The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  Striking confirmation of the weird experiences of the present and past occupants of the Rectory is forthcoming from Mrs E. Myford of Newport, Essex.

  In a letter to the Daily Mirror, Mrs Myford reveals that forty-three years ago, when she was a maid at the Rectory, similar phenomena were quite openly discussed in the Rectory and neighbourhood.

  ‘Much of my youth was spent in Borley and district, with my grandparents,’ writes Mrs Myford, ‘and it was common talk that the Rectory was haunted.

  ‘Many people declared that they had seen figures walking at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘I once worked at the Rectory forty-three years ago, as an under maid, but I only stayed there a month, because the place was so weird.

  ‘The other servants told me my bedroom was haunted, but I took little notice of them because I knew two of the ladies of the house had been sleeping there before me.

  ‘But when I had been there a fortnight, something awakened me in the dead of night.

  ‘Someone was walking down the passage towards the door of my room and the sound they made suggested they were wearing slippers.

  ‘As the head nurse always called me at six o’clock, I thought it must be she, but nobody entered the room, and I suddenly thought of the “ghost”.

  ‘The next morning I asked the other four maids if they had come to my room, and they all said they had not and tried to laugh me out of it.

  ‘But I was convinced that somebody or something in slippers had been along that corridor, and finally I, became so nervous that I left.

  ‘My grandparents would never let me pass the building after dark, and I would never venture into the garden or the wood at dusk.’1

  * * *

  Note

  1 Article from the Daily Mirror, 12 June 1929.

  – 11 –

  THE JOURNEY EAST

  The warm summer breeze blew through the open window of the saloon as it chugged along the country road. I was at the wheel – Price had insisted – and my spirits were high. Out here on the broad flat lands of Suffolk, on the outskirts of Sudbury, the problems waiting for us back at the Laboratory were forgotten, and I was relishing my freedom from the incessant grind and bustle of London.

  The hedgerows and green fields rushed by on both sides, bringing a calming sense of ease. I needed this: a break from the routine to which I had become accustomed in recent months, forever following Price, jumping to carry out his orders and worrying about him. At least with him sitting beside me in the passenger seat I could be certain he wasn’t barricaded in his study, tormenting himself with self-criticism or writing letters to critics like Conan Doyle, further invoking their wrath. Here, thankfully, my companion seemed at peace, and as I looked across at him I saw he was smiling as he turned his head to the open window to catch the fresh air.

  ‘Sarah!’ he said suddenly. ‘Which turning is it?’

  ‘How should I know? You’re supposed to be reading the map!’

  If Price heard my response, he made no acknowledgement of it.

  ‘Any idea, Mr Wall?’ I called back to our companion, who was bundled up uncomfortably among our cases on the back seat. I looked up into the rear-view mirror to catch his reflection, and was surprised when our eyes connected instantly; his gaze had been waiting for me. The expression on his face caught me off guard: that wonderful smile of his might have conveyed any number of feelings – fondness perhaps, admiration or respect – but his eyes revealed everything I needed to know. No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking at me now. Or if they had, I hadn’t noticed.

  Breaking the connection, I put the car into gear and glanced furtively at Price, whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead. But Wall answered me regardless, raising his voice to make himself heard above the rumble of the engine. ‘Afraid I haven’t the foggiest! First time I came here it was already dark. I stayed at the Bull Inn and took a taxi up to Borley. But we can’t be far away – this looks like Sudbury.’

  Price was clearly less than impressed with our companion; when Wall had suggested that we make the journey together, he had been reluctant to agree and I had had to persuade him. The truth was, I rather liked Mr Wall.

  ‘Sudbury itself has a somewhat macabre history,’ Price said suddenly. ‘It dates back to the time of the Saxons.’ He turned his head towards me. ‘Did you know, Sarah, that Thomas Gains-borough, the eighteenth-century painter, was born in this part of Suffolk, and in 1381 Simon of Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, was beheaded on Tower Hill?’

  ‘I did not,’ I replied, wondering how he knew all this. He had clearly done his homework.

  Price nodded. ‘Yes indeed! The poor fellow’s head was brought back here to Sudbury and installed in the vestry of Saint Gregory’s Church. If we get time we should stop and take a look.’ He glared at Wall in the rear-view mirror. ‘Mr Wall here might learn something.’

  Twenty minutes later we were still off course and Price was rapidly losing his patience. As I turned the saloon into yet another winding country lane that looked just like the one before, I had to admit that we had lost our way. The area was quite desolate, the road ahead empty, and we had travelled perhaps four miles and passed no houses at all. I was just about to suggest that Price take the wheel, when I spotted a farmer emerging onto the lane from the entrance to a nearby field.

  ‘Thank goodness! We can ask him,’ I said. Stopping the car, I rolled down my window. ‘Excuse me, hello there …’

  The man ambled closer, an expression of wary cooperation on his weathered face. I had a sense that he knew what was coming next.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,’ I began. I wonder if you could—’

  He cut me off before I could finish. ‘It’s directions that you’ll be after then, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, yes please. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  He grinned, showing crowded yellow teeth. Prediction confirmed.

  ‘You from London?’ he grunted, casting an inquisitive glance over the saloon. He seemed intent on extracting either some amusement or some interesting diversion in exchange for directing us on our way.

  ‘Yes, indeed we are, but—’

  ‘Thought so. You can always tell. Even before the accent. It’s the cars, see? Not enough mud on ’em to be from round ’ere. You don’t bother tryin’ to keep a tractor clean, do you?’ He chuckled as if he had said something deeply witty and I gripped the wheel, forcing a polite smile to cover my mounting impatience. Price wouldn’t keep silent through much more of this, and I didn’t want to risk offending the man and being sent off with no directions or, worse, deliberately incorrect ones. But he persisted in his rambling monologue, peering at Wall in the back seat. ‘And then there’s the clothes, a course. You can tell a lot from a person’s clothes, I always say.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ I interrupted, ‘but we’re in the most dreadful hurry.’

  ‘You people always are, aincha?’ he said, talking over me, but I pressed on, resolute, noticing gratefully that he had yielded to me, lips pursed in resigned disappointment.

  ‘We have an urgent appointment in Borley, and I fear that our awful map-reading has delayed us too long already.’

  As I gave the name of our destination I saw the man’s eyes narrow with unmistakable suspicion. We were lost, true, but not in the wrong place altogether. A place like Borley Rectory casts a long shadow, and those living under it felt its chill. He had heard the stories. I could read them in his face.

  ‘Borley? Now, why you be wanting Borley?’ the man enquired, peering into the saloon with pointed interest even as he took a cautious step back. He glared past me and across to Price. ‘Don’t get many folk going up to Borley. Not unless they want their head seen to.’

  I glanced sideways, exchanging the briefest look with Price, who was muttering under his breath, a sound that increasingly made me visualise a burning fuse. I could tell that he too knew where this was going but, unlike me, wasn’t at all worri
ed about offending this man. It was never in Price’s nature to shy away from an argument.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, my good man, but we simply don’t have time for conversation,’ he said, leaning forward so he could see the farmer through my window. ‘We want the Rectory; we’re expected for lunch. We’re late enough already, so could you indicate the route?’

  ‘The Rectory, you call it?’ The man’s face was distorted by fear, and he raised his hands to pat the air between him and the car. He shook his head and said slowly, ‘What you mean is – the most haunted house in England.’

  ‘What?’

  The man was nodding. ‘Aye, sir, that’s what they call it down in the village.’ He looked away from Price then fixed his gaze on mine. ‘Now then, miss, you listen here: anyone in these parts will tell you to steer clear of Borley. If you’ve some sense about you, you’ll do exactly that.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why?’ he cried, as if the reason were obvious. ‘Her, that’s why!’

  ‘Her?’ Price sneered. His tone made it clear to me that he did not consider this fellow very bright. I hoped his condescension was not as obvious to this uncomplicated man who was obviously mired in a swamp of superstition.

  ‘She’s been seen near the churchyard in Borley, on the corner of the road, and at the end of the driveway leading up to the Rectory.’

  ‘Forgive me, but to whom are you referring?’ asked Price.

  ‘The Dark Woman, sir; that’s what they call her in the bar at the Bull Inn.’

  ‘I assume you mean this legendary ghostly nun we’ve read about?’

  The farmer nodded gravely. ‘But she’s no legend, sir, as any right-minded person round here will tell you. Watch yourselves. These lanes are lonely places at night. No one in the village will come near.’

  Perhaps it was because of our beautiful and peaceful surroundings, but I was struggling to take the farmer’s words seriously. It sounded like superstitious nonsense. Quite amusing, actually.

  Price had also heard enough, but he was less than amused. Scowling, he slapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘For the love of sense, man, do you really expect me to swallow this routine? Has someone put you up to it? Do you recognise me from the papers or something? Well, I don’t take kindly to being mocked, sir!’

  The farmer assumed a look somewhere between mystified incomprehension and wounded humour. ‘I got no idea who you are, mister. What you on about? I’m just tryin’ to do a good turn.’ He prattled on, more to himself than to Price, ‘Well, I suppose no good deed goes unpunished, as they say.’

  I put my hand on Price’s arm and made a face at him, trying to restrain him. Visions of spending all afternoon scouring the countryside made the farmer’s stories seem suddenly less funny.

  My employer turned to me and snapped, ‘No, Sarah, it’s too much, really it is.’ He waved a hand in the man’s direction. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t crossed himself or made the sign of the evil bloody eye yet! Every time we tackle a new case we find ourselves beset by credulous nincompoops who want to scare us off.’

  He checked himself, visibly reining in his temper so that his face took on a mask of polite formality. Then, turning to the farmer, he said smoothly, ‘Sir, please, be a good fellow and tell us which road to take.’ He checked his wristwatch and looked up again, the picture of reasonable patience.

  ‘Very well, your choice,’ said the farmer reluctantly. ‘You want Hall Road; that’s first to the left, carry on for half a mile till you see the disused railway tracks, then take the next right at Rod-bridge Corner, over the bridge. You’ll see some cottages and the old school. Carry on up the hill. You won’t miss it.’

  Price turned to me, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘I hope you got that!’

  In the rear-view mirror I saw Wall’s expression of surprise echo my own. ‘Actually, Harry, you’re the one who’s supposed to be navigating.’ Swinging open the heavy door, I climbed down out of the saloon, went round to his side and opened the door. ‘Come along, you can take us the rest of the way.’

  His jaw dropped open. ‘Sarah … ?’

  ‘Hop it!’ I instructed with a gesture of my thumb, and as he gave up his seat in the manner of a grumpy child, I stifled a laugh. Climbing up into the passenger’s side I caught Wall’s wide, nodding smile through the back window. Inwardly I was glowing: his smile seemed to say, ‘Well done.’

  *

  It took twenty minutes to travel the last three or four miles to Borley, picking our way through the narrow lanes and contending with wrong turnings and dead ends. But my high spirits never wavered. Passing by open meadows and low hedgerows sprinkled with honeysuckle, the smells of the season were beguiling. I had quite detached myself from the idea that we were supposed to be visiting somewhere reputed to be threatening and sinister.

  Eventually, and to the great relief of everyone in the car, we came to a small junction where a battered wooden sign indicated that the uneven mud track to our left was Hall Road. At last! The lane ran upwards on a gentle trajectory and was bordered on either side by low hedgerows and high trees. As we drove we saw no one, not even a house, just wide open fields and, beyond, the Essex marshes sparkling in the sun. I began to imagine what it must be like to live out here, somewhere so remote and breathtakingly beautiful.

  At the roadside another small sign, with peeling paint and barely legible letters, informed us that we had arrived in Borley. Someone, probably a youth, had attempted to add the word ‘haunted’. But there was nothing to see at first, only a solitary church spire reaching out of a cluster of trees. The road ahead veered to the right and brought us to a clearing. I stopped the car and we all climbed out. ‘Well, this is the place,’ said Wall.

  To my right I saw Borley church, a small, pretty twelfth-century building approached by a narrow path and surrounded on all sides by crumbling gravestones, clipped yews and mature chestnut trees. In front of us a crooked centuries-old building was identified by a plaque on its side as the Tithe Barn. But there was little else beyond the three small cottages visible further down the road.

  Just the Rectory.

  *

  Borley Rectory was the perfect manifestation of a haunted house. Standing in the shadow of tall cedars, the place had a decayed and neglected air and was startlingly large. Its windows – I counted twelve on one wall alone – were narrow and covered with iron bars, giving the impression of a prison or asylum.1

  The immediate area, from the quiet lane that ran from the spot where we now stood to the little churchyard on the opposite side of the road, had an air of utter isolation. I had never been anywhere that felt so remote. As I glanced around, taking in the sweeping views of the countryside, I felt oddly calmed by the quietness – the complete absence of any noise, not even a singing bird – and thought it peculiar that anyone could come here and feel afraid. What was there to fear? Surely nothing as mundane as a foreboding red-brick house and a neglected garden.

  Only Wall seemed uneasy, his eyes darting this way and that. I moved to his side and said gently, ‘Are you all right?’

  He shot me a defensive look. ‘Yes, Miss Grey. Quite all right, thank you.’ And then he added, rather quietly, ‘Listen, are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I glanced back at Price. ‘He hasn’t been well recently. This is good for him.’

  ‘Very well. This is where the mysterious light appeared the other night.’ He pointed to a window in the centre of the house, immediately above the glass verandah that opened on to the wide garden. ‘And down there’ – pointing to a path in the tangled garden – ‘is the summerhouse, where the family that lived here before used to watch for the nun.’

  ‘Have a look at this!’ Price interjected. He was pointing to the wall immediately to the left of the Rectory’s turreted entrance. ‘The stonework here seems oddly discoloured.’ He ran his hands over the area. ‘Yes, I do believe these are new bricks. There was a window here once. It’s been bricked up.’ />
  ‘Perhaps because of the window tax?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The window tax was a long, long time before this building.’ His eyes roamed the high walls of the house. ‘And there are a great many windows – more than twenty, I would say. Why brick up just this one? It’s curious because—’

  ‘Good afternoon!’

  The sudden interruption caused us all to turn around. A kindly looking bespectacled man wearing a shirt and cardigan was emerging from the Rectory’s open front door. ‘Hello again, Vernon. Glad you could come. Ah now, and this must be the enigmatic Harry Price. I have read about your exploits, sir, of course. An honour to meet you.’

  The two men shook hands as Price apologised for our lateness, gesturing towards the saloon which I had parked at the end of the gravel driveway. For such a grand vehicle, the tyres looked woefully small. ‘You see, it’s this infernal contraption of Miss Grey’s here!’

  Ignoring the remark, I extended a warm handshake to the rector. He was a portly man with an open, friendly face, his dark skin confirming his Indian descent. ‘What a beautiful plot you have here,’ I said, ‘tucked away behind these trees, away from the road. So perfectly private and quiet.’

  ‘You think so?’ There followed a brief silence before the rector turned to Price and said, ‘You found Borley without too much trouble, I trust?’

  ‘I rather think this place has found me, sir. Strange events and places have a habit of doing so.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard as much. I have read a great deal about your work in London, Mr Price, and I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you are here. The house is peaceful now, but these last few days have been rather … unsettling for my wife and me.’

  Price raised his eyebrows at this. ‘You’re referring to the hauntings, I assume?’

  ‘We prefer to regard them as highly inconvenient disturbances, Mr Price. I’m not certain that I believe in … well …’ He looked embarrassed.

  ‘I understand entirely,’ said Price, giving the rector a reassuring smile. ‘Ghouls are for the gullible!’