By Graham Masterton
The House of a Hundred Whispers
Ghost Virus
THE KATIE MAGUIRE SERIES
White Bones
Broken Angels
Red Light
Taken for Dead
Blood Sisters
Buried
Living Death
Dead Girls Dancing
Dead Men Whistling
Begging to Die
The Last Drop of Blood
THE BEATRICE SCARLET SERIES
Scarlet Widow
The Coven
THE HOUSE OF A HUNDRED WHISPERS
Graham Masterton
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Graham Masterton, 2020
The moral right of Graham Masterton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781789544237
Head of Zeus Ltd
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Devon words interpreted
About the author
An Invitation from the Publisher
For Dawn G Harris, for her sparkling creativity
For Piotr Pocztarek, for my brilliant Polish website
For Hubert Pstrągowski, with all best wishes for a wonderful life
1
As he reached the top of the staircase, Herbert heard a door opening. He paused, one hand on the newel post, listening intently. The full moon was shining so brightly through the diamond-patterned windows that there had been no need for him to switch on the landing light.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded. He was trying to sound authoritative, but he could feel his heart beating against his ribcage and he was breathing hard. After forty-two years he had become inured to the musty old-oak aroma of Allhallows Hall, but he could smell it strongly now, almost as if the house were sweating with anticipation.
He heard a creak of floorboards behind him and he turned around, but there was nobody there, only the dark oil portraits of the Wilmington family that hung around the landing, staring back at him balefully through four hundred years of walnut-coloured varnish.
He hadn’t intended to come back into the house, not after dark. Whenever the moon was full, he left Allhallows Hall for three days and went to stay at the Marine Hotel in Paignton. This time, though, he had forgotten to take his accounts book, and he was already two weeks late in filing his annual tax return.
He waited a full minute longer. The only sound was the wind whistling sadly down the chimneys, but he had been living on Dartmoor for so long that he was used to that constant wind, too, and he no longer found it eerie.
‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Whoever you are, you miserable reprobate, enjoy your weekend.’
With that, he took the first step downstairs. As he did so, though, he heard footsteps running towards him. Before he could turn around again, he was hit on the bald spot on the back of his head with what felt like a hammer. He pitched forward and tumbled down the first flight of stairs, his arms and legs flailing and his accounts book flying, so that he was surrounded by a shower of bills and receipts and train tickets.
He collided with the panelling halfway down the stairs, striking the left side of his forehead against the skirting board, and jarring his shoulder. Stunned, disorientated, he tried to climb up onto his hands and knees, but he lost his balance and tilted sideways down the second flight of stairs. He fell head over heels, so that he felt and heard his spine crack. When he reached the hallway, he lay with his cheek against the threadbare Agra rug, staring at a faded yellow lotus flower. His heart bumped slower and slower.
Footsteps came slowly down the stairs from the landing, and Herbert’s receipts and invoices were kicked aside like dead leaves. A figure appeared at the top of the second flight, silhouetted against the windows. If Herbert’s neck hadn’t been broken, and he had been able to look up, he would have recognised this figure by his hair, shaved up at the sides and then gelled up into a point like a shiny shark’s fin.
The figure stood looking down at Herbert for over a minute, as if he were reluctant to go down to the hallway to check his pulse, but still wanted to be sure that he was never going to get up again.
After a while, though, he climbed back upstairs. If Herbert had still been conscious, he would have heard the squeaking of floorboards as he crossed the landing, and then the soft faraway click as he closed the bedroom door.
2
Rob was sitting in front of his computer, frowning in concentration, when the phone started to warble.
‘Vicky!’ he called out. ‘Can you answer that?’
‘I’m right in the middle of grilling Timmy’s sausages!’
‘And I’m right in the middle of a whiteboard animation! I can’t leave it, even for a second!’
Vicky didn’t answer, but the phone went on warbling and warbling, and eventually Rob heard her leave the kitchen and walk through to the hallway. She picked up the phone and he could just about make out her saying, ‘Really? I see.’ After that there was a long pause, and then she said, ‘Yes. All right. I’ll tell him.’
‘Mummy!’ wailed Timmy. ‘I’m hungry!’
‘I won’t be a moment, Timmy,’ said Vicky. She came into the dining room, which Rob was using as his studio. Rob didn’t look at her because he was drawing a woman walking a dog down a tree-lined street.
‘Who was that?’ he asked her. Then, ‘Damn.’ He had lost his concentration and smudged the dog’s tail.
‘Margaret Walsh, from Makepeace and Trott.’
‘That’s my dad’s solicitors. What did she want? Damn!’
‘Your dad’s dead.’
Rob kept on staring at the screen for a few moments. Then he sat back and turned around and said, ‘He’s dead?’
&n
bsp; ‘He was booked into the Marine Hotel in Paignton, that’s what she said, but he didn’t show up. The hotel rang him but he didn’t answer, neither his landline nor his mobile. In the end they called the prison, but the prison couldn’t get in touch with him either, so they sent two officers round to his house. His car was still outside in the driveway and his front door was open. They found him lying at the bottom of the stairs.’
Rob turned back to his computer and switched it off. He would have to go back to the beginning with that animation, but he felt too numb to continue.
He had often wondered how he would react when his father died. Sometimes he thought that he would be relieved, even elated. Herbert Russell had been selfish and short-tempered, and a harsh disciplinarian. To give him his due, he had occasionally been capable of unexpected acts of generosity – giving out hampers to his wardens at Christmas or donating money to local charities. But Rob had always suspected that he had been trying to convince both his family and his prison staff that his bullying was beneficial for them, and that one day they would thank him for it. Either that, or he had been trying to make sure he didn’t compromise his chances of being admitted to heaven.
‘Where is he now, did she tell you?’
‘They took him to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth for a post-mortem – what with his death being unexplained and everything. And the police are looking into it. They think he might have been attacked by somebody breaking into the house.’
‘Really? He had more than his fair share of enemies, too. Well, you would do, wouldn’t you, if you were a prisoner governor. Especially a prison governor like him.’
Vicky came up to him and stroked his wavy brown hair. ‘You’re not upset, are you? Not just a little bit? He was your father.’
Rob reached up and took hold of her hand. ‘The only thing that upsets me is remembering how miserable he used to make my mum. And we’ll have to have a funeral. And that means getting together with Martin and Katharine, God help us, and Grace. Well, I don’t mind Grace, so long as she doesn’t bring along that ghastly Portia.’
He stared at his blank computer screen. He could see his ghost reflected in it, and he looked so much more like his late mother than his father. It had been his thirty-ninth birthday only a week ago, but he could have passed for ten years younger. Vicky had once said she had fallen for him because he resembled Lord Byron, with his dark curls and his slightly hooded eyes. For his part, Rob had fallen for Vicky’s soulful violet irises and her pale dreamy face and her braided blonde hair, and he had loved the way she wafted around in flowing ankle-length dresses like a Pre-Raphaelite artist’s model, although there was nothing soulful or wafty about her personality.
‘Did Margaret Walsh tell you if he wanted to be buried or cremated?’
‘No.’
‘In that case I’ll have to wait, won’t I?’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Wait to find out if I can dance a jig on his grave or if I have to flush his ashes down the toilet.’
‘You’re not that vengeful, Rob, and you know it.’
‘Actually, you’re right. I’m not. If there was one thing I learned from Dad, it was how to be kind. One smile is more effective than a thousand shouts.’
‘Mummy!’ called Timmy.
3
It was foggy when they arrived in Sampford Spiney, that chilly white Dartmoor fog that can take until midday to clear. Even then it can still be seen clinging in the hollows and over the leats, the narrow channels that were dug across the moor to bring water to forges and farms and houses like Allhallows Hall.
‘This place never ceases to give me the creeps,’ said Vicky, as the square tower of St Mary’s church came into view behind the trees. ‘There’s never anybody around, and it’s so grey.’
They had driven for the past five miles along a single-track road with high granite walls on either side, which always made Rob feel claustrophobic. His claustrophobia was only compounded as he turned into the gateway of Allhallows Hall, and there was the manor house in which he had been brought up. After he had left home to go to Worthing College of Art he had never returned, except two years ago to visit his mother when she was dying of cancer. His father had rarely been there when he had visited, and even when he was he had shown little interest in Rob’s life or his career.
‘It gives you the creeps?’ he said. And then, ‘Thanks, Martin, I love you too.’
His brother Martin’s bronze Range Rover was parked diagonally across the narrow drive, so that he had to park his own Honda close to the wall, giving him barely enough space to open his door. He turned around to see if Timmy had woken up yet. Timmy had been sleeping in his car seat all the way from Exeter.
‘Timmy? Timmy, we’re here!’
Timmy opened his eyes, yawned, and then peered out of the window with a frown. ‘Oh… it’s Grandpa’s house! I thought you said he was dead!’
‘He is. But we had to come here to decide what we’re going to do with his house.’
‘We’re not going to live here, are we?’
‘No,’ put in Vicky, before Rob could answer. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Rob.
‘What do you mean, “we’ll see”? If you think I’m going to live way out here in the middle of nowhere at all, surrounded by a whole lot of bleating sheep, then you are sorely mistaken.’
They climbed out of their car. The fog made Allhallows Hall look even more forbidding than it usually did. A stone arch led from the driveway into a paved courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard stood a fountain with a headless cherub perched on top of it, coated in thick black moss, and the walls all around were lined by rectangular lead planters, every one of which was thick with dead grass and decaying weeds.
‘I thought he had gardeners,’ said Vicky.
‘When he was governor he could get prisoners to do it for him, and he didn’t have to pay them. When he retired, he just let it all go to pot.’
The main house had been built in 1567, out of local granite with a slate roof, and it was overgrown with rusty-coloured ivy. Two large granite barns had been added in the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, which made the courtyard feel even more enclosed. Rob looked up at the window that had once been his bedroom, and it looked smaller and darker and more secretive than he remembered. He used to have nightmares that there was another boy, sleeping under his bed, and he wondered if that boy was still there.
‘I’m thirsty,’ said Timmy.
‘Timmy, for God’s sake, you’re always something! If you’re not thirsty you’re hungry and if you’re not hungry you’re tired and if you’re not tired you’re bored.’
‘Oh, leave the poor boy alone,’ said Vicky. ‘It’s all right, darling, we’ll find you something in a minute. Your grandpa must have left something in the house that you can drink.’
‘Apart from Scotch?’ said Rob. ‘I very much doubt it.’
As they approached the porch, the oak front door opened and Martin appeared, with his wife, Katharine, close behind him.
‘Aha! You remembered where the old house was, then!’ he said, in his usual trumpeting voice.
Martin was at least three inches taller than Rob, and bulkier, with curly hair that was prematurely grey for a man of forty-four. His cheeks were already rough and red, like Herbert’s had been, and his eyes were the same pale citrine colour. He was wearing a maroon cable-knit sweater, which gave him the appearance of a city dweller who assumed that this was what country people usually wore.
Katharine was skinny and petite, with a bleached-blonde angular bob, permanently narrowed eyes, and a sharply pointed nose. She could have been quite pretty if she didn’t always look so sour, with her lips tightly pursed. She was wearing a beige Burberry cardigan, which Vicky guessed must have cost at least seven hundred pounds.
‘No, I’d totally forgotten where it was,’ said Rob. ‘That’s what satnav’s for, isn’t it? So that you don’t have to remember where you spent yo
ur unhappy childhood.’
He was quite aware that Martin was making a sarcastic comment about the fact that he hadn’t been down to Sampford Spiney to see their father since their mother’s funeral.
Martin came out and gave him a clumsy hug. He smelled of bitter woodsmoke and some expensive aftershave.
‘How’s it going in the arty-farty business? Making any money yet?’
‘Oh… a few bob here and there. I’m doing some animation for Aardman and some dancing leprechauns for Tourism Ireland. How’s life in the City?’
‘I could say obscenely profitable, but that would be an understatement.’
Katharine and Vicky had exchanged no more than tight, polite smiles. Vicky said, ‘Shall we go inside? It’s freezing out here and Timmy’s thirsty.’
‘By all means, come on in. I’ve just lit the fire in the drawing room. Dad’s solicitor should be here in a half hour or so, what’s-her-name. And Gracey said she’d be here about eleven. She’s catching a taxi from Tiverton.’
They entered the hallway. Its walls were panelled in oak so dark it was almost chocolate-coloured, and its granite floor was covered by the faded red Agra rug that Herbert Russell had been staring at when his heart stopped beating.
Martin turned around at the bottom of the stairs and said, ‘They found him right here, apparently. His skull was bashed in, although they don’t yet know how that happened. Could have been a burglar, or perhaps he smashed his head on the banisters as he fell downstairs.’
‘Martin,’ Vicky scolded him. ‘Not in front of Timmy.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Timmy’s heard worse than that, haven’t you, Timmy? Play Fortnite, do you?’
‘Martin, he’s only five. We’re still on Super Mario.’
Martin led them into the drawing room. It had always been gloomy in here, because the diamond-leaded windows were small for a room this size. Most of the furniture was Jacobean, upholstered in brocade, with barley-twist legs, although a wing chair with a worn leather cushion stood close to the fireplace, and this was where their father always used to sit – ‘Herbert’s throne’, their mother, Florence, used to call it. The fireplace itself was huge, like a granite bridge, with a cast-iron basket that was big enough to roast a hog. Martin had stacked three large ash logs into it, and the kindling underneath them was crackling sharply.
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