by Neil Spring
I raised my hands to cover my ears.
‘Sarah?’
I watched Price’s lips moving but could hear no voice. Either the house – its memories, and whatever presences dwelt within its rooms – was taunting me, or it was as Price implied: my own imagination was playing havoc with my senses. Whatever the truth, I had to pause for a moment and steady myself on the great stairs.
Now Foyster was speaking, his concern for me evident in his expression.
I waved them both away and squeezed my eyes shut, trying my utmost to fortify myself against the malign evil I could feel enfolding me. And now the very notion that there was another world, a real world, outside the Rectory, far away from it, felt no more than that: a notion, a vague idea entwined with physical and emotional confusion.
My eyes flipped open.
‘All right?’ asked Price. ‘Ready to continue?’
Both men were staring at me. I motioned them forward. ‘Yes, please – I apologise. I don’t know what came over me.’
As we reached the top of the stairs I turned and saw, through an open door, a fine stained-glass window in the room over the porch – the old schoolroom, where Price and I had exchanged our private thoughts in darkness on our last visit. The stained glass was new and I remarked upon it, for it seemed oddly out of place.
‘We had that room converted into a chapel,’ said Foyster, and when I asked him the reason he looked at me darkly and said, ‘Young lady, when you see what I am about to show you, I think you’ll understand.’
To our right was the room in which I had slept on our last visit, the same room in which Price had visited me two years ago when he had woken me and asked me to drive him back to London. I could not help but look in as we passed, the memory of that time reaching back, taunting me. Stripped of furniture, the room appeared bare now, but it smelt and felt just the same. I looked up suddenly, aware of Price near me, and smiled uncertainly. I was hoping he had seen the room, hoping that he might remember also. But his eyes only flickered in half recognition, then he looked away. I hated him for that.
We came to a halt a little further down the dark corridor. ‘Here we are,’ said Foyster quietly as he pointed to the wall. The light from his lamp was playing on his face. ‘Now Mr Price, Miss Grey, tell me: in all your investigations, have you ever seen anything quite like this?’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ I whispered, casting my eyes over a mess of indecipherable pencil marks covering part of the peeling wall: scribbles, lines and, most intriguingly, four unmistakable words: MARIANNE MASS LIGHT PRAYERS.
‘What do you suppose it means?’ asked Reverend Foyster.
My companion leaned in, running his nimble fingers over the markings. ‘Have you considered the possibility that little Adelaide did this, Mr Foyster, or her friend?’
‘Indeed, it was our first suspicion, but the children do not yet know how to write; and in any event, they couldn’t possibly reach as high as this. It’s most odd. See, here, how the pencil mark slopes off, as if the writer has been interrupted, pulled away suddenly?’
Retrieving a length of steel measuring tape from the depths of his coat pocket, Price set it against the writing. ‘And you say this appeared from nowhere?’ he asked.
‘Indeed, overnight, within several hours at the most.’
‘Light mass,’ said Price, deep in thought. ‘Means nothing to me. Sarah?’
‘Perhaps we’re misinterpreting,’ I suggested. ‘Here the words are clearly spaced out. Perhaps that’s intentional; perhaps each noun is intended to stand separately: mass, light and prayers.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Price. ‘Either way, there is a distinct Roman Catholic flavour to these messages. Reverend Fosyter, is there any more of this writing you can show us?’
‘Indeed there is. Down here, please.’
We followed him round into another passage, which led to more empty and neglected bedrooms. Here, scribbled on the wall next to the entrance of one of these rooms, was yet more pathetic handwriting. I shone my torch a little further along the passage and saw, scrawled in the same unruly handwriting, the four words that have become immortalised in the history of the Borley affair: MARIANNE PLEASE HELP GET. Another message read: MARIANNE AT GET HELP ENTANT BOTTOM ME.
‘What is this?’ asked Price, holding his lamp close to the wall to illuminate words immediately underneath: I CANNOT UNDERSTAND, TELL ME MORE …
‘My wife wrote that,’ said the rector. ‘We wanted to see whether we could communicate with the entity.’
I looked up and noticed that Price’s gaze had narrowed, latching onto the words. Then, abruptly, he said, ‘The samples are rather similar. Aren’t they?’
‘What about this word?’ I asked quickly, pointing to some other letters underneath: TROMPEE.
‘I think it’s French,’ Price murmured.
‘Well, of course it’s French!’ said a patronising voice from the dark at our backs. ‘Silly man. Trompée. It means “deceived”.’
Price and I spun round.
Reverend Foyster smiled. ‘Mr Price, Miss Grey, allow me to introduce my wife, Marianne.’
*
Marianne’s face was full of contempt. My first thought was that this woman couldn’t possibly be the rector’s wife, for she was closer to my age than to his and might easily have passed for his daughter. She was his opposite in almost every respect: healthy, confident and attractive, with a mass of dark hair and curves evident through her silk nightgown.
The rector took a step towards her. ‘Dear, you should be in bed.’
‘Oh, Lionel, do stop fussing!’
‘Mrs Foyster, I do hope we haven’t called at a bad time,’ I said.
‘Oh, not at all. After all, misery does love company.’ She gave a pinched smile, glancing knowingly at her husband. ‘Isn’t that how the old saying goes, dear?’
‘Mrs Foyster,’ Price began, ‘I’m—’
‘Harry Price,’ she said slowly, fixing her eyes on him. ‘Yes, I know who you are. Although I must say, I hope your detective abilities exceed the quality of your French or else we might all be in trouble.’
He chuckled warmly at that. And although Mrs Foyster was smiling too, the same friendliness was absent from her eyes.
At the rector’s suggestion we retired to the drawing room, where I was glad to sit by the warmth of the fire and in better light as we discussed the wall writings.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Foyster asked as he settled back into his deep armchair cradling a brandy. Mrs Foyster hovered close by.
‘Never,’ I replied.
But from the far corner of the room where he was studying the contents of a bookcase, Price said firmly, ‘I have.’
Mrs Foyster turned sharply towards him and gave a slightly nervous giggle. ‘Oh? Tell us then.’
‘Paranormal wall writing is extremely rare,’ began Price, ‘but there is a precedent. In fact, Reverend Foyster, you might have heard of the case. It occurred in 1878.’
The rector shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so; why would I have heard of it?’
‘Because,’ Price continued, still staring at the row of books in front of him, ‘the affair to which I am referring occurred in a small town in Canada. A place called Amherst, near Nova Scotia. Perhaps you know of it.’
Although I failed to see the relevance of this remark it had an instant effect upon Mrs Foyster who turned and glared accusingly at her husband before crossing the room to the French windows. Her husband turned his head and stared into the fire.
‘Ah yes,’ Price said confidently, ‘I thought you would. You lived quite near there, didn’t you? You both did.’
This was news to me.
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘I do hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of looking into your situation before we came here this evening. I made some very enlightening preliminary enquiries, in fact. Your cousin, Miss Ethel Bull, helpfully pointed me in the right direction on most
of the relevant matters.’
The rector put down his glass cautiously. ‘And what matters were those, exactly?’
His curiosity was matched by my own, for it was generally the rule that if a case under our investigation required background checking or additional research, it would fall to me to discharge such duties. But this time Price had not asked me. In fact he had never mentioned the question of any prior investigation. And this alarmed me because it confirmed what I had feared all evening: Price knew something about the case that I did not.
He continued: ‘For one thing, an examination of Crockford’s Clerical Directory of 1931, in which your previous incumbencies are recorded, showed that you were rector of Sackville, Nova Scotia, from 1928 to 1930. That’s two years before you both returned to England and took up the living at Borley, is it not?’
‘Correct.’
Mrs Foyster said with some heat, ‘I don’t see what relevance this has to the—’
‘Don’t you?’ Price was watching her carefully. ‘Sackville in Nova Scotia is a mere five miles from Amherst. Five miles. And there are certainly more than a few similarities between your problems here at Borley and those experienced in Amherst. I could list them, but I’m sure you’re more than familiar with the matter.’
‘We have never heard of this case you mention,’ retorted Reverend Foyster angrily, ‘and even if we had, I don’t see what relevance it would have to our own predicament.’
‘Allow me to jog your memory,’ said Price, turning to look once more at the bookshelf. ‘Because, quite conveniently, I see you have a book about the very case in question.’ He slipped a thick volume from the shelf and held it out for me to see. ‘Wonderful book this, Sarah: Walter Hubbell’s The Haunted House – The Great Amherst Mystery.’1 His eyes moved slowly over the pages as he leafed through the book. ‘Oh, it’s all very dramatic to be sure; it was a bad business, caused quite a bit of upset. Dr Nandor Fodor described this as one of the most famous poltergeist cases in the world. The young girl involved, Esther Cox, was a medium, or so she claimed. And she became the target of an alleged poltergeist infestation that was quite violent indeed. After a terrible time of stone-throwing and other disturbances, writing appeared on the walls of her bedroom.’ He was turning the pages with increased eagerness now. ‘Listen to this! One of them read simply, “Esther Cox, you are mine to kill.”’ At this he threw the book down on the floor and snarled at Mrs Foyster, ‘Now, dear lady, is any of this beginning to sound familiar to you?’
I could not believe that he had known all of this and kept it from me.
Mrs Foyster stood motionless before the French windows, lost in her reflection in the black glass.
‘Tell me, what took you to Canada in the first place?’ said Price.
‘Missionary work,’ the rector answered quietly.
‘And were you happy there?’
‘Most happy.’ He smiled sadly at Mrs Foyster, who had turned towards us. She did not return the gesture.
‘Then tell me, why did you leave so suddenly to come here to Borley, this little out-of-the-way place?’
‘There are many answers to that question, Mr Price. The first should be evident. Look at me. I’m bound to a wheelchair most days, my arthritis is so bad. I rely on Marianne to help me get around.’
As he spoke, Mrs Foyster drifted towards the drinks cabinet where she hastily filled her glass.
‘We lost a great deal of our wealth during the Wall Street Crash. I was fortunate that my family were able to offer me residency here at Borley. But even now our situation could best be described as difficult.’
‘You have moved about a fair amount in your time? Some might call it running.’
The rector was turning his head away now.
‘Harry,’ I said, ‘that’s enough.’
‘But I wonder: what on earth could you be running from, sir?’
‘Harry!’ I raised my voice. This was an unforgivable style of questioning.
Price redirected his attention. ‘Mrs Foyster, I can’t help thinking this must be a very difficult house for you to live in, especially at this time of year. So many duplex lamps to be filled with paraffin each day, so many passages to sweep, and having to pump all that water by turning the wheel outside. However do you manage it all?’
Reverend Foyster answered for his wife. ‘We manage. As I said earlier, we have a man who helps us.’
‘Yes, I can see that you do,’ said Price softly, ‘but I can well understand that the loneliness and discomfort of this house would be hard for anyone to tolerate. And so many bad feelings in the building, stored up over so long, gathering about you. It’s a wonder you haven’t left the place already.’
‘Like the Smiths?’ said Mrs Foyster bitterly. ‘The ghosts got them in the end, as we all said they would.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Only that they had it coming. They weren’t liked about the village. People in these parts don’t take kindly to folk like them.’
‘You knew about the house and its reputation before you came here, and yet you still came. Tell me why.’
Marianne turned and said bitterly, ‘Because we had no choice. Do you know how much they pay my poor husband? I’ll tell you how much: the grand sum of six pounds a week. I know of chauffeurs who earn more than that.’
‘Forgive me, but that’s not quite the same reason that I have been given.’
No one said a word. Price delighted in the moment. Once again everyone’s attention was on him. Finally he opened his mouth to speak.
But before Price could utter a word a sudden noise from the hall caused the rector to start up from his chair. ‘I say! What the devil was that?’
Armed with one of our lamps, Price hurried over to the door, opened it and peered out into the gloom. As he did so, I fancied I heard footsteps on the floorboards above us and the dull thud … thud … thud … of a walking stick.
‘Well?’
‘Broken crockery,’ Price answered. ‘It’s all over the floor.’
The rector joined him. ‘All of this comes from the kitchen dresser,’ he sighed. ‘You can see how unlikely it would be for someone to fetch all of this, fling it down here and get out of sight so quickly. I think we are going to have a bad night. Marianne dear, I had better go and check that young Adelaide is in bed.’
‘No,’ said Marianne quickly, ‘no, I’ll go.’ And swept out of the room.
The rector appeared peculiarly disappointed not to have gone but quickly said, ‘What a dear, kind help she is to me. How on earth I would manage without her I don’t know.’ He eased himself back into his chair. ‘Mr Price, I am genuinely puzzled by your abrasive attitude towards our predicament. You seem to blow hot and cold on the affair. One moment you believe it, the next you do not.’
The same could have been said of Price’s approach to the whole subject that was his passion, and the thought caused me to smile. When I looked at him, I saw that he was deep in thought again, watching as the Foysters’ maid arrived in the hall with a pan and brush and set to work sweeping up the fragments of crockery. He walked over to speak to her.
‘This happens a lot to you, does it?’
‘Yes, sir, when there are guests about the house mostly.’2
‘A ghost with an objection to house guests. Tell me more about that.’
The young girl looked at the rector, whose brow was furrowed. ‘Well, sir, the Lord and Lady Whitehouse from Sudbury were here just a few weeks ago and had a terrible time of it. Poor Mrs Foyster became locked in her bedroom. The master had to say a prayer to let her out.’
‘I see. And has that happened previously?’
‘Oh yes, all the time, sir.’
Just then Mrs Foyster hurried back into the room. ‘You needn’t look so doubtful, Mr Price. My husband didn’t believe it either, but he has faith; and if faith can move mountains it can most certainly change minds.’
‘Perhaps. Is young Adelaide all right?’
&nb
sp; He spoke politely, but there was no escaping the fact that the air of civility was strained.
‘Yes, for now.’ She sat down near the fire. ‘Now then, I would think you ought to be getting off soon if you are taking a taxi back into Long Melford. And I wouldn’t dally in those lanes either.’
‘No, not yet, thank you,’ Price replied. ‘You see, I was in the middle of explaining to your good husband what I think is the matter in this house. As I see it, there are two possibilities. The first will appeal to those who are more open-minded. I have a theory that psychic abilities do, under certain conditions, produce phantasms or ghosts. Projections, if you like. My work with Herr Schneider has led me to this view. Whether we can apply this theory to the causation of poltergeist phenomena in this case is another matter.’
‘Go on,’ said Reverend Foyster.
Marianne was rolling her eyes as if to convey her boredom. ‘Can someone remind me why I am here?’ She shot her husband a scowl. ‘Really, Lionel, bringing these strangers to our home … whatever next?’
There was an awkward silence as Price hesitated. ‘Well, umm, your wife is a young woman with very firm opinions; perhaps there is some psychic connection between her and this phantom nun.’
The rector nodded his agreement. ‘The wall writings and that pathetic appeal for help would seem to suggest so.’
‘Indeed,’ Price said. ‘And except for a very brief period, there have always been many young girls – maids, the Bull sisters – living at the Rectory. Perhaps traces of their memories, their thoughts and experiences here, are still clinging to their old home. A sort of psychic residue, if you like.’
‘What’s the second possibility?’
‘Now then, that’s altogether trickier,’ said Price. He sat down beside the rector, fixing him with his cool eyes, and I braced myself for what was coming.
But before he could say a word, there came from Mrs Foyster a startling cry. Then she leapt forward like a tiger before falling to her knees, her hands clasped in a gesture of prayer.
