by Neil Spring
‘All right then,’ said Price slowly, his eyes ablaze with interest. ‘Now we will proceed according to the following code. As you answer my questions, one rap means no, two raps means you are not certain, three means yes. Do you understand?’
Three decisive raps rang out. How can I describe them? Deliberate but quick, low and steady, as if someone behind the mirror were rapping their knuckles on its wooden backing.
‘Very well then,’ Price said somewhat hesitantly, ‘are you the one who is responsible for the events in this house this evening, throwing stones, ringing bells and suchlike?’
We waited another minute. Then another.
Rap!
Thank you. That’s a no, then. Are you the nun that has been seen in the grounds of this house?’
No.
‘Have you ever lived in this house?’
Rap … rap … rap!
‘A yes. Are we in communication with the late rector, Mr Harry Bull?’
Yes!
At this, Mrs Smith pulled her hands away from the table and covered her mouth. ‘This … this is all quite unbelievable,’ she said, turning to her husband and myself. Her face was taut with alarm. ‘This is all … new. We’ve never experienced anything quite like this here before. Mr Price, you seem to attract these phenomena.’
‘Quiet, please,’ said Price gently. The rector, who himself looked dumbstruck, took his wife’s arm and squeezed it re -assuringly.
Price continued. ‘Hello, Mr Bull. We are grateful that you are able to join us. Quite a night we are having in your old house! In order that we may confirm your identify, would you please remind us how many members of your family lived here in the Rectory when you were alive?’
We counted nineteen raps, and Mrs Smith, who had researched the Bull family history thoroughly for her novel, nodded and said, ‘Yes, I think that’s correct, nineteen. Go on – quickly, ask him more.’
‘And did your old friend, David Chipp, ever visit?’
Yes.
‘Mr Bull, we have heard now, from many sources, about the apparition of a nun, which, it is said, patrols the grounds of this house; that during your lifetime, the phantom would peer in at you and your family as you took supper in the dining room. Are these stories true?’
Yes.
‘Then tell us this, please. Does the nun pose any danger to us or to the people living in this house?’
Yes.
‘Are you able to tell us the identity of this nun, or explain to us why she haunts this place?’
At this point Wall was scribbling frantically in his notepad and I could see from the confusion on his determined face that he was eager to discover how the discarnate entity was to convey the meaning of words to our party through raps alone. We did so in the laborious manner normally used by Spiritualists, and not usually encouraged by psychical researchers, by saying aloud each letter of the alphabet and making a note of those which coincided with a rap.
Letters were spelt out: D-E-C-E.
‘What is that word? A date? December? The date of your death perhaps?’
Mrs Smith shook her head as Price dimmed our paraffin lamp before lighting it again. He did so a few times throughout the proceedings, claiming it was necessary in order to provoke the entity into responding.
Then more letters, a name this time: C-A-R-L-O-S.
‘It’s the same name I heard whispered in one of the bedroom passages,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘Perhaps it was a pet name for the rector when he was alive.’
Although Mrs Smith was nodding, I thought this explanation was rather clutching at straws and suspected Price did too, but we recorded the information nonetheless.
‘I am sorry, Mr Bull, but we don’t understand. Is there something that you wish to tell us?’
Yes.
‘Does the matter concern this house?’
Yes.
‘Are we in any danger from being here?’
Yes.
Then came five more letters. The word they spelt was unmistakable: C-U-R-S-E.
‘Are you trying to tell us that there is a … a curse connected with the story of the Dark Woman?’
Yes.
And now more letters were coming through: D-E-C-E.
‘I apologise, Mr Bull,’ said Price, ‘but we cannot understand that last word.’
‘Then ask him something else,’ said Wall impatiently, flipping over his notepad to begin writing on a fresh side of paper. ‘Ask him about his death!’
‘No,’ said Reverend Smith firmly.
Wall interjected again. ‘Mr Bull, you are obviously troubled. Please tell us, is there anything that you wish to communicate about the circumstances of your own passing?’
Yes.
‘His wife, Ivy, was with him when he died,’ Mrs Smith added, her voice low. Her face lifted as if a thought had come to her. ‘She married into the family and was never much liked by the rest of them. Mr Bull, does the matter of your unrest pertain to your will by any chance?’
Yes.
Reverend Smith shifted uncomfortably. ‘Mr Price, I think it would be best to draw this affair to a close.’
‘I agree.’
‘No, no,’ said Wall, ‘we must continue now. Mr Bull, was there money trouble?’
‘Mr Wall, please!’ interrupted Reverend Smith.
But the answer that came back was a definite ‘yes’.
Wall’s eyes were gleaming. His prize was in sight. ‘Mr Bull, tell us, please – were you murdered?’
Yes.
‘Are you able to tell us who killed you?’
Yes.
‘Stop this now!’ cried the rector, horrified.
‘Then do so now. Tell us, Mr Bull, please tell us – who killed you? Was it a friend?’
No.
‘A family member then? Ivy, your wife? Mr Bull, was it Ivy who ended your life with the sugar of lead found in the cellar?’
‘Mr Wall!’ Reverend Smith was appalled.
There was a long pause. Then finally they came: three definite raps.
‘I knew it!’ Mrs Smith cried.
Price and I leapt to our feet. Was it the answer that had startled us? No. It was the cake of soap that had jumped off the washstand on the opposite side of the room seconds afterwards, hurling itself against the wall.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Price with wonderment, shaking his head. ‘Such propulsion. Look! The cake is deeply dented where it struck the edge of the water ewer in its fall. Quite the most perfect poltergeist phenomenon I have ever seen.’
As if to challenge the assertion there came, rising from somewhere deep below us in the house, the shrill tinkle of a bell.
Wall stood up so suddenly I almost jumped. ‘Here we go,’ he said quietly, his face incredulous. ‘What’s this? More trouble?’
More bells joined the chorus – many bells.
‘Great heavens above!’ exclaimed Mrs Smith.
The rector regarded Wall with the gravest of expressions. ‘I do believe you may get your newspaper story, my boy.’
Now it sounded as though every dusty room of that house was occupied with impatient guests tugging urgently on the bell pull. We knew that was impossible, because but for the five of us the house was empty, and all the bell wires had been severed.
Wasting no time, Price quickly took charge, hurtling past Wall and me, out of the bedroom and down the great stairs. ‘This time we’ll catch them, by Jove!’ he bellowed above the clamour. ‘Follow me!’
By now only a very small part of me believed there could be a logical explanation for this phenomenon. Indeed, upon reaching the kitchen passage we saw to our amazement and mounting unease that every one of the bells above our heads was ringing furiously of its own volition.
Mrs Smith, her husband at her side, had her hands pressed to her ears. ‘It’s never been this loud before!’ Reverend Smith shouted to Price. ‘Your arrival in this house has only made things worse!’
Price meanwhile was frozen, hi
s eyes darting this way and that as the world of science and order that he so cherished crumbled around him. Finally, he sprang into life. ‘Come with me!’ he ordered, taking my hand and leading us all back into the main hall. Then he was off, bounding back upstairs, checking the Blue Room for the intruders he was convinced must be doing this while I waited nervously at the foot of the great staircase. He had not been gone a few moments before Wall dashed after him, and it was a good two or three minutes before both men reappeared on the landing. I had never seen my employer look so thoroughly bemused. His face was white. This time even he was out of his depth.
The bells rang harder and louder.
‘Mr Price, please do something!’ Reverend Smith implored.
‘I warned you!’ Price shouted.
Both men were hurrying down the staircase when an object – I did not see what it was immediately – hurtled past them, missing Price by an inch or so. The missile flew past Wall towards me. I jumped aside, dodging it just in time. It landed with a crash near me and shattered into pieces.
Mrs Smith recognised it instantly. ‘A candlestick, one of the pair on the mantelpiece in the Blue Room!’ she squeaked as she backed into a far corner of the hall. Mr Smith followed suit, taking a protective place beside her.
I looked up fearfully, my hands over my ears to keep out the terrible noise of the bells, and saw Price standing halfway down the staircase. ‘Right!’ he cried, dashing down towards us. He landed in the hall with a graceful twirl and sped to the Rectory’s front door. I thought he might throw it open to usher us all out of the house, but instead he stood firm and addressed the very air around us. ‘I speak to address whatever intelligence or force is producing this noise!’ he boomed.
At the instant the keys in the doors of the drawing room and library flew out of their keyholes onto the floor.
‘That’s impossible!’ Price cried, looking around him.
But the racket of bells continued – almost, I thought, with greater ferocity.
Price was undeterred. ‘Hear me now, spirits! Whatever your reasons for remaining in this Rectory, whatever the cause of your unrest, I must remind you that this is a house of God,’ he snarled, ‘and the lady and gentleman who are the present occupants of this home are good, loving, religious people, whose peace and patience and health are now under intolerable strain. Whoever you are – whatever you are – I command silence!’
A series of objects came tumbling down the staircase – first a mothball, then a hairbrush and some pebbles.
‘Reverend Smith, give me your crucifix,’ Price demanded.
‘Whatever for, sir?’
‘You know what for! Now don’t argue – just let me have it.’
I sensed from Mr Smith’s troubled face that he was unconvinced by this idea, but that didn’t prevent him from slipping the small crucifix he wore round his neck over his head and handing it to my employer. Price stepped forward, then holding the symbol aloft, cried out: ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against the world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness. The sacred sign of the cross commands silence. I will have it!’
All at once the house was still again. Only the sound of rain hissing at the window remained.
‘Remarkable,’ Price muttered under his breath. ‘I didn’t actually expect that to work.’
The rector and his wife stood against the wall, wrapped in each other’s arms. Only Wall moved, in the direction of the main door.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I have to get down to the nearest town and write all this up for tomorrow’s edition.’
‘At this hour?’ I checked my wristwatch. ‘But it’s after midnight.’
‘Absolutely! Someone has to report what has happened here.’ He looked at me with concern. ‘Please, won’t you come with me, Miss Grey?’
‘I …’
‘Sarah will stay here tonight,’ said Price sharply.
Wall’s tone was challenging. ‘I am sure the lady is capable of answering for herself.’
I should have been. But I was torn. When I look back, I realise that so much of what was to come began at that moment. I looked at Price, registered those wonderful eyes of his, remembered the opportunity he had given me, the financial help he had offered to the family of a dying girl he had never met, and realised I could not leave him – not now, when so much seemed within our reach. The rector and his wife looked away, embarrassed as the two men waited for my answer. ‘My decision is to stay and help,’ I said eventually, ‘as we promised Reverend and Mrs Smith we would.’
‘Very well,’ said Wall, his face hardening. With a pang, I realised that I had offended him deeply. I’m sure now he thought I was foolish, and I probably was. ‘I must be off.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Price ordered, his heavy eyebrows pulled tightly together. ‘I don’t know what you’re intending to write but I must insist your article does not refer in any part to the details of tonight’s proceedings.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I am perfectly serious,’ said Price. ‘What we have just witnessed – although, I admit, fascinating – demands much closer examination before we can even think of making these details public.’
Wall took a deliberate step towards Price.
Undaunted, Price continued: ‘The accusation relayed to us during the seance upstairs is a very serious charge, very serious indeed, and one that cannot be verified, least of all by us. You cannot make that information public, not under any circumstances.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because at best the evidence is unreliable, and at worst it is slanderous. Is that what you want, Mr Wall? A legal case against your’ – he smiled, wryly – ‘good name?’
I dropped my gaze but still felt Wall’s incredulous eyes on me. ‘Sarah, you don’t agree with this ludicrous censorship, do you?’
‘I …’
‘My God! I brought you this case. You wouldn’t be in this house if it wasn’t for me.’
Price let out a sarcastic laugh. ‘You and your lazy hyperbole. Yes, lazy! Like so many other young men these days.’
Wall’s face flushed with anger. He moved towards Price slowly and with purpose, until they were only inches apart. ‘Yes, there are plenty of men out of work. Plenty of healthy, competent men, who want to work and can’t. They’re neither dishonest nor idle, just unlucky. Because they were brave. If the General Strike taught us anything, it’s that men want to do a hard day’s work. I’m lucky, but I need to work. And I need this story.’
‘Yes,’ Price said softly. ‘I’m quite sure that you do.’
‘This is how it works then, is it? You can’t generate any fantastic stories of your own, so you have to steal from other people. Mr Price, without this story I’ll be back on a local rag somewhere, covering funerals.’
Price’s gaze was frosty. ‘That is not my concern, Mr Wall. But your concern, your only concern, is to report the basics of this case and nothing else. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly. It’s all very convenient for you, Mr Price. You get what you need, and I get nothing.’
‘Need? What does he mean, Mr Price?’ the rector asked. ‘What is it that you need?’
‘Ah now … Didn’t you know, Mr Smith?’ said Wall acidly. ‘Our intrepid ghost hunter here is in something of a pickle; unless he returns to London with some exciting news to feed their hopes, every one of the Spiritualists who help fund his work will be shutting their doors against him. It’s all rather convenient, don’t you agree, Mr Price? That you should suddenly find what you’ve been looking for?’
Wall stood silently a moment longer, challenging Price with the fiercest of stares. I got the distinct impression that he knew something he hadn’t yet mentioned and was struggling now to contain. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘This rascal thrives on bringing order to chaos and where there isn’t enough chaos, he feels compelled to create it.’
Eventually my employer s
aid, ‘I take my work extremely seriously and I resent any insinuation against its veracity. I am asking – no, insisting – that you report what has happened here tonight with sensitivity and discretion. By all means report the basic facts of the matter, but for the sake of the Bull family – if no one else – leave it at that, or the damage you inflict could be irreparable. Do you understand?’
Ignoring Price, Wall turned to me and said, ‘Do you think you’ll ever stop, Sarah?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Following him.’
The words wounded me and I reached for him as he marched towards the front door and through it into the howling night. ‘You can’t possibly go out there!’ I called after him. But the front door was now wide open, drawing in upon us the blast of wind and rain. ‘Vernon!’ I cried.
He looked back at me across the hall, his expression a mixture of anger, confusion and hurt, the same conflicting emotions that at that moment were washing through me.
‘How could you do this?’ he shouted. ‘Side with him, when he is so clearly wrong! For God’s sake, woman, I brought you here… I needed this!’
I moved towards him. ‘Vernon, I—’
He raised his hand to stop me. Behind him, visible through the open door, lightning flashed. ‘This house has its secrets, like everyone in it! You, me, even him. Can’t you see what he’s doing? I saw—’
‘You saw what?’ I cried. ‘The nun? Something else?’
Wall hesitated, glanced at Price and said, ‘You’re a monster.’ Then, fixing me with one last stare of disappointment, the young reporter turned on his heel and strode out into the night.
I stood perfectly still, helpless, as the front door slammed shut on any friendship I might have enjoyed with him.
As soon as he had gone my head dropped to my chest. It was bizarre that suddenly, without him, I should want him all the more. I contemplated following him, but what could I say to excuse my actions? And what about Price? This man was my employer, and the closest thing to a father figure I had known. I couldn’t just walk out on him, especially as I had promised him that he could trust me. The last thing I wanted was to see him slip back into one of his depressions. If the bizarre events we had just witnessed – I cringed at even entertaining the notion of genuine ghosts – had impressed me, I knew they would have impressed Price too and that he would want to convey the fact to the widest possible audience. And the moment he did that, an army of critics would rush to attack him, driven by envy. He would need me to help him stave off such attacks, to protect his work and that of the Laboratory. Everyone would have to know what had happened here and the importance of Price’s role in the matter. I needed to believe that his involvement had made a difference and would continue to do so because I was all too aware that this was Wall’s story.
