The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4)

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘I am not sure. They did not live here long; less than a year, I think. I asked Mr Lassiter why his uncle had departed and he said he didn’t know. Perhaps he found it unsuitable. Or the cost of repairs, even then, was too great for his purse. That must be why the estate failed to attract a buyer until I saw it. In the intervening years, the west wing has been used for stabling but the house has lain unoccupied.’

  ‘You mentioned the east wing and porch,’ asked Dr Hamid, helping himself to a cutlet and digging into it with relish. ‘They are particularly striking.’

  ‘Ah, those slender traceries and arched windows point to a passion for the Gothic, do they not? Quite a different style. Hard to date, as is anything when the creator harks back to times past. The original owners, the Redwoode family, appear to have left Sussex, at least I have been unable to discover when and why they did so, or when the Tudor mansion was demolished. The deeds only show that, in the last century, the estate was purchased from the Redwoodes by a gentleman called Wigmore and he was who built the main part of the house. The east wing and porch were undoubtedly added later. On his death, the estate was sold to the Lassiters.’

  ‘Is there anything to be learned from the church records about the families who lived here previously?’ asked Mina.

  ‘I’m afraid not. When I bought the estate I consulted Reverend Tolley who took Sunday service at our little church, but it appears that, since the earliest of records, no occupant of Hollow House has ever been baptised, married or buried here.’

  There were murmurs around the table, but no member of the company saw fit to express any special concerns. There was an interlude of appreciative hush as the luncheon absorbed all thoughts. Despite the generous fare and Mr Honeyacre’s strenuous efforts to appear cheerful, Mina sensed that the diners were unusually restrained and uncontroversial in their comments. The real reason for the visit was like a ghost in the room that no one wanted to admit they had seen.

  Mina put down her knife and fork. ‘Mr Honeyacre, I happen to recall that some months ago, when you first told me about Hollow House, you were adamant that despite its age and history it was not the haunt of spirits, yet I am given to understand that you have since found you were mistaken. This is a very interesting subject and I would like to know more.’

  There was a concentrated silence in the room as the guests prodded their cutlets with more than the usual attention.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Mr Honeyacre softly. ‘We have all been avoiding that subject, have we not? Yet, I suppose we all know that there is a special reason for this gathering.’ He glanced around the table and met with no dissent. ‘Miss Scarletti is well aware of my great interest in the supernatural, which I have been studying for some little while. Yet, as I have discovered, there is a difference between an academic pursuit which may engage and stimulate the mind and actually existing in the centre of a haunting. That, I can assure you, is another matter altogether. I had planned to pay visits to houses that are known to be haunted, but I can’t say that I have ever had any ambitions to live in one. In every account I have read they seem to cause their owners such a mountain of trouble.’

  ‘Has there been any record kept of the experiences of those living here?’ asked Mina. ‘I ask because memories can sometimes be faulty and it would be best if any unusual sights and sounds were recorded almost immediately after they occurred. The date, the time, the location and a full description of what was observed are all of vital importance.’

  Mr Honeyacre contemplated the devilled egg on his plate as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. ‘I regret, no. Although, now you suggest it, I agree, that would seem very sensible. Why did I not think of it? I promise you, it will be done from now on. For myself, I have heard curious noises in the night, footsteps along the first floor corridor, and sounds like sighing or weeping, but very distant. Yet, when I go to look, there is nothing to be seen. I can assure you I have no fear of ghosts. They are, I think, only unhappy earthbound spirits and were I to see one I would be more likely to try and engage it in conversation to try and discover the reason for its distress than run away in fright. Who knows — there might be something the living can do to give those troubled souls the rest they clearly crave?’

  ‘Have you made any attempt to contact the spirits?’ asked Dr Hamid.

  ‘Through a medium, you mean? No, not as yet. My acquaintance with Miss Scarletti has taught me how hard it is to find one who can be trusted. So many of them are charlatans. I did write a letter to Mr Arthur Wallace Hope, or Lord Hope as he should properly be called, who gave such an inspiring lecture on spiritualism in Brighton last year that I thought he might have some good advice. However, he has not responded. He may have gone to Africa again, of course. I know he was planning to mount an expedition to try and discover the whereabouts of Dr Livingstone.’

  Mina was unable to repress an angry frown at the name of the noted explorer and author who had made an impression in more ways than one during his visit to Brighton the previous autumn. She picked up her knife and fork and attacked her portion of chicken with grim determination. Mr Honeyacre appeared not to have noticed her discomfiture, but Nellie gave her an enquiring glance. Mina said nothing.

  Mr Honeyacre coughed gently. ‘In fact, I was rather hoping that Miss Scarletti would be willing to try the experiment.’

  Mina stared at him and took great care before she replied. ’I am not a medium, Mr Honeyacre, and have never professed to be. I appreciate that the newspapers may say differently. In fact, most of the practising mediums in Brighton will not allow me over their doorsteps, claiming that I radiate negative energy that will dissuade the spirits from appearing. Their real reason is that they know there is a danger that I will try to expose them as frauds.’

  ‘They cannot all be frauds, surely?’ pleaded Mr Honeyacre. ‘What of those who will permit you to visit?’

  ‘It is a question of what they choose to demonstrate,’ said Mina. ‘The ones most easily found out are those that use the skills of the conjuror to create illusions. But there are others who claim to pluck prophecies from the air, or relate messages that are mere platitudes, so it is impossible to prove them false or true, and they know it.’

  ‘Then you do not hold with the idea that some individuals possess an unusual sensitivity which allows them to communicate with the spirits?’ asked Mr Honeyacre. ‘Surely you cannot deny it! There are a thousand examples.’

  ‘I neither deny nor agree. I simply await with interest the proof that will satisfy me.’

  Mr Honeyacre could only shake his head and Kitty leaned forward and said, ‘Then what would you advise?’

  Mina felt suddenly quite sorry for the Honeyacres and reminded herself that she was there to help. ‘Before I can advise you, I need to learn as much as I can about what has been happening here,’ she said gently. ‘With your permission, I will begin with interviews.’

  ‘With the spirits?’ asked her host, hopefully. ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘No, Mr Honeyacre. For the present, my enquiries will be with the living.’

  ‘Oh, yes; yes of course,’ he said. There was no mistaking his profound disappointment.

  After luncheon, Mr Honeyacre requested a brief conversation with Dr Hamid on a private matter, which Mina assumed must be of a medical nature, and she took the opportunity to converse with Nellie.

  ‘You will have observed that all the people living here are in a state of agitation, which will induce them to see and hear anything,’ she said.

  ‘And yet so far there is nothing to be seen or heard,’ replied Nellie.

  Mina decided not to mention the white figure at the window, which she felt sure must be a trick of the light and the rain. ‘You, better than anyone here, know how illusions may be produced by the simplest of circumstances.’

  ‘That is true, although I feel that this may not be the occasion to amuse everyone with a display of legerdemain after dinner. The maids especially would be convinced that I am a witch.�
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  ‘Or worse than that, Mr Honeyacre would decide that you are a medium.’

  Mina felt sure that she had thus far witnessed only a small part of her friend’s conjuring skills. Nellie could make cards and coins appear and disappear with a flick of the fingers, only inches from the eyes of astonished onlookers. When assisting M Baptiste, she had performed a mind reading act, as the Ethiopian Wonder, wearing little more than a coat of paint and some beads. Nellie had even appeared as Miss Foxton, the spirit medium on the popular stage, performing sensational miracles of levitation. She had then been under the patronage of a Signor Ricardo, a dashing fellow with a black mask, false moustache and an execrable Italian accent. The Signor was none other than Mina’s younger brother Richard, a good-hearted scallywag who spent more time devising schemes to avoid work than he did actually working. Richard and Nellie had undoubtedly been fond of each other, but they had parted in friendship when she married Mr Jordan for money, of which Richard had none. Difficult as Richard could be, his absence created a gap in Mina’s life that often begged to be filled with trouble, excitement and unpredictability.

  ‘We dare not risk a séance,’ said Mina. ‘If something really is happening here I might not be able to deal with it without a clergyman present and if nothing is happening then imagination and panic might provide the rest.’ She paused, thoughtfully. ‘Mr Honeyacre mentioned Reverend Tolley. I shall take the opportunity on Sunday to speak to him and see if he has any suggestions as to how to proceed. He may also know some history of the house and its owners, which would assist me.’

  ‘And I promise to weave no magic while I am here lest I be taken out and burnt,’ said Nellie. ‘I will, however, be on the watch for conjurors.’

  Once everyone had rested and refreshed themselves after luncheon, Mr Honeyacre was eager to conduct his visitors about the house. He was especially proud of his collection of oil paintings, each of which, he advised them, required an investment of time to fully appreciate and learn their history. In the drawing room, where deep divans and cabinets of sherry, brandy and cigars invited luxurious leisure, a substantial portrait of his late wife occupied a prominent place over the mantelpiece, itself a monument in marble. The much-lamented first Mrs Honeyacre had been a lady of unexceptional beauty with a round face, clusters of grey curls and a gentle expression. Mr Honeyacre gazed on her features with misty-eyed affection, describing her kindness and good temper, her charity and piety.

  Kitty, cuddling her little dog, viewed the picture of this avowed paragon with an uneasy smile, fixed as if in amber. There were a number of smaller portraits of Mr Honeyacre’s ancestors, looking serious and stiff in velvet and brocade. For the rest, his taste ran to landscapes and the sea.

  ‘What you see here is only a part of my collection,’ he added proudly. ‘Some is being stored, some is still in my Brighton apartments and I have, in addition, two paintings of considerable antiquity purchased from the Lassiters, which they themselves acquired from the previous owners. The paint is dark with age. In fact, it is almost impossible to see the subject matter and considerable cleaning and restoration will be needed, therefore they are not yet on display, but might prove interesting. I can promise that once everything has been placed to the best advantage there will be twice as many works to give pleasure to the eye.’

  Dr Hamid said nothing but looked politely approving, Mina made kind and thoughtful comments and Nellie did her best to admire everything without revealing her profound relief that there was only so much to admire.

  They were allowed a brief examination of Mr Honeyacre’s study, a quaintly masculine room, all leather and dark wood and parchment with comfortable armchairs and a handsome writing desk, and adjoining it, the library, where his collection of both venerable and recent books was ranged. Chairs and a reading table with a good lamp provided all that was necessary.

  ‘You are a great reader, I understand, Miss Scarletti?’ observed Mr Honeyacre, seeing that she was taking an interest in the contents of his shelves.

  ‘Very much so,’ said Mina. ‘I was wondering if I might be permitted to look at some of your books?’

  ‘Oh, please do. You may peruse any of them you like.’

  Mina cast her eye over the volumes, many of which were scholarly works on antiquities, art, furniture and coins. There were also histories of Sussex and Brighton. A substantial section, however, was devoted to his recent studies and there were such titles as The Logic of Table Turning, Modern Spiritualism and The Soul and its Survival of Bodily Death. She also saw to her annoyance a copy of The Brighton Hauntings by Mr Arthur Wallace Hope. Mina also owned a copy of this book and deemed it to be the most egregious waste of five shillings she had ever spent. The volume, which had naturally enjoyed considerable sales, and which she suspected had been dashed off in careless haste, was comprised of a jumble of sensational folk tales described with easy assurance as wholly true and an account of séances that had taken place during Mr Hope’s time in Brighton, which she knew to be mostly invention. He had even had the effrontery to refer to that patent fraud, Mystic Stefan, as one of the finest exponents of mediumship he had ever seen and the wicked Miss Eustace as a much injured innocent. Both these rascals were, as a result of Mina’s tireless efforts, currently and deservedly in prison. Worse still in Mina’s eyes the book contained a veiled reference to herself with the strong implication that she was a gifted medium who had not yet acknowledged her powers. She hoped fervently that Mr Honeyacre had not noticed this, or at least not understood the allusion.

  A volume entitled Glimpses of the Supernatural, describing itself as a ‘compendium of witches, hauntings, dreams, ecstasy and magnetism’, looked more entertaining and she selected it for further study.

  A moderate improvement in the weather was enough to allow the promised delight of a visit to the church of St Mond. Mina put on her warm cloak and gloves and braced herself for the outdoors before joining the party. On the terrace she turned and faced the house, judging the positions of the decorative urns in relation to the windows. She had been careful to position her curtains in a way that enabled her to readily identify her bedroom when seen from the outside. She could now confirm that the urn on the furthest right was directly below her own window. Mina felt certain that this was not the window where the white figure had appeared; it was the next one — that of the locked storeroom. The curtains of that room were now closed and she could not see within.

  The rain had stopped but its memory hung in the air. As Mina emerged from the house she could feel a prickle of damp on her cheeks. Mr Honeyacre was keeping up an appearance of hospitality and good cheer, offering his arm to Nellie with a gentlemanly flourish, leaving Mina to the quiet ministrations of Dr Hamid. Kitty had elected not to accompany them and drifted away, pressing her little puppy’s silky ears to her cheeks, with Miss Pet close by her side.

  There was a set of steps leading down from the front terrace, broad, smooth and new, but devolving soon into something older and more hazardous. Mina gazed down onto a winding arrangement of rough undressed slabs with chipped edges, giving only the most perilous purchase underfoot, slick with rain and muddy residue. Dr Hamid looked at her anxiously, but she placed a firm grip on his forearm and moved down the stairs in a slow and deliberate fashion.

  Nellie, resplendent in a voluminous cloak with a fur-trimmed hood, picked her way nimbly as a dancer in her neat little boots to the voluble admiration of Mr Honeyacre.

  The steps led to the entrance of the tiny church wallowing in a broken, grassy landscape dotted with tufted hillocks and waterlogged pits. A row of stone pillars linked by chains marked the boundary of the graveyard, whose few remaining headstones tilted in the soft earth, swept clean of any readable markings by the prevailing breeze. Beyond the posts the graveyard showed signs of care, the grass between the stones had been recently clipped and a few green posies, fresh but sodden, lay beside some of the graves.

  On the far side of the graveyard was the low boundary wall of the
estate that Mina had passed in the carriage that morning. An elderly man emerged from behind the building, trudging a narrow stony path around the perimeter. He was dressed in loose trousers and a coat of some sturdy brown material, much worn and grimed. There were tangled wisps of grey hair about his ears and almost-white stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  ‘That’s Ned Copper from the village,’ said Mr Honeyacre. ‘He likes to walk about the graveyard and keep an eye on things. Most of his family are buried here.’ He made a polite nod in the man’s direction. Ned responded with a low growl and a surly salute, and walked on.

  ‘He seems to be of indifferent temper,’ said Nellie. ‘I hope he is more cheerful in clement weather.’

  ‘You must excuse Ned’s strange moods,’ said Mr Honeyacre. ‘He is quite harmless, but he dwells too much on the less fortunate events in village history. You know, of course, about the terrible accident in the Clayton Tunnel — it seems that Ned was close by when it occurred and gave assistance to the injured. He has seen sights that no man should ever see. It has preyed upon his mind ever since and given him an unhappy outlook on life. He will tell endless stories of that day if he is not stopped and they are quite unfit for a lady’s ears. I have absolutely forbidden him ever to mention the subject to my dear Kitty.’

  Mina said nothing, but determined to engage Ned Copper in conversation at the earliest opportunity. She hoped there were enough blank pages in her notebook.

  A simple gate led to a path fortunately provided with robust stone flagging that led to the church door, framed by a simple arch. There was an insufficiency of high narrow windows giving little relief to the rough stone blocks of the church walls and promising a dark interior.

  ‘The date of the church’s construction is lost, of course, but it has clearly been here for centuries,’ said Mr Honeyacre. ‘The roof is more recent and therefore of little interest. Church roofs are always a trial — I have been told that this one is especially vulnerable to storms and has collapsed into the nave more than once. The small size suggests that it might originally have been a chapel, for the sole use of the estate owners, the villagers having to walk to Clayton to worship. But in recent years, it has been in general use.’