by Neil Spring
‘This is the impression of the spirit child’s hand in putty.’
He placed it gently on the commander’s desk.
Price looked quizzical. ‘You carry this with you all of the time?’
‘I do. Think of it as my rock of faith.’
The four of us glanced down at the unmistakable impression of three small fingers.
‘Harry?’
Price looked at me and I looked back at him. The cast before us could quite easily be a hoax; we knew that. We also knew that if it wasn’t a hoax, here indeed was crucial evidence of contact between two worlds.
But we did not get the chance to examine the cast. Just then, a sharp rapping made us all turn towards the office door, which opened immediately to reveal the sharp-featured Oscar Hartwell standing there, glowering at us.
– 19 –
LIES BETWEEN FRIENDS
‘Mr Hartwell,’ the commander said, his jaw flexing – with annoyance, I thought. ‘We were told you were resting.’
‘I heard from one of the soldiers that there have been enquiries from the newspapers.’
‘Indeed, and we are just discussing—’
‘How to manipulate the headlines? The news of my dear wife’s tragic demise?’ he said belligerently, advancing into the office. From the stormy look on his face I worried he was about to throw a punch. ‘How bloody dare you broach such matters without thinking first to involve me?’
‘Actually,’ Price said, ‘we were discussing your son – Pierre.’
Hartwell looked taken aback. ‘And what, pray tell, has my son got to do with you?’
‘Gentlemen,’ the commander said hastily, ‘can I suggest that we all take a seat?’
I offered my chair to Hartwell, thinking the poor man looked impossibly weary. Before he could sit, however, he saw on the commander’s desk the queer cast of putty bearing the impressions of three small fingers.
He caught his breath sharply.
Price looked across at me, then stood and angled his head towards Hartwell.
‘You recognise this cast, sir?’
‘Why, yes. I’ve seen one just like it, at home. It belonged to Marie –’
He trailed off, his mind making the connections. Then he looked questioningly, accusingly, at Price. ‘You said you were discussing my son? Now look here, what’s all this about?’
Price studied him. ‘Do you know whose fingerprints this cast bears, sir?’
‘No, why should I? What are you . . .’
He broke off, looking around at us all somewhat self-consciously.
I stood there, numb, anxious, anticipating. Surely to heavens Price wasn’t about to disclose to Hartwell the facts of the Imber séances – was he? I didn’t believe he would. At least I hoped not.
‘You’d better sit down,’ Price advised.
Hartwell did sit now, slowly, shaking his head with impatient confusion. And as Price opened his mouth to speak, I barely restrained the impulse to tell Hartwell to clamp his hands over his ears – or better, to get out of the room, for his own sake.
‘This will be hard to hear, but the warden here believes . . . Oh dear.’ Price took a breath.
I clamped a hand onto his arm. ‘Harry, no—’
Almost immediately, the commander rallied to my cause. ‘Quite – Mr Hartwell does not need to hear this! Certainly not now!’
‘The warden believes he has witnessed the ghost of your son.’
Hartwell jerked his head back. In a terrible silence, his eyes made an uncertain circuit of the room. It was as if Price had pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it, and now there was nothing to do but wait for the explosion.
But none came, not at first. Only a quiet, hurt voice. ‘Is this some sort of depraved joke?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Price answered, picking up and examining the cast of putty.
Then he told Hartwell the rest, about the séances carried out at the Imber mill.
‘I can barely believe I’m hearing this,’ Hartwell said, his eyes shifting hatefully between Sidewinder and the commander. ‘After all that has happened this dreadful day.’
Sidewinder stood up then, and looked down at the landowner gravely. ‘On more than one occasion, I have witnessed the materialised form of your boy,’ he insisted. ‘Sir, it was Pierre. Half dressed, in rags. His breathing low but audible. The power of his voice alone was enough to convert a man to total belief. I believe it is the reason why your wife had the confidence to do what she did today.’
Hartwell’s whole body started to shake.
‘Sir—’
Hartwell erupted out of his chair, and with a rough yell of rage, he picked up the putty and hurled it across the office.
The commander sprang up. ‘Sir, please! Control your—’
‘My wife died today!’ Hartwell yelled, his voice ragged with grief. ‘Do you understand the hell I’m going through, all of you? And now you throw this at me?’
The others lowered their gaze respectfully, but not Price. He stood there at the side of the desk, staring at Hartwell with intense fascination.
‘Hartwell,’ Sidewinder said, ‘I tell you, sir, it was your son, Pierre.’
Hartwell fixed the warden with his furious gaze. The fire in his eyes dimmed, just a little.
‘And believe me, I know how much that child meant to you.’
Hartwell nodded, a little calmer now.
‘Your whole life you wanted for nothing else but a son. So many years, waiting. You pinned all your hopes and dreams on Pierre.’
‘Yes,’ Hartwell mumbled, and his lower lip began to tremble as his gaze went to the map on the wall. ‘He was to have everything. Imber Court, the land. It was my dream for him to restore the village.’
‘Sir, as God is my witness, your son Pierre returns to Imber,’ Sidewinder said resolutely.
Hartwell stared fixedly at Sidewinder, and for the first time his hostility blinked out. It was hard to know whether Hartwell entertained any of this as possible, if he was grasping at this strange new prospect, however unlikely, as any parent hearing such a thing surely would. But I thought I saw the flicker of something else in his eyes then, not just curiosity, but, perhaps, hope.
After a considerably long pause, Hartwell said, ‘You actually saw my boy?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sidewinder nodded. ‘Not only that, I touched his hand, felt his fingers close around mine. A dead, cold hand. And I spoke to him.’
Hartwell’s mouth was agape, his eyes glistening with emotion.
‘He told me he was lonely. He wanted his papa.’ Sidewinder clasped his hands together. ‘This must be deeply troubling for you to hear, especially now, Mr Hartwell, but your wife also attended the séances.’
‘What?’ he breathed out harshly.
Hartwell repeated the assurance with solemn sincerity. ‘Your son asked for her on his second manifestation. Therefore, I invited her to attend.’
There was a protracted, uncomfortable pause. Then a light of understanding began to glow in Hartwell’s eyes. As if he had just remembered something vital and only now was it making sense to him. What was it? Glancing at me, he murmured, almost to himself, ‘A woman in the road . . . You! Oh dear Lord . . .’
A curiously cryptic remark, and one, I fancied, that was tinged with guilt; but there was no time to question it just now, for Hartwell turned on Price, and said, ‘And I thought I recognised your face. You’re that ghost hunter, aren’t you? I’ve seen your photograph in the gutter press. My wife used to collect your books. She’d go on and on about your antics. Debunking hauntings with one hand whilst fanning the flames with the other. Are you encouraging these claims?’
‘I am committed to exposing such preposterous delusions,’ said Price, holding up his hands, ‘and I’m urging you now not to be coaxed through the door of this fantast
ical man’s madhouse!’
‘I am not a madman,’ Sidewinder protested. ‘Pierre was certain to appear at every séance.’
‘Certain?’ repeated Price. His tone was mocking. ‘Certainty is the enemy of any open-minded inquiry, wouldn’t you say?’
Hartwell swallowed, caught his breath. Then he said to Sidewinder, ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t report you to the War Office right now for gross misconduct.’
Those were threatening words, to be sure, but I thought I detected something else in his tone: an anguished parent’s longing for answers. There’s something you’re not telling me, his tone seemed to whisper. What is it?
‘Your son imparted personal information only he could have known,’ said Sidewinder, ‘about his illness, about your home. He spoke coherently, rationally. And he warned us’ – his eyes flicked to the commander sitting behind his desk, listening carefully, studying our faces – ‘if the village is not returned to the community, if the soldiers do not leave, their lives are in grave danger.’
If I hadn’t already seen a mysterious childlike figure, I probably would have reacted with more scepticism than I was feeling now; but the image of those charcoal-black eyes, that pale and wasted face, was still imprinted on my memory, so of course I was intrigued.
‘Exactly how clear was this manifestation?’ I asked Sidewinder.
‘I saw him as I see you now. I had no doubts whatever of his objective reality.’
Price frowned darkly. ‘And you say the spirit manifested at every séance?’
‘Every single one. And I would doubt it myself, except . . .’
He trailed off.
‘Except?’
‘Except he comes back. He always comes back.’
‘A bold claim,’ Price said, not bothering to restrain his doubtful tone. ‘But your testimony, however beguiling, cannot take priority over experimental evidence.’
This got the support of the commander, who sniffed and nodded his head.
‘Why don’t we just go and see?’ I suggested. ‘Tonight, at the mill.’ Immediately, I realised my error, the insensitivity of my suggestion. Hartwell had gone white. ‘But my son is dead! My wife is dead! And this is unspeakably degrading to their memory. Why would you even think of putting me through this torture? To satisfy the idle purpose of mere curiosity?’
‘I apologise, sir,’ I said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
There was no point finishing. Hartwell had stalked to the door, thrown it open and marched out of the room. I flinched as the door slammed behind him.
The commander, on his feet now, glared down at me. ‘Good grief! Young lady – as if we didn’t have enough to contend with today! And you, Mr Price! Why on earth did you bring him in on this? This has gone quite far enough.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Sidewinder, heading for the door.
Price was silent, gazing distractedly at the plaster cast, which had been hurled into the corner of the room. ‘I wonder . . .’
I thought for a moment that he had determined to abandon the whole inquiry, which would really have left us in a pickle. But just as I was about to give up hope, Price said in a low voice, ‘No one has ever guaranteed me a ghost before.’
The words were out, and he left them hanging in the air like ripe fruit to be picked.
‘The snow is already melting,’ I said. ‘We could get back to Imber quite easily.’
Sidewinder shook his head vigorously, snatching up the cast. ‘After what happened to Sergeant Edwards, I vowed never to set foot inside that infernal mill again.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked.
‘You saw the crucifixes on the walls?’
‘You were afraid you’d accidentally call up vengeful, malevolent forces, is that it? Well,’ Price said with disdain, ‘I’m sorry to say, warden, that fools are invariably answered by their folly. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to hear of such nonsense during these long, dark days of winter – the season of the dead.’
‘Don’t you see?’ Sidewinder said, raking his fingers through his shock of white hair. ‘Imber is haunted because of us. Spirits are coming through into our world precisely because we invited them. And the ghosts of Imber won’t rest until their village is returned to its rightful owners.’
‘Utter hogwash!’ said Price.
‘You only have to look at Sergeant Edwards’ burns to see how dangerous this is,’ Sidewinder shot back.
And perhaps he was right. Perhaps this was getting dangerous. But I found it impossible to suppress my curiosity.
‘Take us to the mill,’ I said to Sidewinder. ‘Lead us in a séance, and let us see this spirit child for ourselves.’
Sidewinder only shook his head with greater vigour. We weren’t going to change his mind. Unless . . .
‘Harry, be a gem and get me some water, will you?’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed.’
I was surprised by how easily the lie came to me.
As Price trudged out of the room, I turned to the commander and said quickly, ‘Listen, I may be able to help you deal with the press. Of course, you already know Vernon Wall, but I have connections, with reporters I trust.’
‘You don’t think we can handle the press ourselves?’ the commander asked.
‘I think you’ll need help,’ I continued, aware of Sidewinder’s eyes on me, ‘especially if you’re expecting more protests. You know, some of these reporters can be tricky to manage, even Mr Wall. Working with them, and with him, I can help you make the case for the military’s continued presence here on Salisbury Plain. I’ll help you, if you allow us back into Imber. How about it?’
There was a long pause, and I thought the commander was going to laugh at me or flatly refuse. Time was running out. Through the open door, I heard Price’s approaching footsteps.
‘Commander?’ I prompted, a sharp edge in my voice.
Throwing up his head, the commander fixed his stare on Sidewinder and said, ‘Do as she asks,’ and when Sidewinder opened his mouth to protest he added, ‘That’s an order!’
‘A rather unconventional order,’ said Sidewinder.
‘You created this unholy mess, warden. You can bloody well help clean it up.’
Sidewinder stared at the floor, then acquiesced with a curt nod of his head.
Satisfied, the commander returned his attention to me. ‘How soon can it happen?’
‘How soon can what happen?’ said a voice over my shoulder, and I flinched as Price entered the room with my glass of water.
‘The commander has agreed we can visit the mill and perform a séance,’ I quickly told Price, who pulled an instant face of disapproval. He handed me the glass and, without looking at the warden, said, ‘Most mediums are contemptible cheats. We shall see if you are any different, won’t we, Mr Sidewinder?’
The warden bristled.
‘Very well. Tomorrow night?’ I suggested. ‘Monday.’
‘Halloween,’ Sidewinder said, eyes wide.
‘Seems ideal,’ the commander said sarcastically, and in an eerie way it did.
I took a sip of water, secretly rather pleased with myself for having handled the matter so discreetly. But then the commander said something that set me on edge.
‘Your contacts, Miss Grey. Can you arrange for them to be here on camp?’
Price caught my eye and I hastily attempted to change the subject. ‘Um, perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow?’
‘No, Miss Grey, we’ll discuss it now.’
The air seemed to thin. I sipped my water, feeling my sense of achievement drain away as Price voiced the obvious question:
‘What did I miss?’
‘Your associate here has agreed to lend us the help of her press contacts to deal with our public messages. Who exactly do you propose we call upon, Miss Grey?’
&
nbsp; I dropped my eyes. ‘I’ll have to give it a little thought.’
‘For a start, perhaps our mutual journalist friend, Mr Wall?’
Blast!
A deep silence spun out as my whole body tensed. Slowly, Price turned to face me and fixed me with a basilisk stare. No words passed his lips. He could say anything he wanted with those crystalline blue eyes. And right now, they were saying one thing:
Traitor.
– 20 –
DARK EMPLOYMENTS
‘You should have told me Vernon Wall was involved!’ Price thundered.
We were sitting opposite one another, alone, at a long table beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the officers’ mess hall, our only company the many portraits of former British monarchs that covered the walls. Unlike many of the buildings we had seen on camp, this one was a permanent structure of red brick, and built to impress with its parquet flooring and panelled oak doors. Tall sash windows overlooked the expanse of Salisbury Plain, upon which dusk was now falling.
Our voices echoed in the vast, empty hall. I had anticipated Price wouldn’t be pleased to hear of Vernon’s involvement, but the colour of his face suggested outrage.
‘I wasn’t obligated to say anything,’ I repeated. ‘You knew the bare facts, Harry. You came here of your own free will.’
‘Oh, come on, who are you trying to fool? I had a right to know,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Especially after what happened at Borley. Vernon Wall? Sarah, that bloody man is on a mission to bring me down – as if you didn’t know.’
But I hadn’t known that. All I knew was that Vernon had been involved with the military in Imber long before us. And right now we needed him – he could help the commander manage the difficult headlines we all knew were looming. I tried to make Price see.
‘In exchange for Vernon’s help, the warden will take us to the mill and perform a séance.’
‘Tomorrow night? Haven’t you got a job to go to, Sarah?’
My employment was the last thing on my mind; I would make my excuses.
‘Think about what’s at stake here, Harry. Sidewinder promised you a ghost. Don’t tell me you’re not burning to know the truth now.’
