The Ghost Hunters (34 page)

Reverend Foyster looked astonished. ‘You’re not proposing to undertake a comprehensive investigation at this hour?’

‘But of course! Why else would we have come here?’

‘I was under the impression that this would merely be an informal interview. My wife is asleep upstairs and—’

‘Nonsense – we’re here now; it would be a shame to waste the journey.’

There was a brief pause and then, reluctantly, ‘Very well. But I’d be grateful if you tried not to disturb Marianne or upset her. It doesn’t take much these days.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘She is prone to outbursts, periods of excitement that come upon her, so I would prefer that she wasn’t unsettled.’

‘But of course,’ repeated Price in a strained tone. ‘We wouldn’t wish that.’

Reverend Foyster scowled. ‘Good. I am glad you say that, Mr Price. You see, I have been rather worried about your coming here. Mr Salter from the Society for Psychical Research warned us that—’

‘Mr Salter?’ Price was taken aback by the mention of the man. ‘If I hear that name one more time—’

‘I thought you knew that Mr Salter had visited the house.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Price sharply, ‘but I wasn’t aware that his opinion was considered relevant any longer. I suppose he was checking up on me, was he? Hmm? Now, let me make one thing absolutely clear, Reverend Foyster. Sarah and I have come at the request of a member of
your
family. We have
not
come out of the kindness of our hearts. I have a job to do, as does Miss Grey, and we fully intend to do it. I must insist that the Society you mention, and Mr Salter in particular, maintain an indefinite disassociation from the entire matter. This is my investigation now, not his; in fact,
no one
else’s.’ He paused, softening his approach. ‘This is the way it has to be if we are to help you. Do you find these terms agreeable?’

‘Yes, yes, all right, Mr Price. I … I can see that you wish to be in charge.’

‘Yes, that’s it, Mr Foyster.
I
wish to be in charge,’ Price agreed with an unpleasant note of satisfaction.

The frail rector nodded uncertainly. ‘Then my wife and I shall place our fate in your hands.’

*

The Rectory was pervaded by the same odour of dank decay that I recalled from my first visit. Little about the place had changed. The stillness in the air was so delicate it seemed that at any moment it might splinter, and it was that perfect quiet that conferred the mournful atmosphere I found so dispiriting.
Except now I was at one with the Rectory’s sadness, a part of its history. The house was familiar with our sins. And wherever I walked, my secret walked too.

Finding our way by the light of paraffin lamps, we followed the rector upstairs, stepping carefully over fallen plaster and odd bits of rubble that made me question the cleanliness of the Foysters. And as we reacquainted ourselves with the grim house and its thick, thick darkness, I felt more unsure of myself than ever. An almost unbearable distraction began pressing down upon my senses; slight movements, barely discernible, flickered at the edge of my vision, and every couple of minutes my hearing became muffled as though I were underwater. In these giddy moments the world itself seemed off balance, and I managed to catch only snatches of the conversation passing between Price and Foyster, and one phrase in particular. The name of the house, whispered at me in short, puncturing bursts:
Borley Rectory
.
Borley Rectory. Borley Rectory!

I raised my hands to cover my ears.

‘Sarah?’

I watched Price’s lips moving but could hear no voice. Either the house – its memories, and whatever presences dwelt within its rooms – was taunting me, or it was as Price implied: my own imagination was playing havoc with my senses. Whatever the truth, I had to pause for a moment and steady myself on the great stairs.

Now Foyster was speaking, his concern for me evident in his expression.

I waved them both away and squeezed my eyes shut, trying my utmost to fortify myself against the malign evil I could feel enfolding me. And now the very notion that there was another world, a real world, outside the Rectory, far away from it, felt no
more than that: a notion, a vague idea entwined with physical and emotional confusion.

My eyes flipped open.

‘All right?’ asked Price. ‘Ready to continue?’

Both men were staring at me. I motioned them forward. ‘Yes, please – I apologise. I don’t know what came over me.’

As we reached the top of the stairs I turned and saw, through an open door, a fine stained-glass window in the room over the porch – the old schoolroom, where Price and I had exchanged our private thoughts in darkness on our last visit. The stained glass was new and I remarked upon it, for it seemed oddly out of place.

‘We had that room converted into a chapel,’ said Foyster, and when I asked him the reason he looked at me darkly and said, ‘Young lady, when you see what I am about to show you, I think you’ll understand.’

To our right was the room in which I had slept on our last visit, the same room in which Price had visited me two years ago when he had woken me and asked me to drive him back to London. I could not help but look in as we passed, the memory of that time reaching back, taunting me. Stripped of furniture, the room appeared bare now, but it smelt and felt just the same. I looked up suddenly, aware of Price near me, and smiled uncertainly. I was hoping he had seen the room, hoping that he might remember also. But his eyes only flickered in half recognition, then he looked away. I hated him for that.

We came to a halt a little further down the dark corridor. ‘Here we are,’ said Foyster quietly as he pointed to the wall. The light from his lamp was playing on his face. ‘Now Mr Price, Miss Grey, tell me: in all your investigations, have you ever seen anything quite like this?’

‘It’s extraordinary,’ I whispered, casting my eyes over a mess
of indecipherable pencil marks covering part of the peeling wall: scribbles, lines and, most intriguingly, four unmistakable words:
MARIANNE MASS LIGHT PRAYERS
.

‘What do you suppose it means?’ asked Reverend Foyster.

My companion leaned in, running his nimble fingers over the markings. ‘Have you considered the possibility that little Adelaide did this, Mr Foyster, or her friend?’

‘Indeed, it was our first suspicion, but the children do not yet know how to write; and in any event, they couldn’t possibly reach as high as this. It’s most odd. See, here, how the pencil mark slopes off, as if the writer has been interrupted, pulled away suddenly?’

Retrieving a length of steel measuring tape from the depths of his coat pocket, Price set it against the writing. ‘And you say this appeared from nowhere?’ he asked.

‘Indeed, overnight, within several hours at the most.’

‘Light mass,’ said Price, deep in thought. ‘Means nothing to me. Sarah?’

‘Perhaps we’re misinterpreting,’ I suggested. ‘Here the words are clearly spaced out. Perhaps that’s intentional; perhaps each noun is intended to stand
separately
: mass, light and prayers.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Price. ‘Either way, there is a distinct Roman Catholic flavour to these messages. Reverend Fosyter, is there any more of this writing you can show us?’

‘Indeed there is. Down here, please.’

We followed him round into another passage, which led to more empty and neglected bedrooms. Here, scribbled on the wall next to the entrance of one of these rooms, was yet more pathetic handwriting. I shone my torch a little further along the passage and saw, scrawled in the same unruly handwriting, the four words that have become immortalised in the history of the
Borley affair:
MARIANNE PLEASE HELP GET.
Another message read:
MARIANNE AT GET HELP ENTANT BOTTOM ME.

‘What is this?’ asked Price, holding his lamp close to the wall to illuminate words immediately underneath:
I CANNOT UNDERSTAND, TELL ME MORE …

‘My wife wrote that,’ said the rector. ‘We wanted to see whether we could communicate with the entity.’

I looked up and noticed that Price’s gaze had narrowed, latching onto the words. Then, abruptly, he said, ‘The samples are rather similar. Aren’t they?’

‘What about this word?’ I asked quickly, pointing to some other letters underneath:
TROMPEE
.

‘I think it’s French,’ Price murmured.

‘Well, of course it’s French!’ said a patronising voice from the dark at our backs. ‘Silly man.
Trompée
. It means “deceived”.’

Price and I spun round.

Reverend Foyster smiled. ‘Mr Price, Miss Grey, allow me to introduce my wife, Marianne.’

*

Marianne’s face was full of contempt. My first thought was that this woman couldn’t possibly be the rector’s wife, for she was closer to my age than to his and might easily have passed for his daughter. She was his opposite in almost every respect: healthy, confident and attractive, with a mass of dark hair and curves evident through her silk nightgown.

The rector took a step towards her. ‘Dear, you should be in bed.’

‘Oh, Lionel, do stop fussing!’

‘Mrs Foyster, I do hope we haven’t called at a bad time,’ I said.

‘Oh, not at all. After all, misery does love company.’ She gave
a pinched smile, glancing knowingly at her husband. ‘Isn’t that how the old saying goes, dear?’

‘Mrs Foyster,’ Price began, ‘I’m—’

‘Harry Price,’ she said slowly, fixing her eyes on him. ‘Yes, I know who you are. Although I must say, I hope your detective abilities exceed the quality of your French or else we might all be in trouble.’

He chuckled warmly at that. And although Mrs Foyster was smiling too, the same friendliness was absent from her eyes.

At the rector’s suggestion we retired to the drawing room, where I was glad to sit by the warmth of the fire and in better light as we discussed the wall writings.

‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Foyster asked as he
settled back into his deep armchair cradling a brandy. Mrs Foyster hovered close by.

‘Never,’ I replied.

But from the far corner of the room where he was studying the contents of a bookcase, Price said firmly, ‘I have.’

Mrs Foyster turned sharply towards him and gave a slightly nervous giggle. ‘Oh? Tell us then.’

‘Paranormal wall writing is extremely rare,’ began Price, ‘but there is a precedent. In fact, Reverend Foyster, you might have heard of the case. It occurred in 1878.’

The rector shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so; why would I have heard of it?’

‘Because,’ Price continued, still staring at the row of books in front of him, ‘the affair to which I am referring occurred in a small town in Canada. A place called Amherst, near Nova Scotia. Perhaps you know of it.’

Although I failed to see the relevance of this remark it had an instant effect upon Mrs Foyster who turned and glared accusingly at her husband before crossing the room to the French windows. Her husband turned his head and stared into the fire.

‘Ah yes,’ Price said confidently, ‘I thought you would. You lived quite near there, didn’t you? You both did.’

This was news to me.

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘I do hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of looking into your situation before we came here this evening. I made some very enlightening preliminary enquiries, in fact. Your cousin, Miss Ethel Bull, helpfully pointed me in the right direction on most of the relevant matters.’

The rector put down his glass cautiously. ‘And what matters were those, exactly?’

His curiosity was matched by my own, for it was generally the rule that if a case under our investigation required background checking or additional research, it would fall to me to discharge such duties. But this time Price had not asked me. In fact he had never mentioned the question of any prior investigation. And this alarmed me because it confirmed what I had feared all evening: Price knew something about the case that I did not.

He continued: ‘For one thing, an examination of
Crockford’s Clerical Directory
of 1931, in which your previous incumbencies are recorded, showed that you were rector of Sackville, Nova Scotia, from 1928 to 1930. That’s two years before you both returned to England and took up the living at Borley, is it not?’

‘Correct.’

Mrs Foyster said with some heat, ‘I don’t see what relevance this has to the—’

‘Don’t you?’ Price was watching her carefully. ‘Sackville in Nova Scotia is a mere five miles from Amherst. Five miles. And there are certainly more than a few similarities between your problems here at Borley and those experienced in Amherst. I could list them, but I’m sure you’re more than familiar with the matter.’

‘We have never heard of this case you mention,’ retorted Reverend Foyster angrily, ‘and even if we had, I don’t see what relevance it would have to our own predicament.’

‘Allow me to jog your memory,’ said Price, turning to look once more at the bookshelf. ‘Because, quite conveniently, I see you have a book about the very case in question.’ He slipped a thick volume from the shelf and held it out for me to see. ‘Wonderful book this, Sarah: Walter Hubbell’s
The Haunted House – The Great Amherst Mystery
.’
¹
His eyes moved slowly over the pages as he
leafed through the book. ‘Oh, it’s all very dramatic to be sure; it was a bad business, caused quite a bit of upset. Dr Nandor Fodor described this as one of the most famous poltergeist cases in the world. The young girl involved, Esther Cox, was a medium, or so she claimed. And she became the target of an alleged poltergeist infestation that was quite violent indeed. After a terrible time of stone-throwing and other disturbances, writing appeared on the walls of her bedroom.’ He was turning the pages with increased eagerness now. ‘Listen to this! One of them read simply, “Esther Cox, you are mine to kill.”’ At this he threw the book down on the floor and snarled at Mrs Foyster, ‘Now, dear lady, is any of this beginning to sound familiar to you?’