any use at all in detecting corporeal presences? By your logic, I might as well hunt for a shark in the desert!’