The Ghost Hunters (21 page)

Price looked down at the floor. ‘A loose board perhaps,’ he said quietly, almost to himself, ‘allowing cold air to enter from somewhere else. By my estimation this spot is almost immediately above the area we inspected in the cellar.’

At that moment the Reverend Smith appeared on the main staircase. ‘Ah, so you’ve found where you’ll be sleeping this evening, Mr Price? I took the liberty of asking the maid to make the room up for you earlier.’ The rector looked at me and smiled. ‘Your room, Miss Grey, is just a few doors down the corridor. I
hope you don’t mind but I hung some holy pictures on the walls and prayed to God to send His angels to watch over you tonight.’

I was greatly relieved that the room that was allegedly the source of so many supernormal happenings had not been reserved for me, and thanked the rector for his kindness.

‘No prayers for me then?’ Price muttered under his breath.

Reverend Smith gave a half smile. ‘Ah yes, your room. Let me show you, Mr Price.’

I hated the Blue Room from the moment we entered it. The space had a disturbing atmosphere, as though it had witnessed the worst domestic horrors. In my notepad I sketched its layout, noting its contents: a dressing table with a tilting mirror, a wardrobe, an armchair, a washstand, a single bed and a large marble fireplace on whose mantelpiece stood two red glass candlesticks. As I paced around the perimeter of the room the flinty gaze of the late rector, the Reverend Harry Bull, followed my every move from the enormous oil painting above the mantelpiece. The man in the picture had occupied this Rectory for nigh on sixty years and his father before him and, like his father, he had died in this very bedroom. How the Bull family must have loved Borley to have remained here for so long in a rectory they had not only designed and built but extended on two separate occasions! I was sure that this house had once been loved. How sad then that it should have fallen into such neglect, a shadow of its former self, consumed by time and the elements.

Reverend Smith was showing Price the window. ‘It is here that the mysterious light has appeared.’

Price scrutinised the black glass, and when he was satisfied that there had been no interference with the window frame he crossed to the far end of the room and knocked on the wall here and there, checking for concealed compartments.

‘Wait a moment,’ Wall said suddenly, his voice low. ‘Can you smell something?’

I couldn’t smell anything, but Price was nodding insistently. ‘Yes. It’s very faint, but I do believe that’s the scent of lavender.’

Odd that he should say so, for I had not seen any flowers in the room.

‘And look,’ he continued, bending down to retrieve an object from the floor.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘A mothball.’ He turned to the rector. ‘Did you bring these into the house?’

Shaking his head, Reverend Smith said with a sigh, ‘We did not. This isn’t the first time they have appeared either; these, and little scraps of paper. I’m afraid it’s just another of this house’s many mysteries.’ Then his mood lightened, and he invited us downstairs for some supper.

Before leaving, Price asked us all to wait while he secured the room by stretching fine lengths of thread across the door, knotting them and securing both ends. It was wonderful to see him working again with the same infectious passion I had observed when we first met, three years previously. I wondered whether this improved mood of his was sustainable. So much had happened since that January evening in 1926. We had learned to trust one another and a bond had formed between us (though it was, I suspect, stronger on my part than his). He was no longer solitary; he didn’t need to be, for when the critics attacked, I was there. In his blackest moments, it was I who consoled him. And notwithstanding the jealous warnings I had received from Wall, I was adamant I would to continue to do so. Vernon Wall might have disapproved, but if Price fell, I would be there to catch him.
As Price was securing the door to the Blue Room, Wall observed the process with the keenest attention. As a journalist it was his duty to ask questions, so perhaps I ought not to have been surprised by the curiosity he had exhibited since our arrival at the Rectory. But it was the nature of his questions, and the way he asked them as we had explored the house, that had drawn my attention. Wherever Price went, Wall followed, all the time firing questions at him, taking notes and watching him with the same careful scrutiny my employer applied to dubious mediums.

Beneath the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock our group assembled in the dining room where we sat again at the table. It was darker now than before, the only light coming from glowing candlesticks above the grotesque fireplace and a paraffin lamp in the middle of the table.

Looking very much intrigued, Reverend Smith leaned forward and addressed Price. ‘Well then, sir, your inspection of the house has been most thorough. Please tell me you have reached some conclusions?’

Price lit his pipe and said evenly, ‘I am happy to confirm that your suspicions were correct: there are no intruders in your home, no prowler playing tricks on you. I have discovered nothing that leads me to that supposition.’

‘Then the matter is settled,’ said Wall with triumph. ‘The place is haunted.’

‘If I believed that,’ said Price, ‘then by now I would have summoned the rest of Fleet Street to the door!’ He laughed gently, as I wondered if he were serious. ‘No, no. Although the Rectory is fairly new, it is extremely rundown, with loose floorboards everywhere and rotting window frames wherever I look. All of these faults cause draughts, chills and light breezes. And like every country house, the place creaks and groans. All perfectly
natural. It’s the villagers’ fertile imaginations and the legends of Borley that make the place feel eerie.’

‘Ah,’ said Wall, ‘so you admit the house
does
feel uncomfortable.’

Price smiled. ‘I always feel uncomfortable in the company of rodents.’
¹

‘All right then; what about the voices in the passages?’ Wall demanded.

‘Echoes rebounding from the courtyard walls, I should think. The lane outside runs almost immediately adjacent to the property.’

‘And the scent of lavender in the bedrooms?’

‘Simple! On our journey here we passed a turning for Stafford Allen, the largest lavender factory in the country. It’s just across the valley, two miles away, in Long Melford.’

‘Mr Price, your habit for debunking is unceasingly agitating,’ said Wall. ‘Explain to us, if you can, the globe of light that Mrs and Mrs Smith and I as well as countless locals observed in the window of the room upstairs.’

‘Reflections from lights inside the Rectory, from the landing over the kitchen, or indeed from outside.’

And there it was. The simplest, most obvious explanation, yet only Price had deduced it. There was a cottage adjoining the Rectory and beyond this a farm, with a block of piggeries and farm buildings. It was quite possible that the mysterious light in the window of the ‘haunted bedroom’ was in fact the reflection of duplex lamps carried outside by the cottage’s tenants after dark when drawing water from the well.

But Mr Wall, who sat opposite Price, protested loudly: ‘How can you proclaim so conclusively on happenings you haven’t even witnessed, Mr Price? I suggest that you—’

‘Look!’ the rector cut in. And as I tracked his amazed gaze, alarm rose within me.

*

The pepper pot, which stood on the table before us, was trembling. I had never seen anything so peculiar. And as if this were not enough to startle us, a glass of white wine that had been poured for Price just minutes earlier turned an inky black.

‘Good God,’ said Reverend Smith. He quickly made the sign of the cross.

All of us but Price got up sharply and backed away from the table, our eyes fixed firmly on the pepper pot. It shot along the table and stopped at the opposite end, immediately in front of Mr Wall. He jumped back, startled. ‘There! You see now, Mr Price!’ he cried. ‘These things
do
happen.’

For a few baffling seconds no one said anything. Only Price remained calm, sitting motionless and smiling. ‘I see very well indeed, Mr Wall – and so hopefully do you – how easy it is to be fooled by the trickery of man. As Sarah will verify, I am trained in the ways of conjuring. You approve of my abilities?’

I still don’t know how the trick was accomplished, but nevertheless it was wonderful to watch. Wall looked angrily at Price when he realised he had been fooled, but the others, myself included, relaxed and saw the humorous side.

‘So you see,’ Price continued, ‘all of the goings-on in this Rectory can be achieved by a clever man – or woman.’

‘Like yourself?’ Wall asked pointedly.

‘Indeed,’ said Price. ‘Now, after dinner I suggest that you and I, Mr Wall, keep watch from the summerhouse in the garden for this legendary nun. After that we can retire to bed and put this little business to rest.’

‘Agreed,’ said Wall as he resumed his place at the table, still
glowering at Price. ‘But aren’t you going to tell us how you did it? Your little trick? Invisible thread, I suppose? Or magnets?’

But it was clear from Price’s hardened expression that he had no intention of disclosing how his trick was accomplished.

I thought Wall was about to say something else when suddenly Reverend Smith said, ‘Mary, where are you going?’

I looked up and followed the rector’s gaze to the hallway beyond the dining-room door where I saw a young woman, no older than nineteen. She was a plain girl with large spectacles and a bob of brown hair, and she was halfway through putting on her coat. Upon hearing the rector she came towards us, but stopped short on the threshold of the room.

‘Please, sir, I’m sorry, but …’ She was fumbling with the buttons on her coat.

‘What is it, child?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’d rather not stay here tonight. I dare not.’

Observing the girl’s agitated state, Price got to his feet and beckoned her over. She stepped into the dining room, looking cautiously around her. ‘How can I assist you, sir?’

‘By answering a couple of questions,’ said Price kindly. ‘Just a few, all right?’

She nodded.

‘Very good,’ Price smiled. ‘Come and sit here beside me.’

She did so.

‘Now then, Mary, where are you off to in such a hurry?’

Mary hesitated. ‘Into the village, sir, to Sudbury, to see some friends at the Bull Inn.’

‘Don’t be daft, child,’ Reverend Smith interrupted. ‘It’s dark out there, and there’s a thunderstorm coming most likely.’

Price ignored the rector. ‘Mary, your employers have told me that since you came to this house you have witnessed many
strange events here, events beyond explanation, if you will: the coach and horses in the driveway, the spectre of a woman in the garden.’

A prolonged pause ensued.

‘Mary, is that correct?’

She nodded slowly, fidgeting beneath his fierce scrutiny. ‘Yes, sir, I have seen them, and more besides.’

‘More?’ Price leaned in so that his face was near hers.

‘Yes, sir. Once, outside in the shrubbery near the road, I saw a man. I thought he was a poacher but when I went near – well, he wasn’t there any more.’

‘You’re saying that this figure just vanished?’ asked Wall, who was busily taking notes. ‘Like the coach on the lawn?’

‘Will you please refrain from leading the witness,’ Price instructed, glaring at the journalist. He turned back to the maid and said gently, ‘Now then, what else, Mary?’

But she was nodding at Wall. ‘No, sir, the gentleman is right – he did vanish into the air, into the night, I swear it! And …’

‘Go on. What is it?’

‘Well – I know you will think this crazy. It is crazy. But … well.’ She swallowed her nervousness. ‘His head was missing!’

Wall said nothing this time but was grinning widely as he scribbled the incredible details down in his notepad. It was just the sort of colourful detail his story needed.

Price was silent for a moment, then: ‘Interesting. But continue. Tell us of the nun, please, Mary.’

She pursed her lips.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Price comfortingly. ‘I promise that whatever you saw cannot harm you.’

I wondered how he could possibly know such a thing.

‘Now tell me, where precisely did you see her?’

The young woman fidgeted in her chair, her eyes drifting away from Price to the window behind him. ‘Near the trees at the bottom of the garden, opposite the summerhouse.’

‘The garden is a horrid place,’ Mrs Smith interrupted. ‘The more we see of the grounds, the less we like them. The belt of trees surrounding the house cuts it off completely from the rest of the world – takes our sunshine, too; and we’re forever finding animal bones outside among the weeds and flower beds.’

Price seemed to register the remark. ‘Borley,’ he said thoughtfully, musing on the meaning of the word. ‘Boar’s pasture …’ Then snapping back to attention, he fixed the maid with an intense stare. ‘Now then, Mary, I’m going to ask you another question and it’s very important you answer it honestly for me, all right?’

She nodded reluctantly.

‘Are you making any of this up?’

‘Mr Price!’ cried the rector, slapping his hand down on the table.

‘Please, I must be certain, sir.’

Mary spoke in an agitated tone. ‘No, sir. I saw her as clear as day – a woman dressed head to toe in black robes, her head hooded and bowed. She was in the garden, telling her beads. I saw her face, haggard and pale like the moon – she looked so very sad. And there was something else, something hanging around her neck. It was bright, as though it was catching the light from the sun – metallic-looking, like a coin on a long chain.’

Seeing the maid’s distress, Price gave her a reassuring smile; I saw it and thought it conveyed the caring, sensitive side to his character that so few knew he possessed.

‘Just one last question: what time of day was this, please?’

‘Early evening, I think; it had not long got dark.’

Smiling his appreciation, Price thanked the young woman for her trouble and indicated that she could go. She looked relieved, but while walking to the door she stopped, turned, looked directly at me and said, ‘Miss, you’re a braver soul than me, staying here tonight.’