The Haunting of Henderson Close

by Cavendish

“Mairead. Mairead Ferguson.”

  The maid reappeared. “Please follow me. Miss Carmichael will see you now.”

  The minister led the way into a comfortable room, cluttered with furniture, photographs and plants in typical Victorian fashion.

  “Ah, Miss Carmichael, I’ve brought a young lady who is most anxious to see you. Mairead Ferguson.” The minister stepped back and the two women had their first sight of each other.

  They both gasped and Miss Carmichael’s teacup wobbled precariously in her saucer.

  “Good gracious,” the older woman said. “How extraordinary. It’s like looking at myself years ago.”

  The minister nodded. “She could certainly pass herself off as you. Especially if she wore your spectacles and kept her own hair totally hidden.”

  Mairead touched her head and found a few wisps of blonde hair that had escaped her cap.

  Miss Carmichael laid her cup and saucer down on the table and stood. Mairead’s nerves had got the better of her and, try as she might, words wouldn’t form themselves. The shock of seeing someone who looked so much like her! When Miss Carmichael took her arm, she offered no resistance. She sat where indicated.

  “Lucy,” Miss Carmichael said to the girl who hovered at the door, apparently mesmerized by their new visitor. “Please make us some fresh tea. Two more cups please.”

  “Alas, no, Miss Carmichael,” said the minister. “I was on my way to visit old Mrs. Sykes. I merely took a diversion in order to bring this young lady to you, but I must away now. She’s expecting me for afternoon tea.”

  “Of course, Reverend. Please give Mrs. Sykes my kind regards. I will see you on Sunday then.”

  Lucy and the minister left.

  “Now, my dear. What brings you here and what can I do for you? I sense you are greatly distressed and the clothes you are wearing.… Tell me all about it.”

  Mairead did her best but found there was little she could say that sounded even vaguely comprehensible and it was becoming vague, as if reality was somehow slipping away. Still, at least, she could speak now. “I found myself in Greyfriars Kirkyard but I have no idea when I got there or why I was there. I knew I had to get to Henderson Close because…because.…” She had nothing more to say. The memory had left her with swathes of emptiness where she knew her past life must lie. The name Emily Macfarlane meant something to her. But what? She knew her name was Mairead Ferguson. She belonged in 2018, not here, not now. But she couldn’t tell Miss Carmichael that.

  The clock ticked. The fire crackled. Finally Miss Carmichael cleared her throat. “Miss Ferguson, I believe Mr. Maclean advised you well today. I am so glad you chose to take heed of him and come to me.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I believe you were sent here for a purpose. As yet, I have no idea what that purpose is, but I believe it may have something to do with my work.”

  “Your work?”

  “With families living in Henderson Close and the surrounding area. I try to help as best I can, with food, clothing, sometimes even a little money. I have been doing it most of my life. I used to go there every Sunday afternoon with my father, following services. When he died, I carried on and increased my efforts. There is so much misery down there.”

  “I know,” Mairead said.

  “Do you, my dear? Really? How could you possibly know? You are not from there, are you?”

  Mairead shook her head.

  Miss Carmichael looked at her harder, seemingly puzzled. “You speak with barely an accent. Where do you live exactly?”

  “At.…” Where was it? Another blank. It was there…but now it had gone. She had made for Henderson Close but she didn’t live there. So, where did she live? Why couldn’t she remember? She was aware of Miss Carmichael staring at her. Concern growing in her eyes.

  “I.… This is going to sound crazy. I can’t remember.” Mairead’s mind raged. She wanted to tell Miss Carmichael about coming to in Greyfriars Kirkyard, of having this overwhelming urge to get to Henderson Close, and of knowing she didn’t belong there at that time, but how would this God-fearing woman possibly believe her? At best she would think her demented and, in this day and age, would probably feel it her duty to have her committed to an asylum for her own protection.

  Miss Carmichael removed her spectacles and polished them with a soft cloth. “You’ve had a nasty experience. A temporary amnesia perhaps, brought on by some trauma. I have heard it can happen.”

  Mairead breathed evenly. At least she wasn’t sending for the local constabulary yet.

  Miss Carmichael replaced her glasses on her nose. “Given your name and how much alike we are, I’m not certain but I think we may be related. My grandmother was a Ferguson. She married a man called Francis Carmichael, hence my name. I know I had a great-uncle, also a Ferguson. Maybe that’s where the connection lies.”

  “That certainly seems possible. What was his first name?”

  “I never met him unfortunately. He died before I was born. I can’t quite.… Richard. Yes, that was his name. Richard Ferguson.”

  The name meant nothing to Mairead, but then right now, precious little did. Even with her memory intact, she would have had to trawl back a lot further into her ancestry than Miss Carmichael could have imagined. Mairead made an expansive gesture with her hands and shook her head.

  “Ah well, never mind. Maybe when your memory returns and you go back home you can ask your relations.”

  “I haven’t really got many relations. Only my mother.” So, she remembered that at least.

  “Oh, I see. Well, it seems that today you may have gained at least one more.” Miss Carmichael smiled. “You shall stay with me. Just until you regain your memory of where you live. I do feel I should be summoning the doctor. Perhaps you were hit on the head?”

  Mairead shook her head vigorously. That was the last thing she wanted. Some Victorian quack prodding and poking at her. He’d probably prescribe opium or something equally addictive. “No really, Miss Carmichael. You have been so kind and I would like to stay with you. At least for tonight. But I am quite certain I don’t need a doctor. I have no pain. I can see and hear clearly. I’m sure I haven’t been assaulted in any way.”

  “Then this is a most curious affair.” Miss Carmichael slapped her hands on her legs. “Right, I shall ask Lucy to make up the guest room for you. You shall have a good rest this evening, and tomorrow you can come and help me. I am visiting a family in Henderson Close. The McDonalds. Their eldest boy, Robbie, shows a lot of promise.” She sighed. “He is an intelligent child with an enquiring mind. How cruel he should be born in such an environment. A few streets further to the west and he would undoubtedly have been enjoying a first-class education with university in the offing. As it is.…”

  “Can nothing be done?”

  Miss Carmichael smiled. “Possibly, my dear. I have some ideas but Mr. McDonald, for all their poverty, is a proud man. I have to be careful how I approach him even with what I provide so far. To announce that I intend to educate one of his sons would quite possibly prove unacceptable to him.”

  “But if it will help raise his child out of the slums.…”

  “I will pursue the matter. Robbie is nine years old and already put to labor. He works in a grocer’s shop so at least he is spared dangerous tasks. He still attends school and his reading and arithmetic are advanced among his peers. I supply him with books and every week we discuss a topic from one of them. He knows a great deal about the book of Genesis, and also about the achievements of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. I think he wishes to be an engineer himself one day although his father tells him to stop daydreaming.”

  “He sounds like a very special little boy.”

  “He is.” The way she said it showed almost parental pride. Mairead hoped she would succeed and that Robbie would live his dream.

  A wave of ti
redness overcame her and she stifled a yawn.

  Miss Carmichael rang for Lucy. “Some of your lovely oxtail soup for Miss Ferguson please, Lucy, and she will be staying as my guest, so if you could make up the guest room and sort out some nightclothes and a couple of my day dresses. It seems, for the time being at least, poor Miss Ferguson has been left with only the clothes she stands up in. Fortunately it would seem we are of similar build and may even be related. Now what do you think about that?”

  Lucy’s astonished look was quickly replaced with a nod. “That would certainly explain the resemblance, Miss.”

  After Lucy had left, Miss Carmichael patted Mairead’s hand. “I can see we are going to be great friends.”

  Mairead smiled back at her. If only she could tell her the truth. If only she could remember any of it.

  * * *

  Miss Carmichael seemed a little jittery as they approached Henderson Close late next morning. She and Mairead both carried parcels wrapped in brown paper and string. More gifts for families in the Old Town. They had already dropped off bread and pies and yet more children’s clothing with a couple of families in Farquhars Close, and the McDonalds would be their last stop. As they rounded the corner, Mairead had a sudden flash of recognition. Ahead of her lay Murdoch Maclean’s print shop. Miss Carmichael’s step faltered and she stopped, her face white.

  That corner. Mairead recognized it. Miss Carmichael’s corner. On this very spot.…

  “Are you all right, Miss Carmichael?” Mairead laid her hand on the woman’s trembling arm.

  “Oh dear me. I…the most odd feeling.…” Miss Carmichael shook her head and a tiny blush of color returned to her cheeks.

  Mairead felt it too. A strange sensation as if everything around had become momentarily muffled and indistinct. Her vision grew hazy and then corrected itself. The moment passed.

  Mairead steered her companion away from the spot and life returned to normal. Or as normal as anything could be for Mairead at present.

  Miss Carmichael straightened her jacket and raised her hand to knock at the door. Mairead cast a glance back at the corner, from where a tall, thin man glared at them.

  Something about him. Did she know him?

  “You bitch.”

  Mairead gave a start. The voice. Male. So vicious.

  Miss Carmichael was looking at her with a concerned expression. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Sorry, I thought you spoke.”

  “No, dear.” She gave the door a sharp rap.

  Mairead looked back. He’d gone. The corner was deserted. They call it Miss Carmichael’s corner.

  Mairead shivered. The face of the young man flashed into her mind. Young man? Those eyes…the sharp angle of the jaw. Something in the way he stood. The long arms.…

  The door opened.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The tired-looking woman drew her thin shawl closer around her. “My goodness. You look so much alike,” Mrs. McDonald said. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear you were mother…I mean…sisters.”

  Miss Carmichael smiled. “They say everyone has a double somewhere. Mairead is mine.”

  It seemed everywhere Mairead looked, a small child was sitting, playing, sucking its fingers or trying to pull peeling paper off the damp walls. Mrs. McDonald’s bulging tummy ensured there would be another mouth to feed in the coming months, or maybe only weeks. She looked pale. Her hair hung loosely where it had escaped from a couple of hair grips. Though she clearly did her best, judging by the relatively clean washing hanging in front of the meager fire, nothing could be done to stop the spread of grime from the outside world. It covered everything in a fine layer of soot. There was no sign of Mr. McDonald.

  “He has some work today,” his wife said, managing a smile. “Some laboring. Might last two or even three days if we’re lucky.”

  “You make sure you get the money off him, Moira. You don’t want him drinking it away.”

  “A man needs his pleasures, Miss.”

  Mairead refrained from saying that, judging by the size of his family, he already took his pleasures. Frequently. Her gaze kept being drawn to the closed door. What had she seen across the Close? Whatever it was.… The malevolence it had given off.… Was it even human?

  She became aware that Miss Carmichael was addressing her.

  “This is Robbie.”

  A young boy in a frayed red jumper put out his small, thin hand and Mairead shook it. The boy looked solemn, his brown eyes serious, yet glowing with intelligence.

  “I have heard a lot about you, Robbie. Miss Carmichael tells me you want to be an engineer like Brunel.”

  Robbie opened his mouth to reply but was cut short by his mother.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Miss. That sort of work isn’t for the likes of us. When Robbie’s old enough, he’ll go to work at the brewery. It’s good, regular, honest work.”

  Something stirred in Mairead’s memory. Something she had read a long time ago. Back in her other life. Breweries in Victorian Britain. Terrible working conditions in those places. Long hours, no concept of health and safety, and brutal bosses. Miss Carmichael was right. The New Town might only be around a mile away, but it might as well be the other side of the world where Robbie’s prospects were concerned.

  “We will take our leave now, Moira. My best wishes to Mr. McDonald.”

  “Thank you, Miss Carmichael, and bless you.” Mrs. McDonald turned to Mairead. “I hope you find your way back soon.”

  Did she mean back to this house? Mairead couldn’t help feeling she meant something else entirely. There was something in the woman’s eyes. She had made contact with Mairead in a way she didn’t understand. It bothered her. Like everything else in this strange new life of hers.

  Back outside, in the melee of Henderson Close, Mairead’s eyes were once again drawn to the corner. A few people milled about. But, of the strange male figure, no sign. She shivered.

  “Are you cold, my dear?”

  “No. Thank you, but I’m fine.” How could she tell Miss Carmichael that, for some reason she couldn’t explain, she knew that in ten years’ time, this kind woman’s blood would stain this very street and she would lay dying on that same spot?

  * * *

  A few days later, Mairead returned to Henderson Close. Reluctantly on her own this time. Miss Carmichael had been taken ill with a severe cold but had insisted Mairead must go. “We can’t let Mrs. McDonald down, nor the others. They depend on us so.”

  Once again, she approached the corner of the Close with some trepidation. The sound of the clattering printing press issued from the open door of Murdoch Maclean’s shop. It still made her feel strange. In her mind she had such a different picture of it. Underground for some reason.

  She heard a sound behind her and whirled round, almost dropping the carefully wrapped parcel she carried under her arm.

  A tall, black shadow retreated into a shop doorway, much darker than its neighbors. A smell of sulfur mingled with the other smells of the street. Mairead looked around. People chattered in small groups, tobacco smoke wafted around her. No one took any notice of her. Everything became hazy and she looked down to see where she was standing. Somehow she had crossed the street and now stood on Miss Carmichael’s corner. Why did she keep calling it that?

  Mairead shut her eyes. The street noise grew distant and faded to an echo. New sounds emerged, growing closer. Familiar voices. Memories washed back over her. Edinburgh 2018. Henderson Close, where she worked as Emily Macfarlane.

  Those voices. Who were they? Of course. George. Hannah.

  Mairead opened her eyes. She was back. In her own time. The remains of Henderson Close all around her. She looked down at her dress and felt her head. Exactly the same clothes she had been wearing when the world had gone mad and she had emerged in 1881 a few days earlier. No, it couldn�
�t be. It must still be the same day or she would have changed her clothes. Then her memory of all she had experienced on the previous days deserted her.

  She had come down here for something. What was it? She couldn’t remember. She must get back.

  Voices. Hannah. George. They must have come looking for her.

  She called out to her colleagues.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hannah struggled to move, but her arms and legs were bound fast with ropes that dug into her wrists and ankles. She tried to focus and her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit surroundings. She appeared to be in a room with no windows and only a flickering candle for illumination. Whoever had left her here had at least not gagged her. She cried out and her agonized voice echoed against the bare walls.

  She wriggled herself into a sitting position and leaned against a cold, sweaty wall. There was something oddly familiar about the room. She had been here before. If only the light were brighter she could be sure, but she seemed to be underground. Someone had brought her here, left her in almost total darkness. But for what purpose? And how long had she been here? Questions. Only questions. No answers.

  She cried out again.

  A noise. Faint at first but getting a little louder. In this strange, still atmosphere, her breathing sounded like a wind. She held her breath. There. Someone moving around beyond the room.

  The candle flickered wildly. Don’t let it go out.

  A small figure in white appeared. A little girl. Behind her, concealed in shadow, must be the entrance to this place. Her exit to freedom, she hoped. The little girl stared at her, the candle illuminating her pale features. Hannah pasted a smile on her face.

  “Can you help me?” she asked.

  The child hesitated. Then inched forward.

  “Please, could you untie me? Someone’s been playing a silly game with me but they’ve gone and forgotten I’m still tied up here. Please could you help?”

  The child continued to stare at her, then clutched something to her chest. It looked like an old raggedy doll.