The Ghost Hunters (51 page)

When he was gone I stood for a short while in silence, watching the sexton work. He did not acknowledge my presence. Eventually I said, ‘You seem ill at ease, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Aye,’ he said curtly without looking up. He seemed quite put out by his task, as if it was a waste of his time. His manner was disrespectful for the setting and I told him so.

This time he did look up, turning his head slowly away from the ground until his eyes met mine. ‘Disrespectful, you say? I see.’

‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked, my patience waning.

He patted the turf over the grave back into place. ‘Never seen anything like it in my life.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

‘This!’ he cried, pointing at the ground. ‘A farce if ever there was one. And at a time like this, with so many innocents losing their lives – why, it’s not right. He said so himself!’

‘What?
Who
said so?’

‘Him!’ He pointed towards the wall behind which I had glimpsed the man in the long coat. ‘Well, he was there a moment ago.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘Aye.’

I drew in a breath. ‘Well, what did he say?’

‘Full of questions, mostly about the burial. Wanted to know who it was for, why we were doing it.’

‘He called it a farce?’

‘That’s right. He told me straight: That the bones unearthed at the Rectory never belonged to no woman, and everyone knows it!’

‘What?’ I raked my fingers through my hair. ‘That can’t be right.’

He laughed. ‘
He
knew it very well. Been asking the locals all kinds of questions. Said he was going to tell others the truth too. That’s why he was here. Some reporter come from London, I think.’

The clock tower struck seven and my heartbeat drummed in time.

‘A reporter,’ I repeated. ‘Did he give you his name?’

‘He did. Can’t quite recall it now.’

‘Please try.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Wall, I think he said it was. Yes, that’s it. Something Wall.’

And then I ran.

*

I had left the churchyard at Liston behind me, the evening shadows lengthening as I took the narrow country lane that led east towards Borley. I knew from the sexton, who had seen Wall steal away from the scene, that this was the route he had taken.

The journey to Borley was some two and a half miles and soon it would be dark, for dusk was gathering. Price and Reverend Henning would be wondering where I was. But as I strode along the narrow country lane I gave none of these facts the slightest consideration, my mind instead returning to the sexton’s remarks.

It was nonsense, of course. Had to be. It was over. We had done as the nun had instructed.

But I had to know.

My mind was resolved: I would find Wall and demand he tell me what he knew. This affair would end, just as it had begun, with the tale of a journalist.

With some nervousness and a little excitement I wondered as I took chase what his life had been like; what he would think of me now and what
I
would say to him. I suppose that after all I had endured – after all the pain, regret, longing and loss – I considered him to have had a lucky escape. Why had he come back? Why now?

By the time I reached Hall Road my feet were tired and the gloom made it hard to see where I was going. But soon, through the tall, menacing trees on either side of me, the dark shape of a ruined building loomed into view.

I stood in the quiet lane immediately adjacent to the Rectory grounds, looking about me, when a small blue car parked on a dirt track leading into a nearby field caught my attention. I went quickly towards it, following a route that brought me to the rickety wooden fence that enclosed the Borley churchyard. Then, in one of the church windows, I saw the glow of a lamp.

I knew I had no choice in the matter. I might have stopped, returned to my life safe in the knowledge that we had put the whole matter of this mystery to rest. Closed the file and been done with it. But that was never an option, not really; for I had the profound sense that I was
meant
to be here at this moment, that by some unearthly law I was supposed to be reunited with Vernon Wall and that everything had been building towards this.

I scraped open the squeaking gate and took the narrow path that led me to the church’s Tudor porch and ancient looking door. With rising apprehension I lifted the heavy latch and went inside.

I was standing at the back of the nave concealed in the gloom, looking down past the rows of pews to the side of the altar where, kneeling before a great monument – the vast Waldegrave family monument that the Smiths had first told us about – was a man with broad shoulders and a long brown coat. He heard my movement and turned, and by the light of the oil lamp he held aloft I saw that this was the person I had come to find: Vernon Wall. Seeing him again, the advice he had given me years before sprang to my mind:
For every moment in your life that passes, there is always another that might have been.

‘Hello?’ he called, straining his eyes in the darkness. ‘Who is it?’

I had heard from Reverend Henning rumours that Borley Church was haunted; that the ghosts from the Rectory had moved here since the fire, that sometimes the organ was heard playing itself.
Perhaps
, I wondered as I watched him from the shadows,
he thinks I am a ghost
.

The man rose slowly, collecting his brown trilby from the floor, and began walking towards me, his footsteps echoing in the draughty space. ‘Hello there?’

I stepped into the tallow light. ‘Hello again, Mr Wall.’

He stopped, blinked and raised his hand in acknowledgement. But he did not smile. ‘Well, well … Sarah Grey … isn’t it? My God, what a long time it has been.’

‘Almost sixteen years.’ I paused, looking him over. He was the same handsome man I had last seen charging out of the Rectory that fateful night of his argument with Price, but something about him had changed. His face told the story of his years. He looked tired, worn down, and I told him so.

His mouth tightened. ‘War does that – changes people.’

I moved towards him then, my footsteps echoing. He stood perfectly still watching me, his face troubled. And I too felt a curious mix of emotions: regret, mostly, for the wasted opportunities, as well as sadness and affection, for in spite of everything, he was still disarmingly attractive.

‘They sent you away?’ I asked miserably.

He nodded. ‘Germany, for a short time, then France.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Horrendous. I was lucky, Sarah. That’s all. Others … not so. They say it’ll be over soon, any day now … Who would have thought it? That it could all have happened again?’ He shook his head, snapping out of his reflection. ‘What
are
you doing here, at this time?’

‘I might ask you the same.’

‘You realise they say this church is haunted now, that spirits speak in here, that the organ plays when the place is empty? I don’t know,’ he smiled cynically. ‘What do you think?’

I saw the great Waldegrave family monument looming in the darkness behind him and shivered. ‘To be honest, I have the strongest sense that we should not be in here.’

‘Then why did you come?’ he asked, his voice businesslike.

So I told him everything we had learned – deduced – about the murdered nun Marie Lairre. I told him of the planchette messages, the prophecy that the Rectory would burn down, and the many clues that had helped us eventually locate her partial remains beneath the ruins of the house, as the prophecy had foretold. But most of all, I told him of Price’s transformation from sceptic to triumphant believer that had come about as a result of our renewed work on this extraordinary case with Sidney Glanville’s assistance, and the fact that he was preparing a second book on the affair with a wealth of new evidence.

From the way Wall’s mouth turned down, I could see he disapproved of what I had said. And the lack of interest or surprise in his eyes as I related events suggested he possessed prior knowledge.

‘You already know this, don’t you? The sexton at the churchyard in Liston told me as much. That’s why you’ve been interviewing the locals: they know something about the bones. What is it? Why have you come back after so long?’

He was watching me coolly, the glow of his lamp playing across his chiselled features. Finally he said, with some heat, ‘To be honest, Sarah, I am amazed that you are even able to look at me after what you did, and that you – or Price – can dare to show your face in this village.’

He began with the war. ‘I’ve often thought that the most enduring casualties are the bereaved who get left behind. As a journalist, you can’t help but feel sorry for them as they look longingly to their past, their loved ones, wishing them back. I’ve done it myself. So many dead, Sarah. Again. Good men. Gone.

‘For these last years I have worked as a war correspondent with
The Times
. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, it changes you, believe me. You learn to shift your conception of what’s
important, you see more and you understand more. You, Sarah, understand more than most – or at least you did when your father was taken. Isn’t that what drove you to Price’s Laboratory in the first place – the need to save the deceived, to shine a light on the tricksters? And then, perhaps, to find a way to cope with your own grief?’

‘You know it is,’ I replied.

His eyes widened in grim response. ‘Well, haven’t you noticed?’ he said evenly. ‘History is repeating itself. Now another war is ending, every Sunday in London there are at least forty Spiritualist meetings. The movement is enjoying a resurgence, just like before. Charlatans popping up everywhere, capitalising on grief.’

He was right, of course, but there was nothing in itself unusual about this; Spiritualism had flourished in the wake of every major war and I told him so, pointing out that Price’s investigations had at least been rewarded now with strong, convincing evidence for spiritual survival. ‘Of course there have been disappointments along the way,’ I said, remembering the Schneider seance that had so destroyed my hopes, ‘painful ones too. So painful. But the Borley phenomena prove—’

Suddenly he was shaking his head, his expression one of angry consternation. ‘You believe it all, don’t you?
Everything
.’ He looked back over his shoulder at the fine Waldegrave family monument. ‘You think it all leads here, to
this
? That a Walde-grave man strangled this woman you can’t even prove existed – Marie Lairre – and buried her bones somewhere at Borley? Sarah, have you any idea how ludicrous that sounds?’

‘It’s not ludicrous. I am certain of it,’ I said, approaching the monument. I ran my hand along its smooth stone surface. It was in perfect condition, a flawless example of sixteenth-century
craftsmanship. Sure enough, as Reverend Smith had told us all those years ago, on one side of the monument was a coat of arms resembling the Prince of Wales feathers. ‘These match,’ I said to Wall, ‘almost exactly the wall markings I saw in the Rectory during the Foyster residency. I thought then that the markings resembled an emblem, some sort of crest … There’s a connection. She was telling us who murdered her.’

‘One of the Waldegrave family?’

I nodded. ‘I believe the drawing was an attempt at a representation of the Waldegrave crest. And now we have located her remains, and we are safe.’

‘Safe from what?’ His abruptness suggested he wasn’t interested in my answer.

And because I sensed that he thought I was talking nonsense I told him then, with some relief, of the curse of the Dark Woman. I told him that I had laboured under the anxiety of this belief for many years, since the very first night we had stayed at the house when Price had come to me. ‘You saw the apparition yourself, Vernon, in the garden!’

He hesitated. ‘I saw something. Why are you so afraid, Sarah? You seem so convinced that there is a curse at work upon you. Why?’

I knew he would ask me what I could possibly have to fear from such a curse, what information I had concealed that was so terrible it was tantamount to punishable deception. He did ask, but I refused to answer.

Wall frowned and was silent for a moment. He looked deep in thought, his face hardening as he reflected. Then, by the light of his lamp, he examined the markings on the side of the Walde-grave monument. ‘Yours is an impressive undertaking, Sarah,’ he said, ‘and as a journalist I have to respect that. I admire your
investigative skills greatly. But it seems to me you have asked yourself every relevant question except the one that is
most
relevant, the biggest question of all.’

‘Which is?’ I pressed him.

‘Harry Price’s own role in all of this – your blessed psychic detective.’ He spat out the words as though they were bitter as lemon.

‘I know Harry better than anyone.’

‘But exactly how much do you know
about
him?’ He watched me keenly as I stepped away from the Waldegrave monument and sat in the first pew. ‘Let us see, shall we, who is the real psychic detective.’

What did he mean? Why was he looking at me now with such cold conviction? He moved to the altar and took from the briefcase he had left there a black folder, and then came to sit beside me on the pew. The title emblazoned across the dossier made me go numb: ‘Harry Price – a Private Report.’

Wall followed my gaze and said, ‘I’ve been watching him for years, watching both of you in fact. You did well to get away, even if you did end up running back to him.’ He shook his head sadly, then opened the file to reveal a sheaf of papers interspersed with photographs.

‘Where was his grandfather born? Do you know?’

‘Shropshire, I think.’

‘Actually, it was Worcestershire. Let’s try an easier one. Where was
he
born? Where did he grow up?’

This I did know. I said, ‘In the village of Rotherington.’

‘Close, but no cigar, I’m afraid,’ said Wall with mock sympathy. ‘The correct answer is New Cross.’

New Cross. South London. ‘But why would he lie?’ I asked.