The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  Yours faithfully,

  L. A. Foyster6

  9th October 1931

  Dear Mr Price,

  Thank you for your letter of the 6th in which you say we are to expect you next Tuesday evening. I trust you will not mind my asking that all those who are taking part in any investigation sign an undertaking that they will neither themselves publish nor give cause to be published in any newspaper or periodical, in this or any other country, nor in any other way make public the facts connected with the case. The condition I have made is in self-defence or we might find our position here impossible.

  I intended to say in a previous letter that I should like to have my diary of the occurrences back when you have finished with it.

  Yours faithfully,

  L. A. Foyster7

  * * *

  Notes

  1 Ethel Bull gave many interviews about the experience and many paranormal investigators since Price have expressed their satisfaction with her testimony. In June 1947 she offered the following statement to the BBC: ‘I was walking round the garden with two of my sisters, and they’d been to a garden party and were telling me an amusing story that had happened. And then they wondered I didn’t take any notice and they looked down at me, and I said, “Look there’s a nun walking there.” And I was terrified and so were they when they saw her – and it sent cold shivers down our backs and we simply flew up to the house. And then we saw my eldest sister who was staying with us and she said, “Oh I’m not going to be frightened,” so she came down, and when she saw the nun she made to go across the potato bed to meet the nun, and the nun turned and came as it were to meet her, and she was seized with panic and simply flew up to the house’ (recorded 17 June 1947).

  2 There is documented evidence that Lionel compiled the diary partly at the insistence of the Bull sisters themselves. He mentions it in Fifteen Months in a Haunted House: ‘[Marianne], I am going to write a memorandum of our experiences before I forget them. Don’t you think it would be a good idea? Then I can send it round to members of my family; they seem to be anxious to know what is happening’ (p. 66).

  3Summary of experiences at Borley Rectory.

  4 ‘Salter told Lionel that he shouldn’t have anything to do with Price … and Lionel said, “Well, I am committed to it,” and Mr Salter said, “You’ll regret it,” which we certainly did’ (Marianne Foyster, quoted in The Most Haunted Woman in England by Vince O’Neil).

  5 Lionel Foyster is referring here to an unidentified relic of St John Vianney, otherwise known as the Curé d’Ars. Vianney (8 May 1786–4 August 1859) was a French parish priest who is venerated in the Catholic Church as the patron saint of all priests. Interestingly, Vianney himself was the victim of poltergeist phenomena for a period of some thirty-five years.

  6 Letter from Revd Lionel Algernon Foyster.

  7 As above.

  – 21 –

  THE WATCHER

  Price was late.

  I had been waiting at least two hours for him on the platform at Liverpool Street station, inventing excuse after excuse that might account for his delay, such as the rain or some problem back at the Laboratory, but now I was worried. Was it his health? I wondered with dread. What else could account for such lateness?

  I looked around me, scanning the movement of people along the platform for any sign of my employer. As I stood among the clamour of dragging cases, slamming doors, marching feet and whistles blowing, anxiety gnawed at me. It was intolerable, really it was; Price knew how important it was to me that we return to Borley and clear up its mysteries. What was I to do? Catch the train anyway and go without him, or return to the Laboratory?

  I checked my watch. Five o’clock. I wished then that I had agreed to Price’s original suggestion to drive, but there was no time to dally. A whistle blew, jolting me into resolution. I would go anyway, alone if necessary.

  I pushed my way quickly across the platform and boarded the train. To my relief, the carriage I had entered was empty. I quickly settled into a corner seat and laid my coat across my lap for comfort. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited for my annoyance to pass. How pathetic I must have appeared: a sad young woman sitting alone, fighting back tears she was embarrassed to shed.

  Where was he? With his wife? Or a mistress? When I considered the innumerable lunches and dinners he attended and the many afternoons that he stayed away from the office, it seemed inconceivable that he didn’t have another woman in his life. I remembered the dismissive manner with which his wife had addressed me, both when we first spoke on the telephone and on numerous occasions since then. She called in the afternoon, struggling to maintain her dignified veneer as she enquired when Price could be expected home, but I was rarely able to answer the question truthfully because unless work was involved he told me very little about his whereabouts, and so I had either to invent a reason for his absence or simply tell her that I did not know.

  The hardest part was to listen to her response, the sigh of disappointment. I heard her pain, and I understood. At the back of my mind there dwelt unwelcome memories of my mother standing anxiously at the telephone, calling around the local restaurants in Pimlico to enquire as to the whereabouts of my father. Children always know when something is wrong, and I knew that wherever my father had disappeared to those evenings in his melancholy, whatever his excuse, it could never be good enough. His rightful place was at home with us.

  My father’s absence had worried Mother deeply, and when I saw the pain in her eyes that lingered still after his death I pitied her and resolved never to allow myself to be treated in the same way. Women like that – like Mother, like Price’s wife – were victims of circumstance, of their own false hopes of men. And now, sitting on the train, dwelling on Price’s whereabouts, I was treading their path. You could change it all I thought, simply by walking away.

  We rumbled on, the countryside rushing by, and I relaxed a little, relieved to have left London behind. Gazing out from my empty compartment I saw dark clouds gathering over fields of hanging mists and I decided I would not continue to the Rectory tonight but find a bed at the Bull Inn upon our arrival at Long Melford. Perhaps by the morning Price would join me.

  I disembarked at Marks Tey to change for the train that would take me the remaining distance to Long Melford. It was a depres-singly bleak evening with a blustery wind that dampened my spirits and made me yearn for the warmth of indoors. I stood alone on the platform, my suitcase at my feet, thoughts blowing through my head as the minutes passed. The connection was late and I was beginning to wish I had never come.

  Then I saw, standing at the opposite end of the platform, the solitary figure of a man. His features were obscured by the darkness, but I could see well enough to discern that he possessed a broad, well-built form. I was struck then by an alarming thought: I was completely alone.

  As apprehension fluttered in my stomach, I stepped back, praying he wouldn’t see me. But my movement must have attracted his attention, for he lifted his head and held me in his sight for a few uncertain moments, then advanced.

  ‘Sarah?’

  It was not the stranger approaching me who spoke. I spun round and saw Price, his battered hat pulled down low, his long black coat flapping in the wind behind him.

  ‘Harry! What on earth are you doing here?’

  Before he could answer, the train pulled into the station, dislodging the thick carpet of fog at our feet. Glancing quickly to my left I saw that the stranger was standing motionless, looking directly at us.

  Taking my hand, Price said, ‘Where the devil have you been, my dear?’

  Of all the nerve! I shook myself free of his grip and exclaimed, ‘Where have I been? Where have you been? I waited for you for two hours!’

  The train whistle screamed. Price jerked alert. ‘Come on, we must make our connection.’

  ‘No, Harry. This time you’re going to answer me. Where have you been?’

  ‘There was a telephone call at the Laboratory, Sarah. It was imp
ortant. I had to take it. I missed our train by minutes so took the next one to Bures, about five miles away, then a taxi here to make the connection. And just in time, it seems!’

  ‘But how did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘I didn’t. But you are here, and that’s all that matters.’ He started towards the train. ‘Come along.’

  ‘Harry, wait! Who telephoned you?’

  *

  The compartment on the train was far less comfortable than the last – all wooden slats and rickety seats – but I was relieved to be no longer alone and to have shelter from the cold, damp evening. Price sat opposite me, looking thoughtful, unsettled.

  ‘I apologise, Sarah. I came as fast as I could. I was sure you would come anyway, even without me.’ He smiled. ‘And here you are.’

  ‘And here I am.’

  I glanced to the corner at the far end of the carriage where the stranger from the platform was huddled. Although smartly dressed, his thick beard was badly kept. His head was turned away, but every now and again he would turn in our direction and his steely, suspicious eyes would catch mine.

  I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice to Price. ‘Who was it then? Who telephoned?’

  Price was solemn. ‘Rudi Schneider. Sarah, he wishes to take part in a further series of seances with us at the Laboratory.’

  ‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

  He nodded slowly and spoke cautiously. ‘It is, yes, but a few weeks ago Mr Schneider signalled his intention to make contact with someone very specific on the other side, someone he feels is close to this process we have embarked upon with him.’

  I saw no problem with this, and told him so.

  ‘You may feel differently when I tell you the identity of the person concerned.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Taking my hand, Price quietly said, ‘Your father.’

  My stomach lurched. ‘Sarah, Schneider is firmly convinced that he can communicate with the spirit of your father; he has spoken of him very specifically to me, and in exact terms. He wants to make him the focus of our next seance.’

  I stared at him. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Price nodded his understanding. ‘I will understand completely if you think it is inappropriate or too painful for you. But you have seen now what Mr Schneider is capable of, the extent of his abilities. You and your mother can provide us with personal information Schneider couldn’t possibly guess, and we can test him with that information. Imagine if he succeeds! The experiment could change everything.’

  ‘I see.’ I felt anger suddenly rising in my face. ‘Harry, you really are the limit! Didn’t you think to ask me this before now?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he conceded, ‘but I thought you’d say no.’

  ‘I certainly am saying no!’ I snapped. ‘The idea of using my own father’s memories as a control for an experiment … it’s too much, really it is!’

  ‘There is something else,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Is there indeed! What is it?’

  ‘Schneider tells me that your father has a personal message for you, something he wishes you to know.’

  My stomach lurched sickeningly. I had wanted to keep his memory away from my work. Now that would be impossible. ‘What is it, Harry?’

  Price shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But there seems to be only one way of finding out, does there not?’ His eyes searched mine. ‘Will you agree to it?’

  ‘This matters very much to you, doesn’t it?’

  He smiled. ‘It matters to you as well.’

  ‘But this is your passion, Harry; it always was. This journey we’re on together now is because of you.’ I let go of his hand. ‘You’ve never said why. After everything we have been through together, you’ve never explained what started it all, this study of the spooks.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ His gaze faltered as he looked beyond me into the mists of his past. ‘There is a boy I see every so often,’ he said slowly, ‘no more than eleven or twelve years of age. He’s a quiet child, Sarah, insular, frightened, afraid of being alone and with an intense interest in the arcane. Loneliness can do the strangest things to a child, can it not?’

  I nodded at him to elaborate.

  ‘When I was nine, my father gave me a book for Christmas. The title was The Tiny Mite, Describing the Adventures of a Little Girl in Dreamland, Fairyland, and Wonderland and Elsewhere. Oh, what a curious thing that book was,’ he recalled wistfully, ‘full of tales of hobgoblins, witches, giants and magicians. It still fascinates me. I can see it when I close my eyes, that wonderful book. I think of it often. When I had finished reading it I read all I could on the subject of the occult.’

  ‘You have never mentioned your father before.’

  Raising his eyebrows, he pointed out that I rarely mentioned my own father. This I could not deny.

  ‘I grew up in Shropshire, in the small village of Rotherington. Do you know it?’

  ‘It is a lovely part of the world,’ I acknowledged.

  He nodded. ‘My father, you understand, was an immensely successful man. In twenty years he had opened five separate businesses, each one outperforming the last. And so, by all accounts, I should have been a happy child.’

  ‘Weren’t you happy?’

  ‘Happy? I was miserable. Never a word of encouragement from my parents. I learned to be lonely, I wallowed in solitude. I discovered I could do something other people would take an interest in and admire me for. I could write, Sarah. And soon I was doing precisely that for the school magazine, on subjects as varied as coin collecting, archaeology and the occult. The liberation it brought, the wondrous sense of superiority – I was addicted. Do you know what it is like to be addicted to something, Sarah?’

  ‘I do,’ I said quietly, averting my gaze.

  ‘Then came the bullying, the most horrendous taunts. They laughed at me because I was small, you see. I developed a nervous stammer. They laughed at that as well.’ He looked across at me sadly. ‘How cruel children can be. But in my subject, I found a way to escape.

  ‘Then my father took me to a travelling fair and I witnessed the marvellous feats of the Great Sequah, an entertainer known far and wide as the best of his kind. Charles Frederick Rowley, born 1867, West Bromwich: a circus proprietor, a travelling showman, an entrepreneur, an entertainer. A scientist! Sarah, he could extract teeth, entirely painlessly, from volunteers selected completely at random. These subjects were strapped into a chair, and the Great Sequah would produce a sequence of objects from an empty hat – a pair of doves, flags, toys, sweets, you name it – and toss them into the audience. It all happened so fast, Sarah! Such sleight of hand – it was brilliant. Before one could blink, the offending molar had been removed painlessly and thrown out into the crowd.’

  ‘You found it amazing?’

  ‘Yes, but it was the novelty that captured my attention. I needed to know how the illusions were achieved. I needed to understand.’ He smiled. ‘That same month I had come across some of the wonderful reviews for A Study in Scarlet1 and I though what a marvellous thing it would be to live such adventures, to become not only a brilliant detective but a psychic detective. Of course, I have good old Conan Doyle to thank for that.’

  I understood now the source of Price’s puzzling affection for his enemy.

  ‘You two had more in common than either of you ever wanted to admit.’

  Price nodded, briskly. ‘Well, the Great Sequah did leave an indelible impression upon me. Afterwards, I rushed home and asked my father to buy me Professor Hoffman’s Modern Magic. I devoured it from cover to cover in one sitting.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To discover the method by which the trick was done.’ He nodded. ‘It was the trombone and drum, of course.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The trombone and drum – the props he used. He would have his men play the instruments as he operated on his volunteers.’

  ‘So … ?’

  ‘They played loud
ly.’ Price smiled. ‘The sound drowned out the painful cries of his subjects. Clever man. I observed and I learnt the magicians’ tricks. My mind was consumed even then with scepticism and critical faculty. I imagined myself addressing halls packed to the rafters with people eager to hear what I had to say. More than just a vulgar travelling show. My imagined audiences listened. They listened to me, Sarah, hanging on my every word. I was important. I would be important. Pathetic really, but at night I slept with copies of Burke’s Peerage and Who’s Who under my pillow.’

  ‘Then it was a deceiver who started it all, this great obsession? The Great Sequah. And your father.’

  The idea seemed to startle him. ‘I suppose it was him unintentionally, yes. He had always held the highest expectations for me, always wanting me to rise as far as I possibly could.’

  ‘That’s a hope most parents share.’

  ‘Yes, but in him, Sarah, it burned with the brightest ferocity. He tutored me every evening and every weekend as a schoolboy so that no examination would defeat me. Everything in my life was to be certain, no room for any doubt. He had to know that I would succeed. So I had to know it too.’

  ‘And so you set yourself the greatest challenge of all,’ I observed, smiling, grateful at last for his honesty. I felt closer to him, as though knowing the man inside were possible. And, as I noticed the tears glistening on his lashes, I wanted to tell him everything I had been through, the sum of all I had endured and hidden from him.