THE GHOST OF HOLLOW HOUSE
A Mina Scarletti Mystery
Book Four
Linda Stratmann
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
HEAR MORE FROM LINDA
A NOTE TO THE READER
HISTORICAL NOTES
ALSO BY LINDA STRATMANN
Prologue
When Mr Honeyacre brought his young bride to Hollow House in December 1871, he could never have imagined that his peaceful country retreat would soon become a scene of relentless terror.
Mr Honeyacre was a gentleman of sixty, a hale and active sixty, kind and charitable, serious and scholarly. Mrs Honeyacre, the second of that name, was the former Miss Kitty Betts, aged thirty but admitting to twenty-five. She had once enjoyed a glittering career on the popular stage as Princess Kirabampu the oriental contortionist, but had been looking for something a little more permanent. Although Kitty lacked great beauty, she more than compensated for this with her cheerful and engaging personality, coquettish charm and a remarkably supple spine.
As the newlyweds’ carriage approached the manor house, Mr Honeyacre had to admit to a growing unease, but that, he told himself, was merely anxiety as to whether his dear Kitty would love her new home as much as he did. He had purchased the estate in the summer of 1866. The building had then been lying empty and neglected for some time, but although much had decayed within, its external structure, apart from that eternal curse of old houses, the roof, was strong and sound. Mr Honeyacre, recognising the potential of Hollow House on his very first viewing, had been irredeemably charmed. Nestling in a dip between Sussex hills, with land bordering the village of Ditchling Hollow, it was the home he had long been seeking, a place of calm repose, of pleasurable study, where he might entertain friends and display his collection of art, books and antiquities. There were grasslands suitable for pasture, a winding brook bubbling under an old stone bridge, gardens that had once been laid out with bowers and shrubberies, and provided generous fare for the kitchen. There was even a quaint little church. All could be made fresh and useful again. On that day, with the old windows of the aged manor smiling in the summer sun, everything had seemed possible. He had then been married to his beloved first wife, and she too had admired the house, and was eager to acquire it.
Tragically, before the much needed repairs and renovations could commence, the first Mrs Honeyacre had been taken gravely ill, and the anxious husband had devoted much of his time to caring for her during a long and painful decline. They had never lived in Hollow House, preferring Brighton so as to be within easy reach of the best medical advice and refreshing sea air. Following his inevitable bereavement, Mr Honeyacre had gone abroad to salve his grief, leaving Hollow House in the care of servants, who had attended to the most immediate repairs and brought the garden back to life. The planned improvements and extensive redecoration had never been carried out.
On his return to Brighton, he had found the town society all abuzz on the question of spiritualism, something that attracted his curiosity, and soon became a consuming interest and a new subject for his studies. As a result, he had been plunged into a series of extraordinary events, which for reasons he had never quite understood, centred around an unusual little lady, Miss Mina Scarletti. He had also made the acquaintance of Miss Kitty Betts, who quickly consented to becoming his second wife.
As soon as the engagement was announced, Mr Honeyacre ordered a small army of persons to create, in Hollow House, the delightful home he had always desired, somewhere that would be suitable for his studies, and provide every comfort and delight for his dear Kitty. Once the roof was declared sound, the house was cleansed from top to bottom. There was dusting and polishing and painting, restoring of old panelling, hanging of paper, laying of carpets, replacing threadbare draperies with the most luxurious velvets to guard against any possibility of draughts. New lamps cast a brilliant glow, the kitchen was fully equipped, the fireplaces and chimneys scoured and restored, and the antiquated plumbing and hygiene facilities brought up to the most modern standards.
With all this activity, the one thing that busy Mr Honeyacre had not yet done was study the history of his new home. That was a delight lying in store. How eagerly he anticipated poring over the registers in the little church of St Mond, copying the inscriptions on gravestones, collecting documents and portraits, and finally gathering together all his work into a little volume on the history of Hollow House. It would be a slight but useful publication, which would give pleasure for generations to come. Mr Honeyacre had looked forward to the quiet enjoyment of his senior years, the care of his collections, the rewards of scholarship and the sparkling company of his amusing wife.
It was only as they approached the entrance to the estate that he began to have doubts. It was a chill December day, and the hills were shrouded in rain. The manor house, peering through a damp haze, looked dark, dull and forbidding. His dear Kitty, he reminded himself had been used to a world where everything was painted in bright colours and covered in spangles. There had been music, acrobats, illusion and the noisy acclaim of the multitude. Unwillingly, he began to see his new home through the eyes of his wife, and it did not look inviting. Glancing at her as she gazed out of the carriage window for her first glimpse of Hollow House, he began to feel afraid. Gently, he took her hand, and it felt cold even through her glove. ‘I hope we will be happy here, my dear,’ he said, pressing her fingers affectionately.
He hoped he did not see a touch of uncertainty in her expression, which quickly vanished as she rallied herself into a smile. She returned the pressure of his fingers. ‘It is — quite breathtaking,’ she said.
It was only a few weeks later that Mr Honeyacre was obliged to ask himself why it had all gone so horribly wrong…
Chapter One
January in Brighton was cool and wet, the lower lying centre of town rendered mysterious with a grey mist that flowed from the chilly sea and veiled everything into unfamiliarity. Mina Scarletti, her lungs and chest cramped by the distortion of her twisted spine, was obliged more than most to avoid winter coughs and chills, and ventured out only if strictly necessary. When journeys were required, she faced the dangers with her slight form guarded by so many shawls and cloaks that she was amplified to more than twice her actual width. Thus clad, she thought she must resemble a misshapen sea monster that had swum in from the northern wastes, and half expected that one day she would be harpooned by an overeager hunter and put on display in a curiosity museum.
Anxious friends were always on hand to ensure that she took no chances with her fragile health. Dr Hamid, her wise and cautious advisor, proprietor of an Indian herbal steam bath emporium and natural successor to the renowned ‘Dr Brighton’, Sake Dean Mohamed, watched over her with especial care. Once a week, Mina visited the baths and luxuriated in the aroma of exotically scented vapour, after which Dr Hamid’s sister Anna applied her special oil massage to soothe away the pain in her strained back muscles, and gave instruction in callisthenic exercises.
Her days were unusually quiet for the season, since Mina’s mother, Louisa, was currently in London, tending to the voluble misery of her married daug
hter, Enid Inskip. The previous autumn, Enid had been indiscreet to the point of folly and her current delicate state of health was therefore incompatible with the prolonged absence of Mr Inskip abroad. His return was not anticipated with any pleasure.
In Brighton, Mina’s home, lacking Louisa’s perpetual complaints and Enid’s outbursts of self-pity, was hers alone to enjoy. Her mornings always began with exercises, using a set of dumbbells, which she kept carefully hidden so as not to invite the ridicule of her family. She then proceeded to a light breakfast. After that she sat at her desk, perching on the wedge-shaped cushion that improved her posture, where, after dealing with correspondence and household matters, she could undertake her real work, writing chilling stories of hauntings and horror, which were published under the nom de plume Robert Neil.
Unfortunately, Mina found herself unable to enjoy the contemplative peace generally believed to be so vital to the writer’s mind, and found herself, instead, idle, dull and lacking imagination. The still quiet, the daily round of repeated events, the very pattern on the pale lemon wallpaper, seemed to be mocking her. The only subject she could think of addressing was a story about a woman driven to madness with boredom, and she couldn’t think that anyone would be interested in reading that. It was with some relief, therefore, that she received a note from her good friend Nellie Jordan, begging to be allowed an urgent visit as there was a matter of some importance she wished to discuss.
Nellie had once ornamented the stage as the bewitchingly costumed assistant to the noted French conjuror, M Baptiste. He had been generous enough to marry her, an arrangement that, in his eyes, did not exempt him from enjoying the affections of other women. Nevertheless, Nellie had understandably believed herself to be that gentleman’s legal wife until another lady unexpectedly arrived from France with a brood of small children and a marriage certificate that pre-dated her own. Time had healed all hurts, and a contrite M Baptiste had reconciled with his loving if tempestuous family, who, in Nellie’s estimation, were more than welcome to him.
Nellie’s new husband, Mr Jordan, was a partner in an establishment providing the best Parisian fashions. He was not likeable, but he was rich, and Nellie’s fine features and voluptuous figure displayed the latest ensembles at leading society gatherings to both her and his great advantage. The early months of the marriage had been a dazzling whirlwind of purchases to enable Nellie to live in the manner she felt she deserved; a new home, servants, a smart carriage, and of course, costumes and jewels. She had often declared herself to be as happy as it was possible for any woman to be when married to Mr Jordan. In the last few months, however, Mina had sensed that her friend’s happiness had become tarnished.
Mina asked the maidservant to deliver a reply to Mrs Jordan, and purchase some of the sweet treats Nellie enjoyed with her tea. Within an hour, Nellie was at the door in her pretty little carriage, a perfumed vision in wine-coloured fur and velvet.
Rose, the general maid, who had been instructed by Dr Hamid as to how best to fuss over Mina, had tended the parlour fire well and secured the room against draughts. That ultimate horror of any good household — dust — had been eradicated and replaced instead with the sharp nostril-twitching tang of whatever cleansing mixture the chemist had devised that week.
A table had been set before the fire. There was a tray of delicate little wafers with crisp pink icing and an inviting thread of hot vapour was twisting from the teapot lid. Nellie embraced Mina warmly and settled herself before the table with a sigh. ‘You look very well, my dear,’ she said.
‘As do you,’ said Mina, pouring the tea. In truth, Nellie did not look as well as she once had; she was like a bright ornament that had lost its glow and it was a question as to how, or indeed whether, she might be restored. Mina knew exactly how much milk and sugar Nellie liked, so there was no need to ask. Once, she might have enquired whether Mr Jordan was well and if Nellie was happy, but in the last few weeks, she had deemed that both questions were better avoided. ‘But I am interested to know what brings you here so urgently.’
Nellie thrust a white hand into her reticule and produced a letter. ‘This,’ she said. ‘It is a cry for help and impossible to ignore! My dear friend Kitty, Mrs Honeyacre as she is now, is in dire need, and I feel sure that you are just the person who can assist her!’
Mina had been a guest at the nuptials of Mr Benjamin Honeyacre and Miss Kitty Betts the previous December. The reception had been unusual in that Kitty’s family had provided all the entertainment. Her mother Hilda — or Little Owl Feather, as she was known on stage — had been sawn in half by her father Arthur Betts, otherwise known as Chung Ching the Chinese illusionist and sword-swallower, after which her brothers put in an energetic performance as a troupe of Greek acrobats. The newly married couple had appeared to be as happy as anyone could reasonably have expected, and Mina hoped that nothing had happened to spoil what should have been their honeymoon.
‘I am sorry to hear that Mrs Honeyacre is in need of help,’ said Mina, ‘and mystified as to why I might be her saviour.’ She proffered the tray of wafers and Nellie made a great show of trying to resist temptation before she gave in and took two.
‘Let me reassure you on one point,’ said Nellie. ‘Dear Kitty says that Mr Honeyacre is the best of husbands. He is dedicated to providing her with every comfort and pays attention to her slightest whim. She has all the clothes and jewels she could desire and a carriage in which she can drive out every day if she wishes.’ She bit into a wafer and crunched the icing with pleasure.
‘I had wondered if she would find life in the country dull after Brighton,’ said Mina, cautiously. ‘I assume she has given up the stage. Is she missing her old life and friends?’
‘Not at all,’ said Nellie with a dismissive wave of her confectionary. ‘It was always her intention to retire from the stage when she married. Also, Mr Honeyacre has promised that she will be able to visit her friends as often as she likes and attend all the events of the Brighton season. Oh, and her greatest friend Miss Pet is with her; they are utterly devoted.’
Mina sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘Is Miss Pet on the stage? I don’t recall her at the wedding.’
‘She is a quiet, shy creature and does not perform, but her great art and skill lies in tending costumes and dressing hair, at which, I can promise you, she is second to none. She could not bear to be parted from Kitty and is now her personal maid and companion, almost like one of the family.’
Mina nodded. Now she thought about it, there had been a very shy young lady at the wedding, who had ensured that the bride’s gown and accessories were perfectly arranged and then faded quietly into the background.
‘There is, of course,’ said Nellie, with a meaningful expression, ‘a certain proud gentry of Sussex who might take a little time to accept Kitty as one of their own, ladies who, because of her history, might consider her to be beneath their notice, but Mr Honeyacre is determined to change all that by throwing extravagant entertainments where she will be bound to win them over. You know how amusing Kitty can be, even when she does not do her famous backbend with her head between her ankles.’
‘Then there appear to be no clouds on the horizon,’ observed Mina. ‘Except, of course, those you have not yet described.’
‘You may laugh when I tell you,’ said Nellie. ‘Kitty tells me that the house is haunted. As you may know, many theatrical people are superstitious, and Kitty is no exception. Oh, she is a sensible girl, not inclined to strange fancies, but she declares that she cannot deny the evidence of her eyes and ears.’
‘Eyes and ears may easily be deceived,’ said Mina. ‘She must know this more than most.’
‘She does. But apart from that, the servants are becoming distracted and upset, and Mr Honeyacre, whose interest in spiritualism you are aware of, feels that he cannot open the house to the county quality until the ghost has been laid to rest.’
‘But you do not believe in ghosts?’ asked Mina.
‘I have never
met a conjuror who did.’ Nellie ate another wafer.
Mina reflected on what little she had been told of the history of Hollow House. ‘Has Mr Honeyacre not owned the house for some years? He must have visited it before he came to live there. How has he not been aware of this before?’
‘He has never lived there, or even spent the night. When he purchased the house its condition was such that he was obliged to stay at the Railway Inn in Hassocks while it was being surveyed. Then, of course, he went abroad. The only occupants during his absence were Mr and Mrs Malling, the housekeeper and groundsman. They live in their own separate apartment above the stables and have never made any complaint.’
Mina refreshed the teacups. ‘What has Mrs Honeyacre seen and heard?’
‘Her letters are a little vague on that subject, almost as if she is unwilling to commit the words to paper. But she says that there have been noises and the appearance of a figure. She goes no further than that.’
Mina spent a few moments in contemplation. ‘You have known Mrs Honeyacre far longer than I. What do you think is the explanation?’
Nellie restrained herself from taking another wafer. ‘It is a very old house. Floorboards may creak, draughts may move curtains, there will be shadows everywhere. I feel sure it is all a work of the imagination and as Kitty becomes more familiar with her new home, she will come to realise that. But it seems that the maids are terrified and one of them even fainted dead away and now refuses to tell anyone what it was she saw. Neither of them will spend a night in the house. They live in the village and will only go there during the hours of daylight.’
‘It is hard for me to give an opinion without visiting the house and speaking to the inhabitants,’ said Mina.
Nellie smiled. ‘My thought precisely. And that is what Kitty would like you to do. She has invited me to stay for a few days and absolutely begged me to bring you with me. She has heard your reputation for solving such mysteries, and although Mr Honeyacre is a believer in phantoms, he respects your opinion. You are like one of the wise women of old to whom all men listen. I am convinced that you will be able to set everyone’s mind at rest.’
The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4) Page 1
