The Ghost Hunters (25 page)

Was there a connection? There had to be, surely? I should just confront Mother and ask her for the truth. Why hadn’t I?

Because you don’t know how she will, react, do you, Sarah? You have no idea what she’s hiding from you, or what confronting it will do to her. Or to you.

‘Sarah?’ Price’s voice pulled me out of private reflection.

‘Don’t push me, Harry,’ I said eventually. ‘You can trust me. You can rely on my support.’

‘If you’re sure,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Then we will carry on.’

I followed him out onto the dim landing. The door to the Blue Room was ajar and I could see the flicker of candlelight. A voice from within made me start. ‘Mr Price, Miss Grey, are you joining us?’

I glanced up at Price, whose eyes were fixed on the bedroom, his face a mask of tense anticipation. ‘Harry?’

He jerked his head towards me, staring straight at me out of wide, wild eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you have even the slightest idea what’s about to happen?’

‘None whatsoever,’ he said, then reached for my hand. ‘Well – are you coming?’

I must be crazy
, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said, placing my hand in his. ‘I’m coming.’

And together we stepped out of the darkness to face whatever was to come.

‘Now, I must insist that we make this quick and work with the very best light,’ said Price, ‘so that we can all see one another and ensure that there is no interference by anyone.’ He placed his lamp on a large dressing table on top of which stood a wooden-backed swing mirror while Mrs Smith lit a candle. There was only one armchair, into which Wall dropped, seemingly putting his notes in order. Price, the rector, his wife and I all sat down on the side of the bed facing the table, wedged in between the two pieces of furniture.

Shouldn’t we sing some sort of hymn?’ I suggested, recalling the traditional seances that Mother had described to me over the years. It was strange, but I had never even thought to suggest such a thing in the presence of mediums back at the Laboratory.

‘Very well,’ said Price, looking dubious. ‘If you think it is necessary.’

‘I for one certainly think that would be appropriate,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘In times of uncertainty like this, we need divine guidance.’ Her husband nodded in agreement.

And so that is what we did, the rector’s wife beginning, the rest of us joining in hesitantly:

‘Very good,’ said Price quietly. ‘Now join hands, please, fingertips touching.’

We did so.
Mother would be proud of me
, I thought, fully aware of the irony of this situation. To be honest I was a little embarrassed, but I was also curious and – after the incident outside and the falling brick and drop in temperature about the house – afraid. Was I foolish to have agreed to this? To have pushed Price into proceeding when it was obvious he would have preferred to spend more time questioning witnesses and searching the house for intruders.

‘Miss Grey, are you all right?’

Wall’s concerned voice cut across my thoughts.

‘I address whatever intelligence may be present,’ Price interjected, frowning at him. ‘If any presence is here with us tonight and wishes to do so then please come forward and make yourself known to us.’

No sound followed, only the gentle spitting of the rain against the window.

‘I ask again. If there is anyone present in this house, unseen to us but who wishes to communicate with us, please come forward now and make yourself known.’

And so we waited, the minutes passing like hours.

By the time the clock downstairs in the hall chimed half past eleven I had concluded we were wasting our time and would be better to retire to bed. However, before I could suggest as much there came, quite suddenly, a decisive tapping from the window. It was faint at first but as the seconds passed it grew louder.

‘Do you hear that?’ Mrs Smith whispered, her eyes wide. ‘Tell me you do!’

‘I should say so,’ said Wall, standing. He went over to the window and pressed his ear against it.

‘Come here and sit back down,’ scolded Price. ‘We should all be joined if we’re to do this properly.’

Wall did as he was told, throwing Price a resentful look as he sat down on the bed next to me.

‘Now then, I will repeat the question. One. More. Time.’

After he had spoken we waited, hushed and tense. This time within seconds of Price’s question I noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The door was shut firmly and there were no windows open to account for the draught that sprang up, and from the far corner of the room shadows were encroaching on us, pooling around the bed and the table until I was convinced they would surely envelop us. Among the shadows was a sprinkling of tiny blue lights.

‘Do you see that?’ I whispered.

‘I do,’ said Wall, amazed.

I gasped at a sudden gust of cold air. The light from our storm lantern flickered; the candle that Mrs Smith had brought into the room spluttered and died. And with our hands resting flat on the table in front of us, each touching our neighbours’, we waited for our world to meet the next.

The sound came again, just seconds later. ‘It’s coming from the back of the mirror,’ Mrs Smith whispered. We all leaned away from the dressing table.

‘All right then,’ said Price slowly, his eyes ablaze with interest. ‘Now we will proceed according to the following code. As you answer my questions, one rap means no, two raps means you are not certain, three means yes. Do you understand?’

Three decisive raps rang out. How can I describe them? Deliberate but quick, low and steady, as if someone behind the mirror were rapping their knuckles on its wooden backing.

‘Very well then,’ Price said somewhat hesitantly, ‘are you the one who is responsible for the events in this house this evening, throwing stones, ringing bells and suchlike?’

We waited another minute. Then another.

Rap!

Thank you. That’s a no, then. Are you the nun that has been seen in the grounds of this house?’

No.

‘Have you ever lived in this house?’

Rap … rap … rap!

‘A yes. Are we in communication with the late rector, Mr Harry Bull?’

Yes!

At this, Mrs Smith pulled her hands away from the table and covered her mouth. ‘This … this is all quite unbelievable,’ she said, turning to her husband and myself. Her face was taut with alarm. ‘This is all …
new
. We’ve never experienced anything quite like this here before. Mr Price, you seem to attract these phenomena.’

‘Quiet, please,’ said Price gently. The rector, who himself looked dumbstruck, took his wife’s arm and squeezed it re -assuringly.

Price continued. ‘Hello, Mr Bull. We are grateful that you are able to join us. Quite a night we are having in your old house! In order that we may confirm your identify, would you please remind us how many members of your family lived here in the Rectory when you were alive?’

We counted nineteen raps, and Mrs Smith, who had researched the Bull family history thoroughly for her novel, nodded and said, ‘Yes, I think that’s correct, nineteen. Go on – quickly, ask him more.’

‘And did your old friend, David Chipp, ever visit?’

Yes
.

‘Mr Bull, we have heard now, from many sources, about the apparition of a nun, which, it is said, patrols the grounds of this house; that during your lifetime, the phantom would peer in at you and your family as you took supper in the dining room. Are these stories true?’

Yes.

‘Then tell us this, please. Does the nun pose any danger to us or to the people living in this house?’

Yes.

‘Are you able to tell us the identity of this nun, or explain to us why she haunts this place?’

At this point Wall was scribbling frantically in his notepad and I could see from the confusion on his determined face that he was eager to discover how the discarnate entity was to convey the meaning of words to our party through raps alone. We did so in the laborious manner normally used by Spiritualists, and not usually encouraged by psychical researchers, by saying aloud each letter of the alphabet and making a note of those which coincided with a rap.

Letters were spelt out:
D-E-C-E.

‘What is that word? A date? December? The date of your death perhaps?’

Mrs Smith shook her head as Price dimmed our paraffin lamp before lighting it again. He did so a few times throughout the proceedings, claiming it was necessary in order to provoke the entity into responding.

Then more letters, a name this time:
C-A-R-L-O-S
.

‘It’s the same name I heard whispered in one of the bedroom passages,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘Perhaps it was a pet name for the rector when he was alive.’

Although Mrs Smith was nodding, I thought this explanation was rather clutching at straws and suspected Price did too, but we recorded the information nonetheless.

‘I am sorry, Mr Bull, but we don’t understand. Is there something that you wish to tell us?’

Yes.

‘Does the matter concern this house?’

Yes.

‘Are we in any danger from being here?’

Yes.

Then came five more letters. The word they spelt was unmistakable:
C-U-R-S-E
.

‘Are you trying to tell us that there is a … a curse connected with the story of the Dark Woman?’

Yes
.

And now more letters were coming through:
D-E-C-E
.

‘I apologise, Mr Bull,’ said Price, ‘but we cannot understand that last word.’

‘Then ask him something else,’ said Wall impatiently, flipping over his notepad to begin writing on a fresh side of paper. ‘Ask him about his death!’

‘No,’ said Reverend Smith firmly.

Wall interjected again. ‘Mr Bull, you are obviously troubled. Please tell us, is there anything that you wish to communicate about the circumstances of your own passing?’

Yes
.

‘His wife, Ivy, was with him when he died,’ Mrs Smith added, her voice low. Her face lifted as if a thought had come to her. ‘She married into the family and was never much liked by the rest of them. Mr Bull, does the matter of your unrest pertain to your will by any chance?’

Yes
.

Reverend Smith shifted uncomfortably. ‘Mr Price, I think it would be best to draw this affair to a close.’

‘I agree.’

‘No, no,’ said Wall, ‘we must continue now. Mr Bull, was there money trouble?’

‘Mr Wall, please!’ interrupted Reverend Smith.

But the answer that came back was a definite ‘yes’.

Wall’s eyes were gleaming. His prize was in sight. ‘Mr Bull, tell us, please – were you murdered?’

Yes.

‘Are you able to tell us who killed you?’

Yes.

‘Stop this now!’ cried the rector, horrified.

‘Then do so now. Tell us, Mr Bull, please tell us – who killed you? Was it a friend?’

No.

‘A family member then? Ivy, your wife? Mr Bull, was it Ivy who ended your life with the sugar of lead found in the cellar?’

‘Mr Wall!’ Reverend Smith was appalled.

There was a long pause. Then finally they came: three definite raps.

‘I knew it!’ Mrs Smith cried.

Price and I leapt to our feet. Was it the answer that had startled us? No. It was the cake of soap that had jumped off the washstand on the opposite side of the room seconds afterwards, hurling itself against the wall.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Price with wonderment, shaking his head. ‘Such propulsion. Look! The cake is deeply dented where it struck the edge of the water ewer in its fall. Quite the most perfect poltergeist phenomenon I have ever seen.’

As if to challenge the assertion there came, rising from somewhere deep below us in the house, the shrill tinkle of a bell.

Wall stood up so suddenly I almost jumped. ‘Here we go,’ he said quietly, his face incredulous. ‘What’s this? More trouble?’

More bells joined the chorus – many bells.

‘Great heavens above!’ exclaimed Mrs Smith.

The rector regarded Wall with the gravest of expressions. ‘I do believe you may get your newspaper story, my boy.’

Now it sounded as though every dusty room of that house was occupied with impatient guests tugging urgently on the bell pull. We knew that was impossible, because but for the five of us the house was empty, and all the bell wires had been severed.

Wasting no time, Price quickly took charge, hurtling past Wall and me, out of the bedroom and down the great stairs. ‘This time we’ll catch them, by Jove!’ he bellowed above the clamour. ‘Follow me!’

By now only a very small part of me believed there could be a logical explanation for this phenomenon. Indeed, upon reaching the kitchen passage we saw to our amazement and mounting unease that every one of the bells above our heads was ringing furiously of its own volition.

Mrs Smith, her husband at her side, had her hands pressed
to her ears. ‘It’s never been this loud before!’ Reverend Smith shouted to Price. ‘Your arrival in this house has only made things worse!’

Price meanwhile was frozen, his eyes darting this way and that as the world of science and order that he so cherished crumbled around him. Finally, he sprang into life. ‘Come with me!’ he ordered, taking my hand and leading us all back into the main hall. Then he was off, bounding back upstairs, checking the Blue Room for the intruders he was convinced must be doing this while I waited nervously at the foot of the great staircase. He had not been gone a few moments before Wall dashed after him, and it was a good two or three minutes before both men reappeared on the landing. I had never seen my employer look so thoroughly bemused. His face was white. This time even he was out of his depth.