by Neil Spring
‘Indeed! And believe me, before coming here we did not pay very much attention to the stories about this house. We didn’t for a moment think there could be any hint of truth to them.’
Price leaned forward. ‘Is there truth to them?’
‘I think you had all better come inside,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘I’m afraid what you have heard so far is only the beginning of the story.’
* * *
Note
1 The Rectory seems to have left an unfavourable impression on anyone who visited it. William Crocker, lawyer for the insurance company which covered the building, described it as being ‘as ugly as the bad taste of 1863 could make it’.
Part II
‘The Most Haunted House in England’
‘I am engaged in investigating one of the most extraordinary cases of poltergeist disturbance and alleged haunting that has come under my notice for years.’
– Harry Price, Journal of the American Society for Psychical Research, August 1929, pp. 435–36
– 12 –
LUNCH AT THE RECTORY
We had enjoyed a good lunch of ham and potatoes accompanied by a fine wine and were now sitting in the spacious dining room among the slanting shadows cast by the grimy French windows. As the conversation flowed and coffee was poured, I tried to imagine this part of the house as it had once been: elegant and well-furnished, a place of comfort where the Bull family would have taken breakfast, dined and entertained. But I could not. There was only a sad, neglected air, the same that I had noticed in the dark hallway on our arrival and remarked upon to our delightful journalist friend.
I wanted to be outside in the glorious sunshine, but having heard from our hosts of their life in India before moving to these shores, the conversation was now turning to darker matters and I knew that we would be sitting here a while longer.
‘Rudi Schneider? I regret I haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet the man,’ said Price, answering the question put to him by the rector. ‘Although I confess I would very much like to.’
Reverend Smith nodded. His character and faith inspired confidence; but although he was welcoming and friendly, I thought I detected a slight wariness in his eyes. ‘My wife and I have read in the newspapers that Mr Schneider is a very respectable and talented young man, a medium of some promise.’
I couldn’t tell whether he was hoping for a positive response or not.
Mabel Smith, who was sitting next to her husband, reached for his hand. Like him, she struck me as sensible, intelligent and articulate, and her gracious nature was evident in her efforts to make us feel at ease. She must have been no more than thirty-five, but the Rectory seemed to have aged her prematurely and she struggled to disguise her agitation.
‘You see, Mr Price,’ she began, ‘when we discovered that Sir Conan Doyle himself was convinced of this man’s abilities … well, naturally we questioned ourselves about the goings-on in this house.’
‘Sir Conan Doyle is convinced of many things,’ said Price with a smile, ‘but that doesn’t make them true. Reverend Smith, Mrs Smith – like you, we have heard much of Mr Schneider’s purported abilities and I am confident we will come upon the truth very shortly. I have invited him to my rooms in London later this year, and I hope to judge for myself.’
Reverend Smith was looking at Price with an expression of deep professional interest. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you are an intensely active man, Mr Price – so very enthusiastic.’
Price smiled, clearly warmed by the flattery.
‘You understand, sir, that Mr Price is a sceptic,’ interjected Wall.
The rector searched my employer’s face. ‘Is this true, Mr Price? You do not believe?’
‘I am intensely sceptical, yes, but scrupulously impartial, I assure you.’
Reverend Smith raised his chin with interest. ‘Tell me, are you a religious man?’
‘Certainly, I am a Christian.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You sound surprised, sir.’
‘I am a little.’
‘Why ever so?’ asked Price.
‘Spirit entities, communication with the dead – these aren’t subjects that sit well with Christian teachings, are they?’
Price shrugged. ‘I believe that both this world and the next are centred in God. I believe in Jesus Christ.’
Reverend Smith was frowning now, concerned for the implications of these phenomena on his faith. ‘Yes but, philosophically, how can a Christian such as you deny the existence of spirits and the supernatural power of mediums like Mr Schneider? One could argue that the soul, being immortal, naturally survives, surely?’
‘What I question is whether that soul can return to earth and demonstrate its power.’
‘And what if you’re wrong and Conan Doyle is correct? What then?’
‘I see no contradiction,’ said Price, but I saw that he was also troubled by the idea. ‘Why should a scientific worker in the field of psychical research have any greater difficulty in accepting Christian teachings than, say, a scientific worker in the field of physics?’
For a moment no one said anything. Wall, who fascinated me, simply stared at the tablecloth and Mabel Smith had turned her face away. Only Price and the rector maintained eye contact, but it was with a strained regard for one another.
‘I am sure,’ Price said suddenly, ‘that if survival were proven it would not make me one whit less of an orthodox Christian, as I am pleased to consider myself. Prophecy, healing, miracles – the early Christian Church was drenched in spiritualism.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t regard the problem as being as easily reconcilable as you do,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘I’ll remind you that this is a rectory, a house of refuge. These intrusions, or whatever we choose to call them, have no place here.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘The Bible speaks of a spiritual realm inhabited by spiritual beings,’ the rector continued. ‘But it also tells us precisely what these spiritual beings actually are.’
Price’s face grew serious. ‘Demons.’
Reverend Smith nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Mr Price, demons. “In later times some will fall away from the faith, paying attention to deceitful spirits and doctrines of demons.” The Bible tells us that even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light, does it not? And unusual lights are precisely the sort of thing we have witnessed in and about this house.’
‘Now, that is true,’ Wall said eagerly. ‘I witnessed the light myself, in the window of the Blue Room.’
‘The previous rector, the Reverend Harry Bull, and his father before him died in that very same room.’
‘And now you’re here,’ I said lightly, trying to lift the mood. ‘It must have been a challenge for you both, coming to work in this parish after the Bull family had served the community for so long.’
Reverend Smith nodded and smiled at his wife, but with a hint of sadness. ‘It has been difficult, Miss Grey, because we’re different. The colour of our skin marks us apart. It shouldn’t, but it does. My chief concern is that we do all we can to prevent these stories from spreading yet further and alarming the parishioners.’
‘I imagine you’ll be a good deal more unsettled by the time this weekend is through,’ said Price.
‘Why so?’
‘Reverend Smith!’ Price cried, clapping his hands together. ‘What an excellent question! And for your answer, you need look no further than Mr Wall here. Didn’t you think his article in this morning’s Mirror was even more dramatic than the first?’
‘I haven’t seen today’s edition.’
‘No?’ said Price, with mock surprise. ‘Well then, let us examine it.’ He reached down to his bag, which he had left beside his chair, and produced a copy of the newspaper I had seen him devouring during our journey. He read aloud from the relevant article:
MYSTERY LIGHT IN
HAUNTED WOOD – RECTOR
JOINS IN QUEST FOR
RECTORY ‘GHOSTS’
‘Ghost laying’, to amateurs, is a nerve racking business.
‘With a Daily Mirror photographer, I have just completed a vigil of several hours in the ‘haunted’ wood at the back of Borley Rectory, a few miles from Long Melford.
‘This wood, and the whole neighbourhood of the Rectory, is supposed to be haunted by the ghosts of a groom and a nun who attempted to elope one night several hundred years ago but were apparently caught in the act.
‘Although we saw only one of the manifestations which have, according to residents, occurred frequently in recent years, this by itself was peculiar enough.
‘It was the appearance of a mysterious light in a disused part of the building – an appearance which simply cannot be explained, because on investigation of the deserted wing it was ascertained that there was no light inside – although the watchers outside could still see it shining through a window.
‘When we saw the mysterious light shining through the trees we suggested that somebody should go into the empty wing and place a light in another window for the sake of comparison.
‘You go,’ we said to each other, and finally the Reverend G.E. Smith, the rector, who does not believe in ghosts, volunteered to do it.
Sure enough, the second light appeared and was visible next to the other, although on approaching close to the building, this disappeared, while the rector’s lamp still burned.
Then we were left alone to probe the mysteries of the haunted wood.’1
When Price had finished reading I saw the rector glance disapprovingly at Wall, who shifted in his chair. The poor young man! He was only doing his job.
Price continued in a less cordial tone, ‘You’ve drawn attention to yourself, Mr Smith; or, to be more accurate, Mr Wall has. Congratulations. Frankly, I’d be surprised if your garden and the lanes outside weren’t overrun by people in a day or so, perhaps sooner.’
Wall’s face was cold with resentment as he looked away. As for the rector and his wife, the pair of them had turned pale with alarm. ‘Can you help us, Mr Price? Please, say that you can!’
‘I want to help you both, very much. I also want to get to the truth. And to do that, we need to return to the beginning.’ Price reached into his jacket pocket for his pipe. ‘I want you to tell us the sum of your experiences in this house. Be attentive to detail. Cover everything.’
Uncertainly, Reverend Smith put down his wine glass and rested his hands on the table in front of him.
‘What’s the matter?’ Price asked. ‘Something is troubling you, sir.’
The rector’s gaze moved to the furthest recesses of the room, his mouth turned downwards. ‘It’s the stillness of this house – its quietness. Sometimes – and this will sound odd – I feel as though it knows us, as though it’s listening to us.’
‘Is that how you feel now?’
He paused. ‘I do, sir; but nevertheless’ – he pulled himself upright in his chair – ‘I shall continue.
‘On the night these disturbances began, Mabel and I were discussing the cats’ cemetery at the bottom of the garden and how to clear it away. The time was shortly after midnight and we were looking forward to a good night’s rest. But as Mabel climbed into bed, a tremendous clanging rang through the house. The main door bell – it was so loud, so urgent, we thought someone needed our help. Immediately I rushed downstairs to answer the door, but there was no one out there, Mr Price. Not a soul. A fierce wind was picking up and it was raining so heavily that the flower beds were turning to mud, but I stepped out regardless and, in just my slippers and gown, ventured to the end of the driveway. I could feel someone watching me from across the road, in the churchyard. So convinced was I that there had to be someone out there that I called out to them, “Hello, hello there!”’ He shook his head, bemused. ‘But no one answered.’
‘And it wasn’t an isolated occurrence,’ added Mrs Smith. ‘On too many occasions to mention, our maid, Mary, has answered the front door only to find no one out there; and the bell in the courtyard behind the house has been known to ring as well. We hear angry thuds, too, against the door and against other objects. Once, I swear, I heard someone kick the back of my chair as I sat in drawing room.’
‘Somebody kicked your chair?’ Price smiled. ‘Tell me, did the Reverend Bull enjoy the theatre?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Smith. She sounded puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘In Victorian times theatregoers would make their disapproval known to the performers on stage by kicking the seats in front of them.’ He smiled. ‘You mentioned in your letter that the bells inside the house ring too?’
‘Indeed they do,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘There is a row of two dozen of them in the kitchen corridor, suspended on springs and all connected to the various rooms in the house. We only use six rooms. The empty rooms are always kept locked. Yet during the night, and sometimes during the day, we hear these bells ringing. And loudly. Sometimes they all ring together.’
‘Ringing bells?’ Price scoffed. ‘I wonder … If you were dead and could exert influence on this world, wouldn’t you pick a better way to communicate? Pick up a pencil perhaps? Write something down?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Wall cut in. ‘The telephone bell is a rather simple device, but it still rings with vital messages.’
‘Now you sound like Conan Doyle!’ Price retorted. My employer had lit his pipe and was inhaling deeply on it. Finally, after a few moments’ thought, he nodded and continued, ‘Although I don’t want to influence anyone’s interpretation of what is happening in this house, I can tell you that bell-ringing is commonly associated with poltergeists.’
‘Poltergeists?’ The word seemed to alarm Mrs Smith, who flinched and blinked rapidly.
‘Correct. The word is deserved from the German poltern, meaning noisy, and Geist, meaning spirit.’
‘Noisy ghost?’ Wall recorded the term in his notepad.
‘Reports of poltergeist infestations have existed for centuries,’ Price continued. ‘They have been noted in many cultures and on every continent. In your own country, Mr Smith, they are known as a mumai. Usually, when people report a poltergeist, they complain of spirits wreaking havoc in their homes: the throwing of stones and bricks, scratching on walls, doors opening of their own volition, the smashing of furniture, bottles and household ornaments flying about.’
‘You have investigated such cases?’ asked Mrs Smith.
‘Yes, madam. At a mystery house in Battersea.’
‘So you are convinced that such manifestations are real?’
‘No. Normally a young child is involved or a teenager; sometimes the culprit is an unhappy servant with an axe to grind. In the Battersea case I could never quite be certain that a human agency was to blame.’ He paused and then added, mostly to himself, ‘But then I find it difficult to be sure of anything.’
The Reverend Smith spoke up. ‘Whatever, or whoever, is responsible I am sure that it is an intelligent force. You would think that by now we might have caught someone in the act – but no, I have seen door keys shoot from their locks and skim across the floor. At night we hear footsteps in the passages on the landing and downstairs. Voices in empty rooms, strange scratching on the walls. When we investigate inside the rooms we see great numbers of flies on the windows and the walls. Sometimes one can actually feel a presence.’
‘A presence?’ Price sounded puzzled.
‘Something dangerous. Something vengeful. By my word, Mr Price, on more than one occasion I have waited in the passage outside our bedroom armed with my golf club. Once, I was sure I heard a man’s voice. It was low and deep and came from just beside me. I swung out, and I swung hard. But of course there was no one there.’
‘It’s the pebbles that bother me the most,’ said Mrs Smith. Her hands were gripped tightly together on the table in front of her. ‘We see handfuls of the things come tumbling down the stairs. Sometimes they fly at the windows, though we’ve never seen anyone throwing them. One morning, while collecting the
milk, Mary found small piles of them in the hall and outside the main door. They were warm to the touch.’
‘Have these stones appeared anywhere else?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I once found a small pile of them next to the bed.’
A chill passed over me at the idea. I recorded the detail on my pad, underlining it twice.
‘Tell them about the coach,’ said Wall.
‘Ah yes, one of the most enduring legends of the house. Just after we came here, perhaps two or three days into our tenure, our London maid admitted to us that she had seen a large black coach moving across the lawn towards the house.’
‘Across the lawn?’ said Price with surprise. ‘I didn’t appreciate that ghosts made such careless drivers.’
The rector nodded. ‘It sounded quite absurd to me too until I saw the fear in the poor girl’s face. I could deny the story but I could not deny her tears. She said it came within yards of the building and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. That was the word she used. The thing just disappeared!’
Mrs Smith caught my cynical expression and said quickly, ‘Please do understand, Miss Grey, that our former maid was an honest girl, someone we relied on.’
‘Then she wasn’t a drunk?’ Price asked. He could be terribly brusque sometimes.
‘Mr Price! No, to my knowledge she didn’t drink at all. And after she saw that – well, she returned to London soon after. Anyway, our new maid, Mary, has seen the coach too.’
‘Old Fred Cooper insists that he saw it as well,’ the rector said. ‘There is a cottage in the grounds, behind the house, where Fred has lived some ten years. He told us that one night, walking back through the lanes from Sudbury, he heard galloping horses on the road and saw lights coming towards him. He moved quickly out of the road to allow the carriage to pass. And as it raced pass he saw it clearly: two brown horses pulling a black coach driven by two men, all in black, with tall black hats.’
