by George Mann
The tense atmosphere persisted into the morning, with pupils and teachers alike on edge. I summoned Mary to my office after supper and told her that I was moving her to the alcove at the far end of the dormitory, next to the lower-school girls. She responded with a curt, “Yes, miss.”
“Mary, is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I’m not sure what you mean miss.”
“Were you asleep when you saw this apparition?” To confirm this was all in Mary’s imagination would calm the situation.
“It wasn’t a dream, miss! Jenny and Jane and Sarah saw it too.”
Mary herself would give no further detail beyond insisting again that she had seen “an unquiet spirit”. I spoke to the other three alleged witnesses. Whatever they saw had been directly outside the window, white in colour and had moved unnaturally. Only Sarah, the girl in the alcove next to Mary’s, had caught more than a glimpse, claiming to have seen the ghost “flying off, up and away”.
There was, of course, a potential expert close at hand. But whilst I found myself content, even perversely pleased, to endure a degree of gossip regarding my dealings with the town’s newest resident, the idea of inviting a Spiritualist to carry on investigations at my school was unthinkable.
There was, however, another place to go for advice in matters this far outside my experience.
My dear Mr Holmes,
I greatly enjoy reading of your exploits as recounted by Dr Watson and am writing to you now in the hopes of some assistance. You may recall our brief acquaintance, some years ago, as immortalised by the good doctor. I suspect you remember every detail but in case you do not it concerned my brief sojourn as a governess at the Copper Beeches, a somewhat unwholesome house in Hampshire, and the deception perpetrated there of which I was an unwitting part.
I have since found my place in the world as headmistress of a modest school for girls of the upper middle classes. Most of my pupils are local, but we do have some boarders, and one of these has, on two occasions now, claimed to see a ghost outside the dormitory window, an experience that has left her greatly disturbed. Whilst she is unwilling to speak freely, I do not doubt that she believes she has seen something out of the ordinary, and knowing the girl in question well, I do not think this is behaviour designed to draw attention: on the contrary, she endeavours not to attract notice to herself. Whatever the case, the incident is causing considerable unrest at the school.
I know you for a rational man, and like myself you will seek for an Earthly explanation for these incidents, yet the girl in question’s refusal to cooperate and the lack of reliable corroboration have brought me to an impasse.
Given your many commitments, and the unlikelihood of any criminal connection, I would not expect you to travel up to the Midlands, and my own position will not permit me to attend you in London. However, any advice or guidance you can give that might permit me to quietly resolve this mystery would be greatly appreciated.
Yours etc.,
Miss Violet Hunter
The letter was sent on Friday afternoon. On Saturday I again took tea with Mr Connor. I confess, I was looking forward to the meeting. This man caused feelings in me that I had thought myself long past.
We spoke of many things: of the seasonal changes in nature, of the differences between American and English culture, of the life of the town and of possible walks to be had in the vicinity, although Mr Connor joked these would be tame compared to those he had experienced in the Rocky Mountains, where a walk might soon become a scramble or climb. I found myself picturing this rugged man on a rugged slope, and had to take a mouthful of tea to bring myself back to the room. We did not mention our differing beliefs, and I said nothing of the trouble at the school, relishing the chance to talk about matters outside my everyday responsibilities.
I had no problem promising to meet him again the next week. From our discussion I suspected he might ask for a less public meeting soon, perhaps a walk along the canal, or even a meal taken tête-à-tête and, though this would set tongues wagging further, had he asked, I might have accepted.
Out of his presence, however, my sense returned. Even if, as my heart insisted, I should make room for this man in my life, what would that do to my world? Even if, as my heart hoped, his intentions were what they appeared to be, what would happen to the school if – and here my heart skipped foolishly – I were finally to be married?
A telegram from Mr Holmes arrived on Monday morning.
Currently tied up in Sussex. Two pieces of advice. Look to past history for matters of note, most especially that of the girl in question, and examine the scene with utmost care.
His first suggestion sent a pang through me, for a hidden past had been the key to my own small mystery, nearly a decade ago now. The second was, now he mentioned it, obvious, though care would have to be taken, given the private space in question.
I started by interviewing Mary again. This time I took a different tack, asking her who she thought the ghost might be of, given the school had only been converted to its current use thirty years ago and so lacked any folkloric tales. She paled and shook her head, which I took to mean she had a good idea. After some coaxing she murmured that she feared it was her little brother.
“Did he pass away recently?” I asked gently.
Again she shook her head. Normally such slovenly manners would earn a reprimand, but I could tell the girl was fighting inner turmoil.
“As a young boy then?”
She nodded.
“I am sorry to ask this, but was his death… particularly unfortunate?”
She looked at her hands.
“You have no other siblings, I believe?”
Mary shook her head.
As far as I knew, the poor girl’s only living relative was her mother, a thin flighty woman with an unsteady gaze whom I had met only a few times. Fees for Mary’s education came direct from a small trust fund, administered by a lawyer in Birmingham. If I recalled rightly, at the beginning of this term Mary had been accompanied to the school only by a household servant. “So, it is just your mother and you. Your father is dead?”
Mary started, as though burned, then said in a harsh whisper, “We do not speak of that.”
A sad ending, then. Yet not one that Mary believed had resulted in this “ghost”. But I had distressed the poor girl enough; I let her go.
* * *
Another matter I had not considered before Mr Holmes’s missive was the relative proximity of Mrs Fraser’s home to the school. She only lived in Blakenall Heath, close enough that she could have sent Mary to Rosewood Academy as a day girl.
This proximity provided my next avenue of investigation. Given Mary’s attitudes and behaviour I surmised she had been born into her faith, and hence the family births, marriages and deaths would be recorded at their nearest Catholic church, rather than an establishment overseen by the Church of England.
Whilst my work is never done, I pride myself on the efficiency of my school, and so, should I wish to take a quiet Tuesday morning off and travel to a nearby town, I might do so. As I climbed into a cab I wondered if my fellow teachers thought this uncharacteristic behaviour related to the gentlemen I had been seen taking tea with. I would correct their misapprehension when and if it became important.
When I located the Catholic church in Blakenall Heath I found it in the process of renovation, with men working on the roof. The young priest in attendance was taken aback at a lone, veiled female visitor but soon recovered his composure. When I asked whether I might see records of his parishioners to resolve “a personal matter” he asked whether I was myself a Catholic. I considered lying to encourage cooperation, then chided myself. “No,” I said, “but the individual whose welfare I am concerned about is.”
“Most of our papers were removed for safekeeping when the restoration began. I would have to send for them.”
“Ah, I see. I am putting you to some trouble.”
“No, I mean yes, but… you
must understand, I have to consider the welfare of my flock.”
Though I am no expert in the moods of men, especially the clergy, I believe he found me intriguing. I smiled behind my veil, then said, “It is the welfare of one of them that concerns me.”
“Ah. May I ask whom?”
A reasonable request, and, as it appeared I would be forced to return at a later date, I needed to be certain my errand was not futile. “A young lady called Mary Fraser,” I said, watching his face.
He knew the name, though he regained control of his emotions quickly. “The Fraser family are of this parish, yes.”
“So Mrs Fraser worships here?”
“When her health permits.”
“She is unwell? Do you know what ails her?”
“My foremost concern is with the spiritual wellbeing of those under my care, although I pray for all their health.”
His taut expression implied I would get no more from him on that. I tried another tack. “And Mr Fraser, he is buried here?”
The priest started. “Buried?”
“Yes. He has passed away, I assume.”
“No. Mr Fraser still lives.” The priest’s lips thinned.
“Ah. But he does not worship here?”
“I can have the records here by tomorrow afternoon. Other than that…”
“… you cannot help me?” I try not to overuse the combination of steel and disappointment that has served me well with girls and parents alike, but it is second nature by now.
“I should not say anything.” He forced his gaze back to me. “But whatever you find, or hear, please remember this: divorce is a sin. Now, if you will forgive me, I must prepare for mass.”
“Of course. Thank you for your assistance.” I made sure he saw the donation I put in the box by the door before I left.
* * *
A chance to put Mr Holmes’s other suggestion into practice came the next day, whilst the girls were on the sports field. I resisted the temptation to borrow a magnifying glass from the biology mistress, and took only myself and – in accordance with Mr Holmes’s practice – an open mind up to the dormitory.
The window opened easily, as it had on that first night. I examined the hinge, and found it well oiled, although whether this signified more than diligence by the housekeeping staff I could not say. There was no wind, but I secured the window with care anyway. The view was pleasing: across the busy playing fields, out beyond the town, and towards the higher land to the west.
I leaned over the sill and looked down. This side of the school has an impressive growth of wisteria but the branches were all but bare now, just a few yellow leaves clinging to them. I looked up, then cursed myself for a fool.
Above me, underneath the overhanging gable, was a hook. It was a great solid metal construction, left over from the days when the school had been a malt-house, when it must have been used to haul sacks of barley up into the drying loft. And there was something odd about the hook.
I dragged a chair over and stood on it, then peered upwards, into the shadow of the overhanging gable.
The chair rocked. I grabbed for the sill.
I allowed myself a moment to catch my breath then looked out again. There was something on the hook.
Without letting go of the sill I craned my neck. My thighs pressed against the window frame. I hoped the lower fifth were too busy with their hockey practice to notice their headmistress in such a precarious and undignified position.
Yes, there was something pale caught on the hook. I leaned harder. The chair creaked but held. I reached a hand up and snatched at the hook. My fingers found fabric, and I pulled it free. The chair rocked back, and I teetered for a moment, before steadying myself on the window frame. I climbed down with as much aplomb as I could manage.
Once safely on the scrubbed planks I opened my hand to find that I held a torn scrap of boiled cotton sheet, bunched up and tied with a light but coarse rope.
* * *
I was in two minds about returning to Blakenall Heath. After all, I now knew that poor Mary had nothing to fear: the “ghost” was a trick, most likely a bedsheet bunched up and tied to a rope threaded through the old hook. The sheet was a match to those in the dormitory; the rope, such as might be used by a local saddle manufactory. Both nights the “ghost” had appeared the wind had been strong enough to agitate such a prop, and Sarah had spoken of it disappearing upwards, as it would were someone below to pull on the rope, whisking the fabric up through the hook – or not, when it became caught. The explanation for the ghost was as mundane as I had thought.
But my curiosity over Mary’s wider circumstances had been piqued. Therefore I returned to the Catholic church the next afternoon.
The priest was as good as his word, and even pointed out which pages in the great ledger might be relevant to the Fraser family, “Although,” he added, “these entries only tell part of the story.” I took this to mean that my enquiries still intrigued him.
I soon located records of Eileen Fraser’s marriage, the birth of her daughter a scant and scandalous eight months later, then two years after that, of a son. The son’s death was also recorded, four years ago, shortly before Mary came to my school. There was no other issue listed.
I found the priest tidying the votive candles outside the vestry and said, “I am afraid you were right.”
“About what, madam?”
I did not correct his assumption about my marital status. “The records show only bare facts. I am not sure how helpful these will be to poor Mary.”
He looked down at the candle in his hand and frowned. But he did not make his apologies or move away, so I prompted, “Though divorce may be a sin, separation is sometimes for the best, is it not?”
He looked up and placed a candle on the table. “I would not want to repeat hearsay. Gossip never does the Lord’s work.”
“In that we are agreed. I wish only for confirmation of the facts. Mr Fraser does not live with Mrs Fraser, is that correct?”
“He does not, no.”
“But he has not moved away?”
“It might be better if he had.”
“Ah. So his continued influence is not a wholesome one. I am sorry, that takes us into the realm of gossip and opinion.”
“No, it is a reasonable supposition. Mr Fraser was never a likeable man, especially when thwarted. By all accounts excess money and a lack of human contact have caused him to twist in on himself.”
I suspected that the weight of confession, formal and otherwise, lay behind this young priest’s willingness to open up to a stranger. His soft heart was a credit to his calling. “I imagine that knowing her husband is in such a dark place does nothing to help poor Mrs Fraser’s health,” I said.
“Indeed not. Though they have little contact, thank the Lord.”
“And she lost her youngest, I see.”
“Ah yes. A tragic accident.”
“May I ask how it happened?”
“I should not say more.” I understood his reticence, given the mother of the dead child was still one of his flock; I would exercise the same tact with my girls. But then he continued, “There has been an interesting recent development in the family that I can share, though I am not sure it is of relevance to young Mary’s situation.”
“Oh?”
“It concerns another family member, one who has slipped far from the faith.”
I had a sudden, unpleasant, suspicion. “Please,” I said, my throat tight, “do go on.”
* * *
“Will you not sit down, Miss Hunter?”
“No, Mr Connor, I will not.” I would rather not have had this conversation in public, nor did I wish to be alone with Mr Connor. Any townsfolk who chose to visit The Singing Kettle today in the hopes of seeing something of interest would not be disappointed.
“Please, what is wrong?”
“Why did you not tell me you were related to one of my pupils?” Though I kept my voice low, I would not speak names where
they might be overheard.
“One of… oh, you mean my cousin’s girl?”
“Yes, your cousin who was Eileen Connor before her marriage.” When I had read Mary’s mother’s maiden name in the church register I had thought nothing of it, but then the priest told me of the cousin newly returned from America and it had all fallen into place. I had the how of the matter in that scrap of white fabric; the why, I admit, was still to come; but here, surely, was the who: a member of that ill-fated family, with some knowledge of my school, quite capable of scaling a wall covered in a knotty growth of a wisteria to hang a rope from that hook.
“I did not think it relevant. I was under the impression that the last thing you wanted to talk about with me was the school which takes up so much of your life.”
Perhaps he had a point, but I would not be deflected. This man took an active interest in the so-called supernatural. Quite how faking a haunting would further his cause I could not yet say, but he had to be involved somehow. “Mr Connor, I am no more inclined to believe in coincidence than I am in ghosts.”
“I’m sorry, but I am not sure what—”
“That is enough. I do not want to hear another word.” As I turned on my heel every eye was upon me. But I did not look back.
* * *
When I took Mary aside and explained the matter of the ghostly hoax she listened in silence. When I asked who she thought might perpetrate such an unpleasant prank she shrugged. I saw relief in her, but uncertainty too. I hoped the truth would soothe her, but she was such a fragile thing, and I did not want to press the point.
Perhaps, in a few weeks, I might be able to objectively analyse Mr Connor’s part in the affair, to work out what he sought to gain or achieve. For now, I determined not to think of him at all.
