The Ghost Hunters (24 page)

‘See me? Oh, Mr Wall, I’m flattered; but really, I hardly have any time to call my own. Harry keeps me so frightfully busy at the Laboratory, what with setting up his experiments, interviewing mediums, answering letters, filing reports on our field investigations …’

Wall was looking at me doubtfully.

And as I listened to the words falling from my mouth, I wondered where they were coming from. Why, indeed, was I so reluctant to take a chance on someone so genuinely good? I took a deep breath and said firmly, trying not to let my sudden excitement show, ‘Well … all right!’

Wall smiled cheerfully. ‘Yes? For supper, perhaps? Or maybe
a walk on Rotten Row to take in the morning air? Or, if you’re feeling a little more adventurous, a trip to Italy – to Como and the Pearl of the Lake? My father has a house there, in Bellagio. I could show you. It’s a modest little place, but …’ He cast his eyes grimly around the room, ‘… it’s miles away from this world of darkness.’

I shut my eyes with delight and said, ‘Yes, I would like that very much.’ And immediately the sounds, sights and smells of the Italian countryside came rushing into my head – the fine wines, the fragrant summer breezes, the wonderful sunshine. Weather to warm the heart. They weren’t vague imaginings either, but memories of the short time that Price and I had spent together in Italy the year before, when attending an auction of rare magical books. On the journey home we had stopped for a time in Italy – Milan – before taking the train onwards, across the border into France.

‘I do so love Europe,’ I said to Wall. ‘It was in Italy that I spent what was probably the most memorable train journey of my life.’

Why memorable? Not because of the scenery, nor because of the delectable food we had enjoyed together for the duration, but because, an hour before reaching the French border, Price had panicked, suddenly seized with the fear that the vast quantity of books he had procured on our travels would be confiscated by the border police. ‘I have an idea, Sarah,’ he had announced with triumph. ‘I’m going to walk the length of this train and hand the books out to the other passengers and ask them to pretend they are theirs. That will see us across the border, and then I will walk the length of the train again and collect them all back up!’ He had actually done it, too.

Alerted by my account of the train journey, Wall’s face became serious. ‘You’re obsessed with him, aren’t you? Totally obsessed.’
He removed his arm from around me. ‘What exactly does he do for you, Sarah?’

‘Most things, actually.’ The voice belonged to Price. I jolted at seeing him there in the doorway behind us, half hidden in the shadows. ‘Not that Miss Grey’s career is any business of yours, Mr Wall.’

How long Price had been eavesdropping on our conversation I couldn’t say, but now Mr and Mrs Smith were behind him, their forms half swallowed by the darkness of the main hallway. The couple were the picture of concern, the rector with his arm wrapped protectively around his wife, and she standing nervously, twisting her rings on arthritic fingers.

I rose sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The cold,’ whispered Mrs Smith, stepping forward. It had become her habit to look over her shoulder as she entered every room and she did so now, as if a great beast might leap forward from behind and pin her to the ground. She rubbed her arms. ‘Don’t you feel it?’

‘Well, of course we feel it,’ said Wall, standing suddenly. ‘We
all
feel it. All of us, that is, except – perhaps – Mr Price here.’

‘I will need to check my instruments,’ said Price grudgingly, turning away. ‘I left a thermometer at the bottom of the main stairs.’

‘
I
think,’ Wall broke in, his voice rising steadily, ‘that it’s high time you actually
did
something.’

All of us stood in silence for a moment.

Price turned, his eyes narrowing. ‘Such as?’

The reporter stepped forward. ‘If there
is
a presence in this house – and I for one believe that indeed there is such a presence – then the thing clearly isn’t shy. It wants to be noticed.’

‘Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that you are right.’ Price’s
words had the tone of quiet menace. ‘What would you suggest we do?’

‘Speak to it,’ said Wall. ‘Ask it what it wants.’

Horrified, Reverend Smith said, ‘No, we must not enter into any dialogue with it.’

‘But why not?’ Wall insisted. ‘If there is the slightest chance that we might learn just something more about what is happening here then I see no reason not to question it. Mr Price, I demand that you lead us in a seance!’

‘
You
demand?’ Price was indignant.

‘I do.’

‘Oh yes, that would make an excellent story for your newspaper, wouldn’t it? No, Vernon, I will do no such thing.’

‘I agree with Mr Price,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘My boy, you must understand that there is such a thing as pure evil. Are you so confident in your standing in this world that you can be sure to recognise it when you see it?’

‘And I agree most wholeheartedly with Mr Smith,’ said Price. ‘Under the present circumstances it would be irresponsible for us to take this any further.’

Wall looked intensely dissatisfied. ‘What do you think, Mrs Smith?’ he asked.

‘I think we should do this.’

We all looked at the woman.

‘
What?
’ spluttered the rector. ‘Mabel, you can’t be serious.’

She took her husband’s arm. ‘Guy, if a seance will help us understand more about the occurrences in this house, help us to learn more about whatever it is that is causing so much trouble, then perhaps we can do something to help. And these things, whatever they are, might leave us in peace. Isn’t it worth a try?’

Mrs Smith looked pleadingly at her husband. The rector sighed, patted her hand and said, ‘Very well, my dear, if that is your wish.’

‘It is. But we need guidance.’ Mrs Smith turned to Price. ‘Harry, won’t you help us? You said yourself that ghouls are for the gullible. Well then, let us be gullible.’ She looked down at the curious collection of objects that had come rolling down the stairs some moments before. ‘Now you have seen for yourself what we endure in this house. You came here to help us. Please help us.’

Price considered the plea with obvious reluctance. I understood his dilemma. To agree to Mrs Smith’s request would be halfway to admitting the fallibility of his science and, worse, the possibility that his staunchest critics had been right all along. But even I, in my constrained scepticism, had to acknowledge that the phenomena we had witnessed this night – ringing bells, falling bricks and fleeting shadows – had no easy explanation. Reliving these events in my head, I could well imagine Mother telling me how wrong I had been to doubt the possibility of an afterlife on earth, and for the briefest moment I questioned why I had.

I thought of my father and imagined the impossible.

‘Do it,’ I said, turning towards Price.

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Sarah?’ ‘We have nothing to lose now,’ I said firmly.

Beside me, Wall seconded his support, catching my eye and throwing me a charming smile that touched me with excitement and a little guilt.

‘Very well,’ Price said. ‘But I want to make myself very clear. During the proceedings, I will be watching everybody extremely carefully.’ He turned to Mrs Smith. ‘All right, madam?’

‘So be it, Mr Price. Where shall we carry out the seance?’

‘Most of the unusual events you have described focus in or
around the Blue Room upstairs. Shall we conduct it in there?’

Mrs Smith nodded her agreement, but she didn’t look at all happy about the idea.

‘Come on then. And please bring as many candles and lamps as you have available.’

Guided by the flickering flame of the rector’s storm lantern, we followed him across the gloomy hallway and up the great staircase. Darkness and the smell of damp were on all sides of us. There was no need for us to turn the handle to the bedroom door, for it was already wide open, daring us to enter.

‘In here,’ said the rector, leading the way.

‘But as the others filed into the dusty bedroom, I noticed Price hanging back. His attention was centred upon me. ‘Sarah, a moment, please?’

I went to his side and looked into his serious face. ‘What is it?’

‘In here,’ he murmured, before stepping into a shadowy doorway which led to the disused schoolroom.

I hesitated. Wall was waiting for me at the entrance to the Blue Room, his face mulish and etched with disapproval. I smiled awkwardly, embarrassed, then stepped aside, following Price.

The schoolroom was pitch dark. I could only just discern Price’s shape silhouette. I shivered from the cold and flinched as he took my hand.

‘Are you quite all right, Sarah?’

Although the words were caring, the tone was stern. ‘Yes – of course,’ I blurted out. Perhaps it was because I could barely see him, but his scent seemed more noticeable in the dark – stronger, thicker, more masculine.

He squeezed my hand firmly before leaning his head towards mine. ‘If there was something wrong, you would tell me, I hope?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘It’s this house, isn’t it? I sense that it is getting the better of you.’

‘The house,’ I acknowledged, my voice catching in my throat, ‘the people in the house. And the … things. Harry, what are they?’

Price sounded thoughtful. ‘Ancient echoes of the past.’

It took me a moment to realise that he was hypothesising rather than expressing a firm opinion.

‘Or, more likely,’ he continued, ‘the work of a clever deceiver concealed somewhere in these walls.’ A slight pause. ‘Tell me, what is your opinion of our intrepid journalist friend?’

‘Vernon?’ I said, with noticeable surprise. ‘Harry, no, you can’t possibly suspect him in all this.’

‘He claims he saw something outside that I did not see. Now, I’m not implicating him directly, but it is possible that he is intimately involved in the hoax. He has every motive.’

I pulled my hand away. ‘Why are you so determined not to believe?’ I demanded.

‘Why are you so ready
to
believe?’

A wide silence opened between us. I wondered what notions about my suitability for this job were swimming in his head, what regrets, if any, he harboured about employing me; and I felt a stab of alarm to think that I had dissatisfied him. But facts are facts, and, reasonable or not, I could not allow myself to ignore them. I recalled, then, our conversation back at the Laboratory – so long ago now, it seemed – about one’s entitlement to believe in genuinely paranormal phenomena, violations of natural laws. ‘Do you remember, Harry, telling me that natural laws could never be broken?’

‘Yes, I remember very well.’

‘But surely,’ I challenged him, ‘we can’t claim to have discovered
every law of nature, every possibility? If that were so, it would never be possible for science to progress, to make new discoveries.’

‘What are you trying to say, Sarah?’

‘What I mean is, perhaps these events, these happenings – perhaps they are simply
ungoverned
by physical laws. And if that were so then there wouldn’t need to be any violation of any laws. No contradiction!’

‘Yes … Yes. Now that is an interesting idea.’

I was surprised to hear him admit that the possibility had not occurred to him previously. It warmed me to think that I had impressed him; but before I could settle into complacency he was speaking again in a sharper tone.

‘Of course there is a long, inbuilt resistance to such ideas. And what we have here, in this house, though it merits attention, must be properly investigated. By us.’

‘Are you suggesting that task is beyond me?’ I asked coolly.

‘I am suggesting that you are allowing your emotions, your personal biases, to cloud your judgement.’

‘What? Harry, no—’

‘Listen to me!’ His face was inches from mine, his breath hot on my face. ‘As we speak, Mrs Smith and her husband and that mischievous journalist friend of yours are busy preparing the bedroom for a midnight seance, the sort of thing you and I have witnessed many times with unimpressive results. And you, Sarah – you encouraged it! I will not jeopardise the integrity of this investigation just to indulge a personal bias. As soon as we return to London we will be asked what happened here tonight, and what we say will matter. Our critics, my attackers – every psychical researcher in London worth his salt will pore over every detail of what we are about to do. They will send arrows
of doubt to darken our skies. I want you to know that. They will be acute in their scrutiny. And you – both of us – will have to stand the test of their judgement.’

‘What are you saying?’ I asked.

‘If this is too much for you, too personal, then now is the time to step away.’

‘Step away? No!’ I was adamant. ‘We’re too close now, and if you think you’re sending me packing back to London, you have another thing coming! Do you hear?’

Price hesitated. ‘You would miss this job.’

‘Yes, I’d miss it!’

‘Like you miss your father?’

That stung. The question hung in the air and in the darkness I nodded, holding back my tears, thankful beyond words that Price wasn’t able to see my reaction. I hadn’t been able to express what bothered me most: the memory that came back to me in flashes of my father in Mother’s bedroom, kneeling next to the wardrobe before an open trunk. He was sobbing quietly to himself. Why? I would have gone to his side, hugged him, consoled him, asked him what was wrong, but for some reason, I was too afraid. Like a spy, I watched him holding something. The light from the gas lamps in the street outside fell on three small white envelopes bearing a handwritten scrawl.

Unmistakably letters.

‘You’re not to go in there. Not under any circumstances.’

But why not? The noises that came at night signalling disturbances within Mother’s room: the wardrobe door creaking open, the trunk inside snapping open.

Sarah … do you know what she is looking for?

Then a terrible thought: she wasn’t looking for something, she had already found it.

Letters …