The Mist in the Mirror

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Susan Hill

Title Page

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Postscript

Copyright

Orphaned at the age of five and sent away from England to Africa, Sir James Monmouth has spent most of his life travelling, following in the footsteps of his childhood hero, the explorer Conrad Vane. He returns to England one dark and rainy night with the intention of discovering more, not just about himself, but the early life of the explorer. Warned against following this path, Sir James becomes yet more determined to unravel the mysteries of the past – but who is the mysterious little boy who haunts his every step, and why can only he hear the chilling scream and the desperate sobbing?

Susan Hill’s novels and short stories have won the Whitbread, Somerset Maugham and John Llewellyn Rhys awards and been shortlisted for the Booker Prize. She is the author of over forty books, including the four previous Serrailler crime novels,
The Various Haunts of Men
,
The Pure in Heart
,
The Risk of Darkness
and
The Vows of Silence
. Her most recent novel is
A Kind Man
. The play adapted from her famous ghost story,
The Woman in Black
, has been running on the West End stage since 1989.

Susan Hill was born in Scarborough and educated at King’s College, London. She is married to the Shakespeare scholar, Stanley Wells, and they have two daughters. She lives in Gloucestershire, where she runs her own small publishing company, Long Barn Books.

Susan Hill’s website is
www.susan-hill.com

London, and the library of my club, towards the end of an afternoon in late November, that bleak, dispiriting time of year when the golden Indian summer days that lingered on through October seem long gone, and it is yet too early to feel the approaching cheer of Christmas.

Outside in the streets the air was raw and a light mizzle greased the pavements, and had chilled my face and damped the sleeves of my coat.

But I had made the best of my walk down through the narrow streets and alleys of Covent Garden, dodging between stalls and barrows, glimpsing the interior of the Halls, lit like glowing treasure caverns within, and so coming briskly towards Pall Mall.

And now, I paused at the doorway of that handsome room, and for a few seconds looked with quiet appreciation on the welcoming, untroubled scene.

The lamps were lit, and a good fire crackled in the great stone fireplace. There was a discreet chink of china, the brightness of silver teapot and muffin cover, the comforting smell mingled of steaming hot water, toast and a little sweet tobacco.

The dreech weather had drawn in a few more than usual
at this time of day but I saw no close acquaintance and I had a mind to drink a quiet pot of tea and glance at the early edition of the evening paper, content in my own company. Nevertheless, I responded readily enough to the nod of the man seated a little apart across the room in one of the deep recesses between reading desks, for he always cut a melancholy figure and my conscience was pricked by seeing him alone.

‘Sir James …’ I sank into the depths of the old mahogany leather. Behind us, the heavy curtains were still undrawn and I could see the street lamps haloed in the thin mist.

‘The fag end of a pretty miserable day.’

Sir James Monmouth nodded. He was a reserved, still handsome man, neatly tucked into himself. A lawyer? A civil servant? I had no idea, but he always made himself agreeable to the younger Members in a modest, unobtrusive way, and what I knew of him, I liked.

‘Still,’ I said cheerfully, as the tea arrived, and I spied the jar of anchovy paste beside the buttered toast, ‘I had an excellent walk. I confess to loving the streets of London no matter the weather.’

‘Ah,’ Sir James said reflectively, ‘the London streets. Yes. A man may walk for many an hour through them.’ He settled more deeply into his armchair, leaning back so that his face was in shadow.

‘Of course, it is a fine thing so long as one has a refuge such as this at the end of an afternoon – lights, a good fire, congenial company … tea and toast.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, after a pause, ‘a refuge indeed. I have been glad to find it so.’

‘You are generally here, Sir James.’

‘Yes. Yes, generally here. I pray I may always be so, for this place is home to me now, and friends and family too.’

Something in his tone affected me, so that I felt a sudden unease, and, rather too heartily, pressed him to have a slice
of the excellent toast. But he waved it politely away and, at the same moment, a couple of my friends entered and came across to join us, and the mood was lifted.

‘We have been hearing from Sideham,’ – Sideham was the Senior Porter – ‘about an apparent sighting of a guest wing ghost!’

‘I had no idea there was such a thing,’ I said. ‘A headless guardsman?’

Ffoulkes snorted with laughter, and at once heads were turned in our direction, there was some reproving clicking of tongues, and we became chastened and quiet, and the library settled back into its customary hush.

But the subject of ghosts was raised again as we sat in the smoking room after dinner and, over glasses and pipes, speculated on various theories and philosophies to do with spectres, the afterlife and worlds beyond the grave. The story of the Club Ghost was told – and reckoned to be a feeble and unremarkable one. And though we encouraged one another mildly, trying to set the mood, no good and gripping original tale was produced by any of us.

‘There’s many an excellent ghost story printed,’ Ffoulkes said at last, ‘we had better leave the telling of them to the professionals.’

And so the subject dropped, and we went on to talk of quite other matters.

The party broke up just before midnight, and I was crossing the hall towards the cloakroom when I turned, hearing a step immediately behind me.

‘You are taking a cab, I daresay?’ Sir James Monmouth spoke with a certain diffidence and hesitation.

‘No, no. It is but half a mile to my rooms. I shall walk.’

‘Then – if I may keep you company for a short step?’

‘By all means. Like me, you feel the need of a breath of air before turning in.’

He did not reply, only went to wait beside the entrance doors. I was quick to don my coat, and we left together.

There was still the same chill mist, which caught the back of the throat and bore city smoke and London’s river mingled on its breath.

On the corner, the chestnut brazier glowed faintly, though the seller had packed up and gone an hour or more since.

None were about. The tall, stuccoed buildings loomed, blank-eyed, above us.

For a moment or two we walked without speaking, but I was sure Sir James had not, in fact, come out with me simply in order to stretch his legs after an evening seated indoors. His very silence had a tension about it.

We reached the next corner where a solitary cab waited under the lamp.

My companion stopped.

‘I will drop back now.’

‘Well, then, I will bid you goodnight, Sir James.’

‘A moment …’ He hesitated. His beak-nosed face was gaunt, and skull-like beneath the thin hair. I realised that he was much older than I had supposed.

‘I could not help but overhear, after dinner … your conversation in the smoking room.’

‘Oh, that was idle enough talk. They are amiable fellows.’

‘But you yourself appeared – more serious.’

‘I confess that the subject has always held an interest for me.’

‘You – believe?’

‘Believe? Oh, as to that …’ I made a dismissive gesture. The topic was not one I wanted to raise again, in that late, silent street.

‘I have … a story. It is in my possession … which perhaps you might care to read.’

‘A true story? Or a fiction? You are an author, Sir James?’

‘No, no. It is merely an account of certain – events.’

He lightened his tone abruptly. ‘At least, it may pass an idle hour, when next you have one.’

Just then footsteps began to be heard, at the far end of the street. Sir James turned his head quickly, and peered through the murk. Then, abruptly, his hand shot out and he clutched my arm. ‘I beg you,’ he said in a low, urgent voice, ‘
read it
!’

The clocks of London began to chime the hour.

It was several days before I was at the club again. Business matters took me north and from there I went directly home to Norfolk, where I relaxed by my own fireside, surrounded by my loving, happy family. Young Giles had a new labrador pup which diverted us all a good deal, and Ann was patiently walking Eliza, who was barely three, up and down the yard and across the paddock on her Shetland pony. I had an excellent day’s shooting in the foulest weather and returned home with a decent bag, and muddy breeches, happy as a lark.

I never found it easy to make the transition between Foldingay and my quasi-bachelor existence in Town; for an evening or half a day I felt ill at ease, with a foot in each camp and my mind in neither, and I generally called in at the club for a couple of hours to help ease me back.

It was near to nine on that Monday evening when I came in through the swing doors, to be greeted by Sideham.