by Neil Spring
‘And that would have belonged to the Bull family also, I presume?’ asked Price.
The rector shook his head. ‘The Bulls weren’t the first influential family to live in Borley. For three hundred years the Waldegraves were the Lords of the Manor.’
‘What can you tell us of them?’
Wall smiled with private satisfaction. It seemed that Price’s historical knowledge wasn’t perfect after all.
‘The Waldegrave family tree includes a great many influential ambassadors and confidants to royalty. Sir Richard Waldegrave was Speaker of the House of Commons during the reign of Richard II. Edward Waldegrave was one of his descendants and the first of the family to be associated with Borley, when Henry VIII gave it to him.’
‘Fascinating. Then he was a Catholic?’
‘Yes, an ardent one. History tells that he made frequent visits to Rome and to France, where the family had associations with convents, and many of the Waldegrave women took holy orders. In 1561 Edward was arrested for holding Mass at Borley Hall and for refusing to take the oath of supremacy making Elizabeth sole head of the Church of England. After his arrest, he was sent to the Tower where he died later that year.’
‘He was buried there, I presume?’
‘Some believe so,’ said the rector.
‘Is that what you believe?’ Price asked gently.
Mr Smith shook his head modestly. ‘Who am I to say? Another, more romantic, legend is that his body was returned here to Borley and interred beneath the Waldegrave monument in our church across the road. The history of the family is recorded in detail there.’
‘And there was I thinking you were a perfect historian,’ Price smiled. ‘I should rather like to see this monument, if I may.’
Reverend Smith nodded. ‘It is a grand monument indeed, far too large for our little church. It stands about fourteen feet high, with lifelike effigies of Sir Edward and his wife lying side by side, he attired in armour, his head resting on his helmet, his wife wearing a large ruff and flat cap on her head.’
‘It sounds almost as spendid as the monk’s fireplace we saw in the dining room,’ said Price.
‘It is indeed. We have many historians who come to see it. The monument bears inscriptions in Latin together with the Waldegrave family crest, which I have examined many times; it bears a striking similarity to the Prince of Wales feathers.’1
‘The Waldegraves must have been very well admired,’ I suggested.
‘Yes indeed,’ the rector agreed, ‘although there are persistent tales in the parish that the descendants of Edward were beastly and violent men, particularly Henry Waldegrave, who lived after 1600.’ He shrugged. ‘Who can know for sure? The family records I have examined are confusing. But then’ – a brief hesitation – ‘there are stories that go with the church also. And the monument itself.’
‘Stories?’
‘The last rector reportedly heard three loud, distinct knock-ings emanating from the monument as he was giving a talk on confirmation. We ourselves have found objects displaced around the church after the building has been locked up for the night.’
Crack!
We all jumped at the sudden sound.
‘What was that?’ asked Wall, looking about him, the beam from his torch cutting fitfully through the dark.
Price gestured to us all to be quiet and we listened alertly and in silence for about a minute. At this moment we were positioned, I estimated, immediately beneath the main hallway and the landing above where the Smiths had experienced a ‘cold spot’ and heard ‘sibilant whispering’. To my relief there came no further sounds and eventually I felt a sense of calm returning. I was about to suggest that we go back upstairs when my eye was drawn by something moving in a beam of torchlight. It was quick, barely noticeable, but I was certain I had seen it, and Price had too, for he immediately pointed in its direction and cried, ‘There! You see? Rats! I told you so. And frogs and toads – look!’
I relaxed. I have never been frightened of such creatures. Reverend Smith also straightened up and said in a low voice, ‘I’m sure that frogs, toads and rats are most bothersome, Mr Price, but I’ve yet to encounter a frog that can throw stones.’
‘And I have yet to meet a rat that can shine lights in windows,’ Wall added. The young journalist was smiling to himself. He seemed entertained to see my companion, normally so selfassured assured, defeated in an exercise of the simplest reasoning.
We followed the rector to the bottom of the staircase and were about to ascend when there came from behind me a startled cry. I turned and, to my alarm, saw that half of Wall’s right leg had disappeared into the floor. ‘Help me!’ he cried.
I rushed over to assist, quickly followed by Reverend Smith. ‘There are wooden boards here,’ he said. ‘I think it’s an old well shaft. His foot’s gone straight through! Here my boy, let me help you out.’
We hauled Wall out of the earth, I admit with some amusement, and having satisfied ourselves that no injury was incurred retreated to the passageway above where the kindly Mrs Smith was waiting for us. ‘My dears, are you quite all right? I heard a commotion.’
‘Not to worry, it wasn’t a ghost,’ said Wall, brushing himself down. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘I don’t care for it down there,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Only went down once, and on that occasion I found something less than pleasant.’
‘Oh? And what was that?’ asked Price with an enquiring stare.
In the brief hesitation that followed I registered an expression of reluctance on the Reverend Smith’s face, which he directed, ever so subtly, in his wife’s direction.
There was something she hadn’t told us.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ said Mrs Smith hesitantly, ‘but when we first occupied the Rectory I found a half-full bottle of sugar of lead in the cellar.’
‘Poison?’ cried Wall, his eyes gleaming. He produced his notepad and pen.
But Reverend Smith stepped forward. ‘Mr Wall, I implore you not to mention this in any of your newspaper articles.’
‘Why the devil not?’
‘Because this is an intensely private matter,’ the rector explained. ‘We have been aware for some time now that the sisters of the late rector, Mr Bull, believe that this poison was connected to their brother’s death. He left a lifetime interest in his estate to his wife instead of his sisters. It wasn’t a happy marriage. The sisters think he intended to change his will before he died but never did.’
‘Then so much the better!’ cried Wall eagerly. ‘This is wonderful!’
‘No.’ Price fixed Wall with his sternest of expressions. ‘That is a very serious and slanderous accusation and we have no business prying into it. We came to investigate the happenings here, Mr Wall, not for you to play Hercule Poirot.’
Reverend Smith nodded in agreement and said, ‘In any event, Mr Wall, it is not a theory that my wife or I endorse. In fact, the whole silly notion has inspired Mabel to write a novel to help her relax; that’s right, isn’t it, dear?’
Mrs Smith was smiling. ‘Nowadays I have the liberty of leisure to preoccupy myself with writing. It’s my hobby, it calms my nerves. When this piece is finished I will call it Murder at the Rectory. Mr Price, perhaps when it is completed you might be so kind as to show it to your publisher?’
‘I’m sure Harry would be delighted to help you,’ I began, but was quickly silenced by Price, who sliced the air with his hand, instructing my silence and shot me a disapproving glare. I hated him showing me such disrespect in public. I was about to raise my voice against him in protest when it occurred to me that perhaps he was intentionally trying to impose a distance between himself and these witnesses. I hoped so.
Mrs Smith smiled and looked to my employer for an answer to her question.
‘There will be plenty of time to talk about books and publishing contracts later,’ he said quickly, leaving a brief, awkward silence. Then he turned his back on the woman and fixed his eyes firmly on the grand ha
llway awaiting us at the end of the kitchen passage. ‘But for the time being, we have a ghost to hunt!’
*
That evening, under the rector’s kindly supervision, Price and I drew a detailed plan of Borley Rectory. It wasn’t easy to measure every dark passageway, but we managed it eventually with the help of our red and black pencils, a sketching block, our torches and trusty yardstick – and, of course, the tasty ham sandwiches prepared by Mrs Smith.
As we worked, I listened to Mr Wall fire question after question at Price about the finer details of ghost hunting: ‘What motivates you, Mr Price? What are your aspirations?’ and so on. I knew it was Wall’s professional obligation to ask questions – after all, he had come here to write a story for his newspaper – but at times I almost forgot he was a journalist and saw only the man.
One of his questions in particular seemed to resonate with Price. ‘You seem to know so much about ghost hunting; is it true you want to help establish a university chair in psychical research?’
‘But of course,’ said Price, contentedly swallowing a last bite from his sandwich. ‘I only wish that I’d had someone to learn from – I had to teach myself.’
Price, I think, relished the idea that one day he could claim credit for spearheading a new and potentially world-changing academic science at a reputable university. At that stage, however, I had no idea just how far he was prepared to go to live out this dream.
‘The entire house feels uneasy to me,’ Wall said ponderously to Price. ‘It has an air about it, a disturbing resonance. Do you not feel it too?’
‘No I don’t, and neither do you.’ He turned sharply to face us. ‘And if you should see any apparitions, then rest assured they will be nothing but spectres of your imagination. Now tell me’ – he hesitated – ‘what don’t you notice in this house? What’s missing?’
Wall hesitated, his eyes roaming. He shook his head.
‘Sarah?’
My gaze went to the wallpaper peeling away from the walls. Then it hit me. ‘Photographs – there aren’t any.’
‘That’s right,’ said Price, his lips curving into a smile. ‘Photographs make houses come alive. Which is probably the reason, Mr Wall, why this house feels so dead to you.’
Questions over, and keen to eliminate the possibility that someone was hiding in the house and playing tricks on the Smiths, Price insisted that Wall and I conduct a thorough inspection of the walls in the hallways and passages on the ground floor, searching for any secret compartments or potential hiding places. I acquiesced reluctantly; the more I saw of the Rectory, the less I wanted to be there. The saddest resonance pervaded the place. Decades of dust had gathered in these corridors, settling between the floorboards and pressed between the walls of every room. And now, as we opened up the house, I felt very much the intruder. I had not felt this way since Price had caught me trespassing in his study the night we met.
When we returned to the gloomy hallway, I was surprised to notice that the grandfather clock showed the hour fast approaching seven o’clock, and we had not yet moved upstairs to inspect the bedrooms or the attic. As Mr Wall and I turned our attention to the compartments under the main staircase, Price announced he was going outside to the car to fetch his ‘ghost-hunter’s toolkit’, which he had brought up from London. ‘But Harry,’ I said, ‘your pockets are stuffed full already.’
‘You can never be too prepared, Sarah.’ He grinned.
As Price left us, I caught Wall looking at me.
‘You’re very close to Mr Price, aren’t you?’ he said suddenly. ‘Only I couldn’t help noticing the way you look at him.’
‘We work well together,’ I said, shining my torch into the cavity under the stairs.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’ He spoke quietly, calmly.
A brief silence ensued. Then Wall said, quite suddenly, ‘Is he a good man, do you suppose?’
The question made me start. ‘What? What do you mean “a good man”? He’s a brave, brilliant man! A thinker and a worker.’
‘How well do you know him, Sarah?’
I tried not to think of the change that came over my employer every time he uncovered another fraud. The change that began with a vacant expression in his eyes and quickly gave way to a violent and dramatic temper. On those occasions, it was as if two men inhabited his being: one fashionable and entirely predictable with a penchant for good cigars, an organised nature and an obsession with recording and filing the most meticulously detailed notes, and another of quite a different nature, a man with a socially awkward disposition whose behaviour was impossible to predict; a man who was elusive but charming, brilliant and ambitious, but selfish, too, and unreliable. His eagerness was matched only by his secrecy and his bitter rivalries with others.
‘He’s full of contradictions,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘but that makes for an exciting job.’
‘But is he, I wonder, a good man. A noble man. Please, I mean no offence, Miss Grey, but in my career I am trained to see every angle of a story. And in Mr Price, well …’
‘What?’ I urged.
‘I fear he has many dark corners. And to be entirely honest, I can’t help but wonder how anybody who is as thoughtful and as sensitive as you can tolerate spending so much time with someone who is as short-tempered, irascible and restless as Mr Price. One never knows what he’s about to say or do next! I’ve met people like him before, and they all have one thing in common: they become blind to the consequences of their own actions.’ He looked sharply across at me through the dust and the darkness. ‘As others become blinded too.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘It’s not necessarily him I don’t like,’ he said slowly.
‘Then what?’
‘It’s the way he speaks to you, the way he put you down in front of me – a stranger – like he did the other day in your office, and just now outside the cellar. In parts of east London they say that the Midnight Inquirer is a gentleman.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But to be frank, I see little evidence of that. He has an enlivened sensitivity to any matter that directly benefits him.’
I smiled my appreciation to be polite, but in truth I had no wish for Price and myself to be analysed in this way. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr Wall, but—’
‘But why?’ he interrupted. ‘Why do you put up with it? Don’t you see it? Or do you pretend not to see it?’
I pondered this for a moment before a memory of something I had witnessed just a few weeks before at the Laboratory came to me: a touching exchange of letters between Price and someone to whom he had extended a wonderful kindness. ‘You shouldn’t rush to judgement,’ I said. ‘I have seen his better side, his generosity, his modesty.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Some weeks ago we received a letter from a Mrs Helen Bobby, who had written to Price thanking him for his work and his books which her daughter, Joan, was fascinated by. Poor Joan was terribly unwell and in hospital in Germany, so the books made a wonderful distraction. I wasn’t going to show the letter to Price – he had enough on his plate handling the demands of the Spiritualists – but when he saw me writing out a thank-you note he asked me more about the matter.’
‘And you told him?’
‘I did. I assumed that would be the end of it.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, Harry did everything he could to help, of course. Joan Bobby wanted nothing more than flowers and fruit and someone to talk to, but he continued to write and to send copies of his books and articles. Oh Vernon, they were such beautiful letters, about art and birds and the country! It was as if he was reading her thoughts.
‘Then news came that Joan was going to die. Harry was propelled into action, convinced he could help. He wrote letter after letter to the family insisting they accept his help – he even offered to fly out the best surgeon in London to treat her. But of course there was no one who could help, not even Harry.’
‘Such passionate concern for a stranger?’ Th
e young journalist was clearly struggling with the concept. ‘It’s as though he can’t have real relationships, so he conducts them anonymously by letter.’
‘The possibility of altruism isn’t just a possibility, Vernon, it’s very real. I know because I have seen it in him. His friendship with Joan was something unique – beautiful.’
‘And you envy that?’
‘I do, in a small way, because I have had to work hard at getting it right.’
‘You’re still working hard at it.’ His voice, his eyes, his smile – the kindness in each was sincere.
‘Sarah, friendships, relationships – the ones that matter, the ones that last – they’re not supposed to be difficult.’
‘Yes, they are,’ I said simply. ‘Whatever we fight for, in the end, we value the most.’ I looked straight at him then and said politely, ‘Harry needs assistance. Yours and mine. Every day throws up new challenges. Spiritualists like Conan Doyle are baying for his blood. His nerves are so highly strung and his brain is so agile it’s always two jumps ahead of him. He never stops working. If he did, his thoughts would be free to wander; he’d have to face the way life is, not how he wants it to be. I don’t tolerate any nonsense, Mr Wall – I speak my mind. But Harry needs me and I see good in him.’
‘And you … what do you need, Miss Grey?’
‘Excuse me?’
He took my hand with warm affection. ‘Sarah, please do me this favour,’ he said slowly. ‘Please remember that there are always choices, and always people who care who will help you make those choices. Remember that for every moment in your life that passes, there is always another that might have been.’
‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’
He stared at me intently. ‘Don’t waste your life living his. That’s all.’
I blinked and for a few short moments said nothing at all. It was as if someone had placed a mirror before me and was forcing me to stare at a reflection I had no desire to see.
I can admit now that my feelings for Price went beyond those of a secretary for her employer and they were more than platonic, but up to that point I had denied myself any conscious recognition of this frailty. The realisation caused my heart to quicken and I felt suddenly wary of Mr Wall and whatever else he was about to say. And as I stared into his handsome face, inwardly deciphering his expression, it struck me that, apart from Price, I had never felt so intrigued by a man. Before Wall could speak again the front door banged open and he let go of my hand. Relieved, I allowed it to drop to my side.
