The Ghost Hunters (35 page)

I could not believe that he had known all of this and kept it from me.

Mrs Foyster stood motionless before the French windows, lost in her reflection in the black glass.

‘Tell me, what took you to Canada in the first place?’ said Price.

‘Missionary work,’ the rector answered quietly.

‘And were you happy there?’

‘Most happy.’ He smiled sadly at Mrs Foyster, who had turned towards us. She did not return the gesture.

‘Then tell me, why did you leave so suddenly to come here to Borley, this little out-of-the-way place?’

‘There are many answers to that question, Mr Price. The first should be evident. Look at me. I’m bound to a wheelchair most days, my arthritis is so bad. I rely on Marianne to help me get around.’

As he spoke, Mrs Foyster drifted towards the drinks cabinet where she hastily filled her glass.

‘We lost a great deal of our wealth during the Wall Street Crash. I was fortunate that my family were able to offer me residency
here at Borley. But even now our situation could best be described as difficult.’

‘You have moved about a fair amount in your time? Some might call it running.’

The rector was turning his head away now.

‘Harry,’ I said, ‘that’s enough.’

‘But I wonder: what on earth could you be running
from
, sir?’

‘Harry!’ I raised my voice. This was an unforgivable style of questioning.

Price redirected his attention. ‘Mrs Foyster, I can’t help thinking this must be a very difficult house for you to live in, especially at this time of year. So many duplex lamps to be filled with paraffin each day, so many passages to sweep, and having to pump all that water by turning the wheel outside. However do you manage it all?’

Reverend Foyster answered for his wife. ‘We manage. As I said earlier, we have a man who helps us.’

‘Yes, I can see that you do,’ said Price softly, ‘but I can well understand that the loneliness and discomfort of this house would be hard for anyone to tolerate. And so many bad feelings in the building, stored up over so long, gathering about you. It’s a wonder you haven’t left the place already.’

‘Like the Smiths?’ said Mrs Foyster bitterly. ‘The ghosts got them in the end, as we all said they would.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only that they had it coming. They weren’t liked about the village. People in these parts don’t take kindly to folk like them.’

‘You knew about the house and its reputation before you came here, and yet you
still
came. Tell me why.’

Marianne turned and said bitterly, ‘Because we had no choice. Do you know how much they pay my poor husband? I’ll tell you
how much: the grand sum of six pounds a week. I know of chauffeurs who earn more than that.’

‘Forgive me, but that’s not quite the same reason that I have been given.’

No one said a word. Price delighted in the moment. Once again everyone’s attention was on him. Finally he opened his mouth to speak.

But before Price could utter a word a sudden noise from the hall caused the rector to start up from his chair. ‘I say! What the devil was that?’

Armed with one of our lamps, Price hurried over to the door, opened it and peered out into the gloom. As he did so, I fancied I heard footsteps on the floorboards above us and the dull
thud … thud … thud
 … of a walking stick.

‘Well?’

‘Broken crockery,’ Price answered. ‘It’s all over the floor.’

The rector joined him. ‘All of this comes from the kitchen dresser,’ he sighed. ‘You can see how unlikely it would be for someone to fetch all of this, fling it down here and get out of sight so quickly. I think we are going to have a bad night. Marianne dear, I had better go and check that young Adelaide is in bed.’

‘No,’ said Marianne quickly, ‘no, I’ll go.’ And swept out of the room.

The rector appeared peculiarly disappointed not to have gone but quickly said, ‘What a dear, kind help she is to me. How on earth I would manage without her I don’t know.’ He eased himself back into his chair. ‘Mr Price, I am genuinely puzzled by your abrasive attitude towards our predicament. You seem to blow hot and cold on the affair. One moment you believe it, the next you do not.’

The same could have been said of Price’s approach to the whole subject that was his passion, and the thought caused me to smile. When I looked at him, I saw that he was deep in thought again, watching as the Foysters’ maid arrived in the hall with a pan and brush and set to work sweeping up the fragments of crockery. He walked over to speak to her.

‘This happens a lot to you, does it?’

‘Yes, sir, when there are guests about the house mostly.’
²

‘A ghost with an objection to house guests. Tell me more about that.’

The young girl looked at the rector, whose brow was furrowed. ‘Well, sir, the Lord and Lady Whitehouse from Sudbury were here just a few weeks ago and had a terrible time of it. Poor Mrs Foyster became locked in her bedroom. The master had to say a prayer to let her out.’

‘I see. And has that happened previously?’

‘Oh yes, all the time, sir.’

Just then Mrs Foyster hurried back into the room. ‘You needn’t look so doubtful, Mr Price. My husband didn’t believe it either, but he has faith; and if faith can move mountains it can most certainly change minds.’

‘Perhaps. Is young Adelaide all right?’

He spoke politely, but there was no escaping the fact that the air of civility was strained.

‘Yes, for now.’ She sat down near the fire. ‘Now then, I would think you ought to be getting off soon if you are taking a taxi back into Long Melford. And I wouldn’t dally in those lanes either.’

‘No, not yet, thank you,’ Price replied. ‘You see, I was in the middle of explaining to your good husband what I think is the matter in this house. As I see it, there are two possibilities. The
first will appeal to those who are more open-minded. I have a theory that psychic abilities do, under certain conditions, produce phantasms or ghosts. Projections, if you like. My work with Herr Schneider has led me to this view. Whether we can apply this theory to the causation of poltergeist phenomena in this case is another matter.’

‘Go on,’ said Reverend Foyster.

Marianne was rolling her eyes as if to convey her boredom. ‘Can someone remind me why I am here?’ She shot her husband a scowl. ‘Really, Lionel, bringing these strangers to our home … whatever next?’

There was an awkward silence as Price hesitated. ‘Well, umm, your wife is a young woman with very firm opinions; perhaps there is some psychic connection between her and this phantom nun.’

The rector nodded his agreement. ‘The wall writings and that pathetic appeal for help would seem to suggest so.’

‘Indeed,’ Price said. ‘And except for a very brief period, there have always been many young girls – maids, the Bull sisters – living at the Rectory. Perhaps traces of their memories, their thoughts and experiences here, are still clinging to their old home. A sort of psychic residue, if you like.’

‘What’s the second possibility?’

‘Now then, that’s altogether trickier,’ said Price. He sat down beside the rector, fixing him with his cool eyes, and I braced myself for what was coming.

But before he could say a word, there came from Mrs Foyster a startling cry. Then she leapt forward like a tiger before falling to her knees, her hands clasped in a gesture of prayer.

It was pitiful, like watching a child perform for attention.

‘Marianne,’ Foyster cried, getting slowly to his feet. ‘Look now, you see what you’ve done – you’ve set her off!’

‘Set her off?’

‘My wife, sir, is prone to bouts of hysteria. Is it any wonder with all of this to contend with—’

I was about to go to the woman’s aid when an appalling series of crashes sounded from the hall. ‘What on earth?’

With unwise impetuousness, we all hurried to the door. Glass bottles flew past our faces. One hurled down from above, another came flying down the stairs and crashed at our feet, the glass shattering this way and that.

‘Where are they coming from?’ I gasped. ‘Who’s throwing them?’

‘You see now!’ cried Mrs Foyster. ‘You see it is true. God save us all.’

‘Get back,’ said Price over the turmoil, and we did so. Indeed, I ducked down behind him. Only Mrs Foyster departed the scene, breaking out of the drawing room and bolting across the hall and up the stairs to her bedroom.

‘Marianne!’ the old rector cried out. Then he looked down, crestfallen and muttered, mostly to himself, ‘Now there will be trouble.’

My heart was pounding, my hands trembling. I called desperately to Price for help.

‘Come here,’ he said soothingly, gathering me up in his arms. I was safe.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the disturbance ceased, and all was still and calm as before. Except for a single pebble that appeared as if from nowhere, skipped across the floor and bounced off the skirting board at the bottom of the stairs before rolling to a halt.

Foyster stood, trembling, then said gravely as if to himself, ‘Is this my punishment? Is this what I am doomed to endure?’

I started. Punishment for what?

‘Forgive me,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘It’s this dreadful house. It plays the most terrible tricks on you.’

‘Houses don’t play tricks, Reverend Foyster,’ said Price, ‘but people most certainly do!’

And then he was at the nearest window, peering out as if some movement had caught his eye. He looked back at me. ‘Check on Mrs Foyster,’ he instructed.

I did so, following the route she had taken up to the first floor, while Price and Foyster began a thorough search of the downstairs rooms, diligently checking every door and window. I went first along the passage, past the wall writing, to the nursery to check that the young girl was still asleep. I was amazed to see that she was, and the sight calmed me.

But not for long; for no sooner had I closed her bedroom door and released a small sigh of relief than I noticed, next to the door frame, a set of markings that had not been present on our first inspection: a pattern of lines which reminded me of a crest – a royal emblem perhaps. Adjacent to these markings was a word, and it was clear as before:
TROMPEE
.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house a servant bell rung.

I need to get out of here now
, I told myself, looking ahead of me, down the long, dark passage that led to the landing and the stairs to the hall. But before I could move an inch a piercing scream issued forth from the far end of the corridor. From the Foysters’ bedroom.

I bolted forward, shouting Marianne’s name. When I reached the door I found it locked. I threw my weight at it again and
again until finally it burst open and I stumbled into the room. ‘Mrs Foyster, I—’

The sight before me stopped me dead.

Mrs Foyster lay on the bed, her left eye swelling and red, her lip bleeding. Towering over her was a stout, dark-haired, thuggish looking man.

I recognised him immediately.

It was the man who had approached me earlier that night, alone on the station platform; the man who had followed us into our carriage and watched as I spoke to Price. The watcher.

Before I could think what to say the assailant bolted past me, out onto the landing and down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him.

‘Quickly, close the door!’ implored Mrs Foyster in a hoarse voice.

I did so, quite horrified. She stared at me blankly, silently.

Eventually I asked, ‘Who was that man?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Why don’t you pull up a chair, Miss Grey? I think perhaps I should explain.’

Notes

1
For a detailed account of the ‘Great Amherst Mystery’ see
Poltergeist Over England
, pp. 28–30.

2
According to Harry Price, the guests who visited the Foysters included Sir George and Lady Whitehouse, Mrs Richards, Miss May Walker, Miss Gordon, Mrs Wildgoose (née Dytor), Edwin Whitehouse, Mr L’Estrange, Mr d’Arles and Captain Deane.

‘Who was that?’ I asked again.

‘Just a friend,’ she said.

‘Mrs Foyster, forgive me but none of
my
friends behave in such a manner. Look at you – you’re bleeding!’

Rising uncertainly from the bed, she fetched a robe from the wardrobe and slipped it on. Then she sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed beside me. I thought she looked lost, and in spite of her thinly disguised coldness towards me, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for this wounded woman.

‘It is a depressingly subjugated position we occupy in life, is it not, Miss Grey?’ she said quietly, looking down into her lap.

I didn’t understand, and politely told her so.

‘We – women, I mean: such lonely little lives we lead, don’t you find?’ She sighed deeply and lifted her gaze to meet mine. ‘The man you just met is our lodger. His name is Frank Peerless.’

‘Lodger? But I thought only you, Lionel, the child and your maid lived here.’

‘We haven’t lied to you, Miss Grey. Frank lives in the cottage next door.
¹
He pays us rent, attends to our needs. You met
him, I understand, earlier this evening on your way here, at the station.’

‘I thought he was following me.’

‘How silly! Frank makes the journey from London every day. He has a flower stall outside one of the London cemeteries.’

‘What was he doing in here?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer. ‘Why did he strike you?’

Mrs Foyster drew a tissue from a box next to the bed and dabbed her bloody lip carefully. ‘You needn’t be concerned for
my
well-being, Miss Grey. I can assure you, Frank is perfectly harmless.’ She paused. ‘I must remind you that you have signed an agreement of confidentiality regarding anything you see or hear in this house.’

‘That is correct,’ I said, though in fact it was Price who had signed the agreement, not me. But she seemed satisfied, for she promptly tucked herself beneath her bedcovers and propped herself up with pillows like a child preparing for a bedtime story. I had the strongest impression that here was a woman who had not enjoyed the company of another female for a long while. She wanted to talk.