‘Miss Scarletti,’ said a voice from the shadows of the hallway. She stopped to see the tall figure of Mr Beckler leaning against the wall. ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ he added, although he didn’t look at all sorry.
‘You were lurking in a corner like a long case clock,’ she observed. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to speak.’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, as she moved on.
‘The library. Mr Honeyacre has kindly agreed that I might read any book he has there.’
‘Then I’ll keep you company.’ He eased away from the wall and offered her his arm.
Reluctantly, she took it and they walked on. It was some moments before he could adjust his long strides to her slow limping progress. She could not help thinking that they must make a curious couple, as he was rather more than six feet in height to her four foot eight. ‘What books interest you, Miss Scarletti?’ he asked.
‘Books in which the author is discussing a subject of which they have profound knowledge. Books from which I can learn something new. Books that entertain.’
‘Chemistry, now there’s a subject,’ said Mr Beckler. ‘And optics, there’s another one.’
Mina had never read a book on chemistry, although, following her interview with Mr Marriott, the Brighton optician, she had read a book on optics, since she wanted to know more about how the eye sent pictures of the world to the brain. She was not about to reveal that to Mr Beckler. In Mina’s experience people were far more likely to show their true selves when they underestimated others and new acquaintances always underestimated her.
‘Mr Honeyacre’s library is chiefly composed of history, art and spiritualism,’ she said. ‘I do not believe there is any science, which is a lack I shall suggest he corrects. I have just read a book about hauntings and other curious events, but it was hard to say how much was fact and how much imagination. By the time a story has been passed from one person to another over a hundred years or more it has been embroidered so much that none of the original fabric remains.’
Mr Beckler laughed, a noise somewhere between a honk and a growl. ‘Mr Hope said that you were a difficult one to draw into the way of spiritualism.’
‘I am not impervious to the truth,’ said Mina. ‘I deplore nonsense and lies and deceit.’ She glanced up at him. He was still chuckling. ‘Has he sent you to talk me into believing him? I had better warn you, it will take more than that.’
‘Ohhhh, I can see it will.’ He glanced at her again with an odd little smile. ‘If only I had my camera you might see the proof for yourself. The dead do not lie.’
That point was debatable, Mina thought, but she was not prepared to debate it. ‘What were you intending to do had you been able to bring the camera here?’
‘I wanted to identify the exact site where the hauntings chiefly take place and then take photographs. Even if there is nothing for the eye to see there might still be something the camera can capture. Now that we know it is possible, a world of discovery lies ahead.’
They had reached the library and Mina replaced her books and selected two more, a gazetteer of Sussex and a county history. Taking them to the reading table she sat down and opened her notebook. She had no intention of continuing her conversation with Mr Beckler but applied herself to her studies.
Mr Beckler did not take a book, instead he sat opposite Mina and hunched forward, leaning his elbows on the table, holding his long forearms parallel, the palms of his large hands several inches apart. When she glanced up he was staring at her intently, tilting his head first one way then the other.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
He laced his fingers and placed his chin on them. ‘I take photographs, so I am always looking for interesting subjects. You, Miss Scarletti, are extremely interesting.’
Mina bridled in a way that she did not normally do. There was something about him she found highly irritating. ‘Why, because of my twisted body? Don’t try to be polite, Mr Beckler, say what you think. I am a curiosity of nature. Is that it? That’s no surprise to me. I have a mirror; I have eyes. Do you want to take a picture of my back and publish it in a book of medical marvels?’
He smiled, but in the deceptive manner of a predator about to pounce on a helpless prey. ‘No, Miss Scarletti,’ he said softly. ‘I want to photograph your face. You have fine features, pretty eyes. I spend too long with the dead. If I could capture that spark of life that lies within you, now that would be an achievement.’
Mina, unused as she was to any kind words about her appearance, was obliged, in the face of this blatant flattery, to remind herself that Mr Beckler must address all potential lady clients in that way to secure their custom. To the plain, he promised beauty, to the aged he offered youth, and to Mina he suggested that she had both inner and outward attractions that rendered her frail and crooked body of no account.
Mina closed her books, snapping them as if she hoped to squash unwelcome insects between their pages, and rose to her feet. Mr Beckler also rose and offered her his hand. She ignored it. ‘I suggest, sir, that you find another subject.’
He gazed at her steadily. ‘I have seen none I like better,’ he said.
‘I find that hard to believe.’ She made for the door and he turned with the clear intention of accompanying her. ‘Please don’t follow me.’
Mina left the library and did not look back. She escaped to her bedroom, where she felt sure that Mr Beckler, if he had any small shred of decency, would not pursue her. The annoyance had made her heart race and she sat alone, unable to concentrate on her books until she felt calmer.
Finally, she was able to resume her studies. The gazetteer described the building of the first post mill on Clayton Hill in 1765. This had been demolished and replaced by the present tower mill. There was unfortunately no account of what, if anything, might have been on Clayton Hill prior to 1765, and no mention of any gallows.
The history book told her that between 1307 and 1830 the Sussex County Assizes had been held at the town of Horsham some twenty miles away and it was there that executions, mainly of highway robbers, burglars and horse thieves, had been carried out; but there were exceptions. Several criminals, usually murderers, had been hanged at other locations such as hills or common land, often near the site where the crime had been committed, where there was presumably a good chance of attracting a large and appreciative crowd of onlookers. There was no specific mention of a gallows on Clayton Hill, but that did not mean that there had not been one.
Mina decided to retire to the relative comfort and warmth of the ladies parlour. Taking the history book, she peered out of her door and, on seeing that the corridor was clear, went as quickly as she could down the stairs. It was with some relief that she reached her destination unmolested.
There she found Nellie together with Kitty, Zillah and Miss Pet. Kitty was very quiet and wrapped in soft shawls, nuzzling her face into Little Scrap’s soft fur, while Miss Pet was watching her carefully and embroidering a handkerchief, occasionally demonstrating the niceties of stitching to Zillah.
Mina sat down and began quietly reading her book.
‘Are you quite well?’ asked Nellie with a frown, ‘I can see that something is troubling you.’
Mina put down the book and sighed. ‘Oh, only Mr Beckler, who suggested that I should be a subject for a photograph. He was quite insistent, but I refused. He is idle now as he does not have his camera and is trying to flatter people into becoming new customers. I expect he has already asked you.’
‘He has not,’ said Nellie and glanced at Kitty.
Kitty pouted and shook her head. ‘Not even Little Scrap here, who would make such a pretty picture.’ Little Scrap’s ears twitched as if he knew he was the subject of a compliment.
‘Well, I am sure he will ask you both in due course,’ said Mina. ‘Be warned, he is very persistent.’
Mina found her history book entirely lacking in any reference to Clayton Hill or Ditchling Hollow and set it aside. ‘I am sorry
that Reverend Ashbrook could not be here today, as I had hoped to be shown the parish chest,’ she said.
‘You have a taste for church antiquities?’ asked Nellie. ‘That is a new thing.’
‘I wanted to examine the parish records,’ said Mina. ‘Mr Honeyacre said that they did not have any reference to the past owners of Hollow House, but there may be some information about others who have lived here. I expect Reverend Ashbrook has the key, so I am to be disappointed.’
Unexpectedly, Kitty gave a little laugh and Nellie smiled.
‘I think Kitty was remembering the tricks performed by M Baptiste. He was a great admirer of the late M Robert-Houdin and studied his methods, to which he added his own original ideas. He taught himself how to escape almost instantly from ropes and chains, even when sealed in a sack and locked in a trunk. Sometimes, it was I who was thus confined and we changed places, much to the astonishment of the audience.’ Nellie looked wistful, as if the years of toil and hand-to-mouth living with a bigamous spouse had been a paradise by comparison to her present circumstances.
‘I see,’ said Mina. ‘But —’
Nellie glanced at Miss Pet and Zillah, who were absorbed in their sewing and each other’s company, then leaned towards Mina, patted her beaded reticule and whispered, ‘A lady should never travel without her lock picks.’
Mina spent a moment or two contemplating what Nellie was suggesting. It was reckless, foolish, dangerous and bordering on the criminal; exactly the kind of thing her brother Richard would have done without thinking about it. Mina made a decision and it did not take her long. Perhaps she and her brother were not so different after all.
‘If the rain has stopped for a little while then a visit to the church might be possible,’ said Mina. ‘I would like to go, if only to escape the company of Mr Beckler and Mr Hope. What are they doing now, I wonder?’
‘I have seen them prowling about the house with very serious expressions and talking in low voices,’ said Nellie. ‘From what I managed to overhear, they are looking for concentrations of psychic energy.’
‘Really? How will they know if they find them?’
‘I believe Mr Hope has some idea that those places will be very cold, or possibly very warm.’
Mina rose and went to peer out of the window. It was not actually raining, although the land was still wet and muddy. She felt sure it was possible for active men to walk down to the village if they kept to the carriage drive and main road, and the path and steps down to the church were still passable with care. ‘It has not yet begun to rain frogs and scorpions,’ she observed. ‘Shall we take the air while air remains?’
‘I thought the way was too difficult for ladies,’ said Nellie, teasingly.
‘I am sure it is not too difficult for you. I will lean on you as we go. And Dr Hamid is not here to order me not to attempt it.’
‘Then we have a plan,’ said Nellie. She turned to Kitty, who looked disinclined to take a walk in the cold and wet. ‘Kitty, will you come with us? A walk in the fresh air might do you good.’
‘No,’ cooed Kitty, fussing over her little dog, ‘I shall stay here with my darling Little Scrap or he might take a cough. And Miss Pet has promised to show Zillah a new way to trim a bonnet with lace.’
‘Then we shall go,’ said Nellie. ‘Come, my dear, and remember, as long as we say our prayers, whatever our sins, we shall be forgiven!’
Securely wrapped against all the intrusions of cruel nature, Mina and Nellie emerged onto the rain slicked terrace and ventured down the damp steps once again, only more cautiously than before. Nellie made sure to place her feet very carefully to prevent slipping and Mina clung to her friend’s arm as if her life depended on it, which it probably did.
It was almost twilight and the clouds were thick and hung overhead in great deep dark clumps, like mountain ranges turned upside down. They reminded Mina of the time when, as a child, she had thought that thunder was the sound made by clouds bumping into each other. They looked so menacing and solid that her uninformed childish impression now seemed not unlikely.
As they neared the church they saw a number of villagers wandering pensively in the graveyard, their slow bent shapes pausing to peer at illegible words on the headstones. Curious eyes turned to the approaching ladies, then, after dipping in respect, turned away. Mina and Nellie passed along the path and entered the church.
All was quiet. A solitary parishioner seated before the altar with bowed head, rose up and moved away. The outer doors closed and they were alone. Mina consulted the list of clergymen and established that Reverend Tolley had preached at St Mond’s between 1840 and 1871, which meant that he must have known the Lassiters. Presumably he was deceased or at any rate retired, but either way he was not immediately available for questioning.
She glanced at Nellie who was examining the lock on the vestry door. ‘This shouldn’t take long,’ Nellie said and, removing what resembled a bunch of small keys from her reticule, carefully selected one.
Mina was already beginning to regret agreeing to the adventure and glanced nervously at the door. ‘I hope no one comes in and sees us,’ she said. ‘How would it look if we were caught?’
‘Oh, I am sure that with your talent for composing stories you will be able to make up a dozen excuses if we are,’ said Nellie cheerfully. ‘But the church doors make a noise as they open and I should have ample warning.’
Mina remained near the doorway, listening carefully. She wondered if the reading public was ready for the adventurous tales of a lady burglar.
A few moments passed and there was a gentle click. ‘There!’ said Nellie.
‘Will anyone be able to guess what has happened the next time the vestry door is opened?’ asked Mina.
‘No. I pride myself on a delicate touch. There will be no sign.’
‘The lock picks are very small. I had imagined them to be larger.’
‘I used to hide them between my toes,’ said Nellie, wistfully. She turned the handle and the vestry door opened.
Mina hesitated and followed Nellie into the room. ‘If we are discovered here we can always say that we came to church to say our prayers and found the door to be accidentally left open.’
‘The perfect explanation,’ said Nellie, closing the door behind them. ‘No one would dare contradict us. It is well known that ladies are too delicate and timid to pick locks.’
The vestry office was furnished with a chair and a writing desk, which was nothing more than a small square table supplied with a blotter, paper, pens and ink. A shelf, hanging precariously from the wall, was piled with worn prayer books. The parish chest, which lay against the opposite wall, was constructed from thick slabs of age darkened oak and looped about with broad bands of iron. The lid was secured with a heavy padlock that passed through iron loops.
‘This may take a little time,’ said Nellie. She took the chair over to the door and tilted it so the back rested underneath the handle.
‘I had not realised you were so adept at burglary,’ said Mina, thankful that the law was less strict on such crimes than it had been in the days of the Horsham gallows.
‘A magician needs many skills,’ said Nellie, selecting her largest lock pick. ‘And his assistant should study them, too. They will reward her on stage and also in her daily life.’
Mina said nothing. As her friend worked a hundred questions hovered on Mina’s lips but she did not feel it would be right to ask them.
‘There,’ said Nellie as the lock emitted a noticeable click. They both waited, breathing carefully, but a minute passed and no one came to investigate. Carefully, Nellie eased the padlock from the loops and placed it on the desk. ‘Now, as quietly as possible, in case the hinges squeak.’
Together, they raised the lid, which was a struggle because of its weight and Mina’s lack of it and the necessity to do so without attracting attention, but at last it was securely leaning against the wall, held in place by the substantial mass of the body of the chest.
> The first things Mina noticed inside the chest were some items carefully wrapped in soft cloths, which she guessed must be the church silver. She felt a sudden sick lurch of fear in her stomach. In wanting to look at the books, which had no special negotiable value, she had entirely failed to consider that she and Nellie were conniving at what might look to another person as an attempted felony, which could potentially result in a conviction and a term of several years in prison.
The chest also contained a number of venerable leather-bound books and Nellie began to lift them out, bringing with them the harsh scent of decayed leather and a sickly odour of vellum. Some were stamped on the back with dates, others simply had dates inked on the spine in thick black strokes.
Mina located the book that covered the time when the Lassiters had occupied Hollow House and opened it. Since the parish was so small it did not require separate books for births marriages and deaths, but entered them all in the same book in different sections.
From what Mr Honeyacre had said the Lassiters had lived in Hollow House for a period between 1850 and 1852. The small number of records made Mina’s work simple. No one of the surname Lassiter had been christened married or buried during those years and also for the few years on either side. There was also no mention of anyone resident in Hollow House, or pursuing an occupation that suggested that they had lived there. The Lassiters, Mina recalled, had purchased the estate from a family called Wigmore, who had in turn purchased it from the Redwoodes. She explored further back in time, the pages growing older and browner and stiffer as she went, but found nothing apart from records of the villagers.
Nellie, in the meantime, had delved further into the chest and found some old prayer books, their bindings in need of repair, and a package wrapped up in strong paper and tied with string. It took some doing for her to untie the knots, but at last she teased them apart and opened up the paper.
‘What do you have there?’ asked Mina, looking up from the book she was studying.
‘A lot of dust and parchment,’ said Nellie, coughing. ‘Church records, the cost of repairs, here’s a mention of the Redwoodes and the installation of their plaque. A map of the village, hand drawn, no date that I can see, very faded, I’m afraid. Oh, and some pamphlets. Religious tracts — the sort of thing one might expect.’ She stopped. ‘Ah.’
The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4) Page 16
