The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  ‘He saw something?’

  ‘Not saw exactly …’ My informant clenched her jaw. ‘When he came here, he had some dogs with him – two Labradors. Beautiful beasts they were. He took them to Borely. Had them sat in the back of his car as he slept through the night.’

  I tried to guess what happened next. ‘They started barking and woke him up?’

  ‘No, Miss.’ And now her face lost any trace of ease and her tone became grave. ‘Because by mornin’ there weren’t any dogs left to bark. They were gone, completely gone – vanished they did, from right out of the car.’

  I wanted to tell her that the story sounded impossible, that nothing just disappears. But the events of the preceding evening were beginning to alter my own conceptions of possibility.

  ‘I heard rumours that this hotel is haunted too.’

  ‘Here? haunted?’ she cried. ‘Why, it’s alive, dear! You just try talkin’ to the chambermaids, they’ve seen all manner of happ’nings – taps turnin’ on, doors slammin, you name it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, nodding to a large carving of a wild man with a beard on the opposite wall.

  ‘The Woodwose,’ said Ruth. ‘Wards off evil spirits.’ She startled me with a laugh. ‘Or meant to – doesn’t work very well, does it!’

  At that instant there came a terrific bang from outside, so loud I dropped my tea. Heart skipping a beat, I raised my head and looked out through the window. ‘Good God! Who the devil are they?’ I hardly dared take my eyes off the two coarse-featured men who were crossing the road towards the saloon. One of them was short and loud and swearing profanities from under a twitching moustache.

  The other was carrying a shotgun.

  ‘Quickly!’ I said, darting to the door.

  ‘No, Miss – it’s not safe!’

  But I was already striding out into the hallway and unlatching the front door.

  ‘This yours, is it?’ The man with the moustache addressed me. He was standing next to the saloon, face purple with rage.

  ‘If either of you so much as scratch that motor car, then you’ll have me to answer to!’

  He blinked. Hesitated. Then: ‘Our quarrel’s not with you. It’s ’im we want – that scoundrel Harry Price!’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, but your quarrel is indeed with me.’ I took another step forward. ‘I demand that you put down that silly weapon immediately.’

  ‘You’ve no right speaking to us like that,’ said the man, prodding the air with his shotgun. ‘You’ve no place here, prying into our business. None of you. If there are demons in these parts then it’ll be us who deals with ’em! Understood?’

  ‘There’s only one thing I understand and that, sir, is the insufferable arrogance of men!’ I shouted. ‘Now, you gentlemen can either stand there like idiots brandishing your weapon at me, or you can make yourselves useful and help me find what I need.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ the man with the moustache grunted. ‘And what’s that, missy?’

  I hesitated, realising the absurdity of the answer I was about to give.

  ‘An antique shop!’

  *

  The shape of the ancient brass medallion we had found at the Rectory hung uneasily in my mind. An unwanted souvenir. Just touching the thing made my hands tingle.

  ‘Well, it is a fine piece indeed,’ said the old gentleman I had consulted in his shop in Long Melford. His name, as I recall, was Daniel Weir. He was a quiet, sensitive sort of chap, with grey hair, thick glasses and a heavy brown cardigan. With bony fingers he turned the artefact over, examining it closely through a magnifying glass and paying particular attention – at my request – to the monk-like figure engraved upon its surface. ‘Can you identify him for me?’ I asked.

  Weir nodded. ‘Yes, I think so, young lady; this is Saint Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits or the Society of Jesus. It is said that he was zealous in his attempts to bring people to God and spirituality.’

  ‘But was he a kind man?’ I asked, keen to see if this mysterious object possessed any symbolic meaning.

  ‘That depends on which version of history you choose to believe. Ignatius was a loving, godly man, but he was also a soldier – an iron-willed, practical and stern man.

  ‘Saints’ medallions, medals and pendants are proclamations of personal faith as well as talismans meant to repel evil. You see this inscription in Latin, “Vade retro me, satana”?’

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a phrase derived from Jesus’s words to Peter in the Gospel of Saint Mark,’ said Weir.

  ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’

  Weir’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘The translation is “Get thee behind me, Satan.” These words form a medieval Catholic formula for exorcism.’

  He paused, turning the medallion over with his fingers, then frowned. ‘Miss Grey, this item is at least three or four hundred years old; wherever did you find it?’

  ‘A little place not far from here.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Medals such as this are not commonly found in England. I was expecting you to name somewhere in Europe – Rome perhaps, or France more likely.’

  ‘Why France?’

  ‘Following the Reformation, medals like this were very popular as gifts between wealthy Catholics, as a symbol of dedication and loyalty to their faith. It was common for the medals to be worn suspended around the neck, as a sacramental object which inspires prayer. That fact alone establishes a theoretical link to bring about spiritual protection, much like the rosary.’

  The rosary …

  ‘Tell me,’ I continued. ‘Were these medallions predominantly worn by women?’

  Weir fixed my gaze and nodded. ‘Yes indeed, Miss Grey – principally they were worn by nuns.’

  *

  ‘Harry?’ I marched stiffly into his study and, finding it empty, checked for him in the seance room and the workshop. ‘Harry?’

  No sign of him, but I didn’t mind. I felt rejuvenated, more confident. Though I still couldn’t fathom why he had left Borley so hurriedly, I knew the case was significant. We had witnessed objects fly about that house, projected by unseen hands. They had been aimed at us, thrown with intent. Yes, it was possible – unlikely but possible – that a telekinetic force from a human mind could produce such an effect, but if the intelligence of man could operate outside the body, at a distance from it, then surely it wasn’t a huge leap to deduce that such intelligence could continue to operate once the human body had perished? I intended to suggest as much to Price when I saw him next. But he didn’t come to work that day, or the next day, or the day after that.

  A week or two later, always late in the afternoon, the telephone calls started. I assumed at first that they were harmless practical jokes, but by then I hadn’t seen Price for days so it was easy to let my anxieties run away with themselves.

  ‘Ask him about his props,’ my mystery caller instructed. ‘Ask him!’

  What props?

  ‘Who is this, please?’ I could hear the impatience in my voice. Someone was having a game with me. The caller never gave his name and I spent hours wondering which of Price’s many enemies was responsible. Surely not Conan Doyle, I reasoned; he was far too much a gentleman.

  ‘Ask him where he goes.’

  ‘Ask him what he does when he’s gone.’

  ‘Ask him about Radley.’

  Then nothing but a shallow intake of breath and a click before the line went dead.

  Radley? My predecessor. I had asked Price what had happened to him on the morning of my very first day at the Laboratory. What was it Price had said in reply? ‘Hard worker, intelligent, but I had to let him go.’ Why?

  *

  As the months wore on, Price’s appearances at the Laboratory became increasingly irregular. My mother had cautioned me that men were very adept at covering their tracks. He might be involved with other ventures I didn’t know about – a business, perhaps. I entertained the idea briefly, but it seemed implaus
ible that I would not have known about such activities, and I quickly discounted the notion. But that didn’t stop me pressing the matter, especially the phone calls.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ I asked him.

  He appeared uninterested, irritated even. ‘Probably just someone who misdialled.’

  I felt my jaw clench. We both knew it was unlikely that someone would misdial so many times. Why was he being so devious? What was he hiding from me?

  ‘No, actually the caller mentioned you by name a number of times.’

  But the more I questioned him, the more he retreated from the world. It became his habit to barricade himself in his study with only his books, his pipe and a strong brandy for company.

  It was easy to recognise the signs of depression. I had vivid memories from childhood of my father sitting on the stool at his piano, misty-eyed, staring vacantly at the keys. And when I came to Price one morning in early October, I found him in a very similar state. That morning, unusually, he refused the strong coffee that was usually delivered to his desk at nine o’clock exactly. Similarly, for the rest of the day he could not be distracted by any of his favourite journals or slow assessment of current astrological charts. Lunch, which he always ate in chilly silence, was left untouched. And when I tried to ask him what was wrong he glowered at me.

  ‘Something is wrong, Sarah?’ I hadn’t heard him use that tone since our hostile exchange during the Velma Crawshaw experiment.

  ‘Wrong?’ My response came out like the squeak of a mouse. I found myself longing to reassure him – or was it myself I wanted to reassure? To convince myself that this strange new sensitivity which was creeping over my skin was nothing to do with the almost savage expression on his face.

  ‘No. Nothing is wrong, Harry. I just thought that you—‘

  ‘But you are not paid to think.’ His words sliced through mine ruthlessly, and I felt the heat of his pain as much as my own.

  When Mother asked me – as she frequently did during those months – what it was like at the Laboratory, I’d feel myself burning to tell her just how peculiarly awful Price could be before guilt and my own dignity tempered the urge. ‘You know what you’d say to your friends, Sarah, if they were in this situation. You’d tell them to run, wouldn’t you? Run away from him; run just as fast as you can!’ During those lonely weeks I became very good at smiling; it was a convincing smile that covered a multitude of sins, some of them my own. Knowing as much pulled on my heart.

  The letters and phone calls about Borley Rectory kept coming, yet Price became frosty and changed the subject whenever I mentioned them and on more than one occasion I passed his study and overheard him thundering at someone over the telephone about ‘that house’. ‘Libel!’ he shouted. ‘Libel!’

  ‘What is all this about?’ I asked him one day, barging into his office. ‘What aren’t you telling me? You can’t just skip over everything that happened in that house, Harry. That’s not how it works.’

  I think we both knew I was talking about more than the haunting.

  All of this ate away at me. When the telephone rang one chilly morning in September, I thoroughly lost my temper. ‘Look! Whoever you are, just leave us alone!’ I snapped into the receiver.

  There was a brief silence and then a well-spoken woman’s voice said coldly, ‘I do hope that is not your usual telephone manner, Miss Grey?’

  I caught my breath.

  ‘I take it I am speaking to Miss Sarah Grey?’

  ‘This is she,’ I replied. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Constance Price. Harry’s wife.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sat down, my nerves shredded. ‘How nice to speak to you at last. I … I don’t believe we’ve ever met, have we?’

  ‘No. We haven’t.’ Her tone conveyed that she wished to keep it that way. ‘This isn’t a personal call, Miss Grey. I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. It concerns Harry.’

  I felt the grip of fear in my gut. ‘What is it? Is he all right? Do you know where he is?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Grey, but Harry has suffered a heart attack.’

  – 19 –

  MEMENTO MORI

  ‘Please understand,’ I wrote to him in hospital, ‘that I never meant to put you under undue pressure. I am wishing you well and a speedy recovery. In the meantime, I am cancelling activities at the Laboratory until your return.’

  The message spilled from my pen as my heart was breaking. There was so much I wanted to tell him, to show him, to ask him.

  The year of Price’s heart attack, the year of his absence, doesn’t exist for me in any complete sense. I cannot measure it. The weeks caught me, folded around me. Lonely nights and empty months blew by, with days spent wandering the Yorkshire moors, worrying for those I had left behind – Mother and my best friend Amy, whose life since her wedding was an enviable antithesis of my own. Christmas, which I was dreading, brought no pleasure, and even the simplest comforts were dead to me – the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts or the open fire in the little cottage I had made my temporary home.

  Yet all of this was necessary – for Price and for me.

  When I returned to London shortly after Easter, I walled myself up within a prison of my own construction, rarely socialising. Until finally, more than a year later, Mother presented me with a letter scrawled in Price’s familiar handwriting, beginning with the words ‘Dearest Sarah’. Its message was simple: ‘Prepare the Laboratory!’

  Thank God, he was coming back at last!

  I immediately checked all the equipment we would need, ensuring that the seance room was as secure as it could possibly be – absolutely no hidden props! When Price finally returned to work three weeks later, he was clearly impressed with my efforts and the adverts and news releases I had prepared for the newspapers announcing his return. My heart leapt with joy when he appeared at the entrance to my office, his decrepit hat in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  I rushed over and threw my arms around him. ‘Harry!’

  ‘My, you have been busy, haven’t you?’

  ‘More than you know,’ I replied. ‘Now, let me look at you!’

  Although he was thinner, he did look better; the darkness that had shadowed his features had lifted and he looked brighter, though still businesslike. There was so much I hadn’t told him, so much I wanted to tell him.

  So much I should have told him.

  ‘How are things at home, Sarah? You look different somehow.’ He hesitated. ‘Is everything well?’

  The question came tentatively, as if he were afraid of my answer.

  ‘Things could be worse.’ I hesitated, catching myself. ‘They’re better now.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled with relief, yet I sensed he was only half convinced. ‘And your Mother? She’s well too, I trust?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, she’s much improved.’ And, to my relief, so was our house. There was a fine radio in the kitchen and in the drawing room a new, comfortable armchair. ‘I had worried how she would cope after the stock market crash, but when I was away she started doing household chores for one of our neighbours in Gloucester Street.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’ The trace of a smile appeared on his lips. He edged nearer, laid his rough hand over mine. ‘I know how difficult things must have been for you … what with … me not being here …’

  I had been grieving for weeks, months. But once I had returned, so too did my enthusiasm. Later that day, I told him everything I had learned about the medallion we had found at Borley. ‘All right, yes,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘We’ll get round to that.’

  ‘Aren’t you intrigued, Harry?’

  Although pleased to see him back at work, I was concerned to notice him grow quiet, his face grey and unsettled as he gazed absently into the middle distance. He had spoken briefly of his old friend, the medium Velma Crawshaw. He said she wasn’t well, that her prospects weren’t good, and if that were true I wondered how he would ever forgiv
e himself for betraying her over the locked box affair.

  ‘You seem distracted. Do you think perhaps you should go home, Harry? Get some rest?’

  ‘Rest? Certainly not!’ He waved a handful of papers at me. ‘In just four months we’re to be visited by Rudi Schneider at long last! The opportunity to test one of the most talked about mediums in Europe. There’s no time to rest!’

  ‘Schneider? But Harry, there are bags of letters about the Rectory. Surely we ought to capitalise on that interest?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said with a flick of his hand. ‘I’ll write up the case for the Psychic Review. That ought to keep people interested.’

  Baffled, I sensed he wanted to drop the matter. And then I saw the note in his hand. ‘What’s that?’

  His eyes flickered with watchful uncertainty. ‘A letter from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, accusing me of an intolerable indulgence of ‘false and clumsy ridicule’ against the president of the Spiritualist Alliance.’

  ‘Harry, in the name of the Almighty!’ I scolded. ‘What were you thinking? They’re the very people funding our work. We need them on own side!’

  Price gave me a wounded look. ‘And whose side are you on, Sarah?’

  ‘Yours, of course! But you have to—’

  ‘I’ll write back!’ he said, suddenly angry. ‘I’ll tell him he’s thin-skinned; that most of his followers regard his doings and sayings as a joke.’

  ‘You can’t possibly do that!’

  But he did, of course, and within a week the Spiritualist Alliance retaliated, threatening us with an eviction order.

  ‘I told you,’ I said, watching Price’s brooding expression. ‘You’ve really started something now, Harry. This public hostility towards the Spiritualists must stop, do you hear?’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ he said. ‘This is precisely why we must focus our efforts on Herr Schneider. When the Spiritualists hear that he is coming here to perform for us, they’re bound to be satisfied.’

  Perform? What an odd choice of word. ‘Harry, he’s not some sort of monkey.’