Ghosts of Mayfield Court

by Russell, Norman

  After what seemed an age, Sergeant Bottomley reappeared, and to my heightened imagination he seemed to be a denizen of that enchanted garden. And then my heart gave a leap of fear and disbelief as I saw that the burly police sergeant was not alone.

  The spirit-child Helen walked beside him, and she was holding his hand.

  ‘This little girl, Miss Catherine,’ said Herbert Bottomley, ‘is Hannah Price, and she is a Romany child.’

  When Mr Bottomley came back into the house, he sat down on an upright chair near the table in the living room. Of Uncle there was no sign. The little girl stood beside the sergeant, leaning rather timorously against his right arm. I could see by her stance that Hannah Price knew instinctively, as children often do, that this was a man whom she could trust.

  ‘I’m not one to belittle belief in spirits, Miss Catherine,’ Mr Bottomley continued, ‘but as a local man I knew about this tumbledown old house, and how easy it was for curious folk to gain entrance. When you showed me that little bedroom, I saw that there was a cavity in the far wall, which someone had tried to cover up with some old drawers. Well, I could see quite clearly that if you crawled through that hole you’d come out on to a stone staircase, leading down to the kitchen yard. That’s how little Hannah got into the house and out again.’

  ‘But why should she come here?’ I asked. ‘She knew where that poor skeleton had been concealed, and she knew that the little room on the first floor was where Helen had been lodged. She flitted about like a ghost, talking silently—’

  ‘Yes, miss, and that’s when I suspected that an afflicted child had been wandering about here. When I asked you how she laid her finger on her lips, and you told me, I was almost certain. She’d been told always to do that in order to let people know that she couldn’t speak.’

  Bottomley suddenly encircled the child with his arm, hugging her towards him. He looked at her with a kind of grave compassion.

  ‘How old are you, Hannah?’ he asked.

  The girl spoke, and I saw her lips form the word ‘ten’, though no sound came from her mouth. Immediately, she placed the front of a finger against her lips.

  ‘You see, miss?’ said Mr Bottomley gently. ‘Hannah’s telling you that she’s dumb. She’s also something else, Miss Catherine. I went looking for her in the gypsy encampment, because I knew there was no girl child of her age in the village. And there I found her, sitting on the ground in front of a caravan with her aunt. I sat down with them, all comfortable, like, and her aunt told me all about Hannah – another little orphan, like Helen. This little girl’s not only dumb, she’s “lacking”, as we say – not daft, miss, if you’ll pardon the coarse word, but not always knowing what’s right behaviour and what isn’t. That’s how she came to be wandering about in your house and garden – Hannah wouldn’t understand the meaning of “trespass”.’

  ‘But she knew where Helen’s remains were concealed. She knew that Helen had slept in that bed—’

  ‘I know, miss, and that’s a mystery in its own right, but it’s no good me questioning this little waif of a gypsy girl about it. However, her aunt told me that there was someone in their camp who knew a lot about Helen, and it was from this “somebody” that Hannah learnt about that iron bedstead in the room on the first floor, and the whole legend of the little ghost. What we had here was one little girl looking for another little girl, and it was while she was doing that, that she discovered the skeleton. In her muddled way she kept her own counsel, miss, until she saw you. She must have liked you, and decided to share her secret with you.’

  The door opened, and Mrs Doake bustled into the room, wiping her hands on her pinafore.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bottomley,’ she cried, ‘is this the little mite that’s been frightening us all? Well, Hannah, if you’ll come with me to the kitchen, I’ll give you a glass of buttermilk, and a big jam sandwich. Would you like that?’

  For the first time since I had seen her, the little girl’s face was lit up by a brilliant smile. She mouthed the word ‘yes’ in reply to Mrs Doake’s question, and immediately placed her finger to her lips. Evidently the action had become an almost unconscious reflex. The kindly woman took Hannah Price by the hand, and led her from the room.

  I looked at the rural policeman, who had begun to scribble a few notes into a minute notebook that he had produced from an inner pocket. His lips quietly formed words which he then wrote down; occasionally he licked the tip of the stub of pencil that he was using. He seemed to be a friendly, kind-hearted sort of man, but one who evidently kept his own counsel. I was anxious to know what he had discovered about the pathetic remains of the dead child concealed beneath the ruins of the washhouse. I thought: should I ask him outright?

  Mr Bottomley stopped writing, and returned notebook and pencil to his pocket. He looked speculatively at me for a moment, and then spoke.

  ‘I don’t think your uncle, Mr Maximilian Paget, likes skeletons, miss,’ he said, ‘which is why he isn’t here to listen to what I have to say. So I’ll let you know what’s going forward, and you can tell him later. The skeleton, as I think you realized, is that of a child. Until the police surgeon has seen it, there’s no way of telling how long it has lain in its hidden tomb.’

  ‘Poor little thing!’ I cried. ‘What kind of people would murder a little girl? Poor little Helen—’

  ‘Steady, miss!’ Mr Bottomley held up a large hand as though to stem the tide of my indignation. ‘Let’s not confuse fact with fantasy! First of all, we don’t know yet whether it was a girl or a boy. All that we know is that it’s obviously the skeleton of a child. “Helen” may be nothing more than a name belonging to an old folk legend told in these parts. Don’t confuse our little skeleton with young Hannah Price, the Romany child.’

  It was from that moment, I think, that I stopped regarding Sergeant Bottomley as a mere rustic policeman, presumably more at home with poachers and drunks than with murders. He was clearly a man with an agile brain, and a knack of clear thinking that, I realized ruefully, I myself lacked.

  ‘And then, Miss Catherine,’ he continued, ‘we don’t know for certain that it’s murder, do we? The child may have died of an illness, or as the result of an accident, and been buried secretly for some family reason – an inheritance, perhaps. Such things do happen, miss. It’s far too early to talk about murder.’

  ‘You’re right, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘and I must plead guilty to jumping to conclusions. I’ll be more cautious in future. So what will you do now?’

  ‘I’ll walk back up the hill, Miss Paget, and talk further to an old man in the gypsy encampment.’ He looked at me for a moment, and then added, ‘Would you care to come with me, Miss Catherine? After all, you’ve been in this business from the beginning. Your uncle, Mr Maximilian Paget, seems to have no stomach for this kind of affair. So would you like to come? I promise to bring you back safely when we’re done.’

  I needed no second invitation. I was so used to Uncle keeping even mundane matters from me, as though ignorance was a virtue, that I was flattered to be considered an adult. I eagerly assented to Mr Bottomley’s invitation.

  ‘In that case, miss,’ he said, ‘we’ll go up Piper’s Hill – that’s what it’s called – by way of the old carriage road, which means we won’t have to go through the gardens. That way, we won’t disturb anyone who may be hiding there.’

  I knew that he was referring indirectly to my uncle, so I said nothing, although the word ‘hiding’ struck me as being unpleasantly near the truth. Uncle Max, normally an assertive man, had been obviously unwilling to be involved in the investigation of a mysterious death.

  Sergeant Bottomley and I climbed the long winding path through the tall beeches of Piper’s Wood until we came to a clearing amidst the trees. Far below, half hidden in its own plantation of gnarled oaks, we could see the lichen-covered roofs and tottering chimneys of Mayfield Court. There was a smell of drifting woodsmoke, the occasional murmur of voices, and the sporadic barking of dogs. A single caravan,
painted a faded green, stood in the shelter of the beeches, and presently an old man emerged from it.

  ‘Solomon Williams is my name, master,’ he said. He spoke with a pronounced Welsh accent, and his voice was thin and reedy, suggesting damaged lungs.

  ‘My name is Herbert Bottomley,’ said the sergeant. ‘And this young lady is Miss Paget—’

  ‘Ah! So that’s who they be,’ said the old man. ‘More Pagets. I wondered whether that might be so. Well, master, you’ll have come up here – you and the young lady – to hear about Helen, the little ghost. Leastways, that’s what little Hannah’s aunty told me. It seems that Helen’s skeleton has come to light, proving that it was murder, right enough. I always suspected that someone had made away with that poor little girl.’

  I looked at the old man, who had sat down on a wooden bench, motioning to us to do the same. Solomon Williams was a man clearly above eighty, with a skin tanned and wrinkled by constant exposure to the elements, and with faded blue eyes. He was clad in an old suit of black serge, and with a red kerchief about his neck. Before I was enlightened by Mr Bottomley, Solomon Williams had jumped to the conclusion that the skeleton was that of a child called Helen, and that the child had been murdered. This was not the occasion to argue the old man out of his beliefs.

  ‘It was long years ago, Mr Bottomley, and you, Miss Paget,’ Solomon Williams began, ‘and memory becomes uncertain with the passage of the years. But yes, I remember that little mite coming to Mayfield Court. I can’t tell you the year now, but it was on a black and rainy October night that the child called Helen came to that ill-fated house.

  ‘We’d set up our camp here in Piper’s Wood in September, which is something that we do most years. We stay until the end of October, when we travel back to our camp in Wales for the winter months. This wood belongs to the De Boulter family, who have always been well disposed to us – by which I mean, they do nothing for us, but they do nothing against us, either.’

  The old man paused, and produced a short clay pipe from a pocket. He filled it with tobacco from a pouch, and lit it with an old-fashioned tinder box. For a while he puffed away in silence, his mind harking back thirty years. Mr Bottomley was evidently content to wait.

  ‘Yes,’ Solomon Williams continued, ‘I was out that wet night – I remember the year now, it was 1864. I was looking to see whether any rabbits had been caught in the traps I’d laid that morning. Well, the rain was pouring down in torrents. I sheltered under some trees which overlooked the lodge gates of Mayfield Court. A closed carriage had stopped there, and I could see the driver in his gabardine cape and hood, banging on the gates to be let in. The lodge keeper came out of his little house, a piece of sacking thrown over his head, and dragged the gates open.

  ‘As the carriage passed on to the drive I caught a glimpse of the little girl peering out of the carriage window.’

  ‘And did you know who this little girl was, Mr Williams?’ asked Mr Bottomley.

  ‘Oh, yes, we all knew who she was, because the woman who worked as a servant at Mayfield Court had told one of our womenfolk that a Miss Helen was coming to stay. She was the niece, or great-niece, or maybe it was second cousin, of the master’s, so she said. Something like that. The cousin had died, and this little Helen was coming to live with them – the master and his wife, I mean.’

  ‘This master – can you remember his name? I know it’s a long time ago.’

  ‘His name was Hector. I never actually saw him, as I remember. He was a very withdrawn kind of a man, so they said. And she was called Arabella. She was younger than Hector. They weren’t gentry; they just lived there. They’ve been gone for years – dead, for all I know – and the house has been shut up, set on fire, and neglected until that man and his niece – the young lady there – came to stay.’

  ‘Hector and Arabella: I don’t suppose you can remember their surname?’

  ‘Well, of course I can. I’m not that old that I can’t remember a man’s name. Paget. That was their name. Mr Hector Paget and Mrs Arabella Paget. And the little girl was Helen Paget.’

  I was learning more about my family from this old gypsy man than I had ever gleaned from my taciturn uncle. Who were those shadowy people, Hector and Arabella? What kin were they of mine? And if what old Solomon said was true, then the little girl called Helen was kin of mine as well.

  The old gypsy was eyeing Mr Bottomley speculatively, waiting for him to ask a question.

  ‘And what do you think happened to this little girl, this Helen?’

  ‘Well, Mr Bottomley, the woman who worked as a servant at Mayfield Court – Rose Potter, her name was – told one of our women that a coach had pulled up on the Warwick road behind the old mansion, on the very night that Miss Helen arrived there, and that the child was roused from bed and taken away to live at a school for young ladies somewhere across the shire, a long way from these parts.’

  The old man permitted himself a brief smile.

  ‘Rose Potter! She was a goodly soul, with a kind heart. She’d once been a schoolmistress in one of the National Schools, so I heard, but had fallen on evil times. Perhaps she knew what really happened to the child, because she spent a lot of time sneaking along passages and hanging about on staircases. More handy with gossip than a duster, was Rose, so they told me.’

  ‘So you don’t think it was true – about Miss Helen going off in the night to a school for girls?’ asked Bottomley.

  ‘I know it wasn’t true, though I expect Rose Potter had been fed some tale or other by her master, or more likely her mistress. Listen, Mr Bottomley: I was out in the fields surrounding Mayfield Court all that night, setting traps, and suchlike, and I can swear that no coach stopped on the Warwick road, and no little girl was brought out to get into it. That child – Helen, her name was – was swallowed up into Mayfield Court, and never came out of it again.’

  The old man’s pipe had gone out, and he knocked out the ashes on the side of the bench.

  ‘I used to tell our people what I thought,’ he continued. ‘Some believed me, others didn’t. That’s how the story of the ghost began, people elaborating on what I’d told them, weaving tales to tell at night by the camp fires. That’s why poor little dumb Hannah wandered around the place, pointing to things, and trying to tell the story herself. Poor little thing, she’s lacking, Mr Bottomley, and knows no fear of strangers. And now that you’ve found Helen’s bones, you’ll be able to find out what really happened to that poor child, and bring her murderers to justice.’

  We retraced our steps to the house, and went into the kitchen. It was a hot day, and I suggested that we should have a pot of tea, but the sergeant said that a cup of water would be fine for him. As I worked the hand-pump over the brownstone sink, I was conscious of Sergeant Bottomley’s eyes appraising me. Ever since his visit to Mayfield Court he had addressed most of his remarks to me, realizing, I suppose, that Uncle was not prepared to interest himself in the business of the skeleton.

  I gave him the cup of water, which he set on the kitchen table. He explored a deep pocket in the tails of his coat and produced a battered silver hipflask, from which he poured a quantity of gin into his cup of water. He downed the whole libation in a single gulp, and sighed with evident satisfaction. He never took his eyes off me, and there was something about his expression, partly curious and partly compassionate, that made me feel vaguely unsettled. Then he spoke.

  ‘Didn’t I hear your uncle say that you’re keeping company with a young man called Jabez? Or was it Theodore? I expect you’ll be glad to see him again, when you get back to London.’

  In spite of myself I blushed. Whatever had possessed Uncle Max to talk about my private life to a comparative stranger?

  ‘His name’s Michael,’ I said, and from the little smile that played about Mr Bottomley’s mouth I realized that he had tricked me into admitting that I had an admirer. Really, it was a rather impertinent trick. Whatever had prompted this kindly, shrewd man to act in that way? As though in answe
r to my unspoken query, Mr Bottomley provided an answer.

  ‘Well, miss,’ Bottomley continued, ‘I hope you’ll tell your friend Michael about what’s come to light here today, about the bones of a child hidden away in the over-grown garden of a broken-down old manor house. Secrets of that kind are best shared with someone outside the family. Tell your Michael all about it.’

  He spoke with such quiet, deliberate earnestness that for a moment I felt quite unnerved. What lay behind this enigmatic man’s words?

  ‘I’m riding across to Warwick, now, miss,’ he said, ‘to give an account of today’s doings to my guvnor, Detective Inspector Jackson. He’ll come out here tomorrow morning, and he’ll bring the police surgeon with him. That poor little child lay concealed in that wall for well on thirty years; but if it’s murder, then we’ll not rest until we’ve tracked the killer down.’

  I saw that fleeting expression of despair and sorrow that I had observed earlier pass across the burly sergeant’s face as he talked about the skeleton, and wondered whether he had children of his own.

  ‘I expect that your uncle and you will be returning to London soon,’ he continued, ‘leaving this local mystery for us to investigate. But this is a Paget affair, miss, and its ramifications may follow you back home.’

  He drew a pocket book from an inner pocket, and extracted a calling card, which he handed to me.

  ‘If ever you need someone to confide in, Miss Paget,’ he said, ‘you can rely upon me to listen. You’ll find my address there, on that card. I’ll leave you now, and make my way to Warwick.’

  Before I could frame a reply, Sergeant Bottomley had left the kitchen.

  I looked at the card that he had given me:

  Detective Sergeant H. Bottomley

  Warwickshire Constabulary

  On the reverse, written in a bold cursive hand, were the words: ‘Dekker’s Field Farm, Thornton Heath, Warks.’ Evidently, the sergeant wanted me to have access to his private address. I wondered why.