The House of a Hundred Whispers

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Oh, she’s well known around here. She lives in a cottage up at Rundlestone. Well, there’s only two cottages at Rundlestone and she lives in one of them. She does all that occult stuff. You know, tarot cards and all that. But some people say that she can talk to people who have passed over. If there’s spirits in this house, and they know where your little lad is, she’s about the only person I know who’s got any chance of getting it out of them.’

  ‘She’s a medium?’

  ‘She doesn’t call herself that. She calls herself a charmer.’

  ‘All right, then, if you really feel that she might be able to help. I’m like you, and I have to admit that I’ve never believed in that kind of thing – not ghosts. But something pushed my wife over, and I definitely felt as if somebody brushed up against me, and even if it wasn’t spirits I’d like to know just what the hell is going on here.’

  At that moment there was a loud knocking at the front door, which made Vicky clap her hand over her heart.

  15

  Rob opened the front door to find Sergeant Billings standing in the porch, as well as a tall man in a brown trilby hat and a long brown raincoat.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Holley, from Plymouth CID,’ said Sergeant Billings. ‘He’d like to have a word, if he may. Not about your Timmy, I’m afraid to say. We’re still out looking.’

  ‘Of course, come in.’

  DI Holley stepped into the hallway and looked around it, this way and that, like a prospective buyer. He had a large bony nose like a hawk and glittery, close-set eyes. Even though Rob didn’t have the keenest sense of smell, he could tell that DI Holley was a smoker.

  ‘And you’re Mr Robert Russell, I presume?’ he asked Rob.

  ‘That’s right, and this is my wife, Victoria.’

  DI Holley gave Vicky a peremptory nod, as if he had been asked to put a price on a Dartmoor pony but really couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘Could you call Martin, please, Vicky?’ Rob asked her, and Vicky went through to the library, where Martin was still hunched over his laptop, making Skype calls to his investors.

  Rob led DI Holley and Sergeant Billings through to the drawing room and they all sat down. The wind had changed direction so that the fire was sulky and subdued and kept puffing out little clouds of fine white ash.

  Martin came in, looking irritated. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Is this about Dad?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Holley,’ said DI Holley. ‘And you’re Mr Martin Russell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is indeed regarding your late father, Mr Herbert Russell. Earlier this morning I received the final results of the autopsy that was carried out to ascertain the cause of his death. There is no question at all that he was struck a severe blow on the back of his head by a hammer. This fractured his skull and caused a fatal cerebral haemorrhage.’

  ‘I see,’ said Martin, although he still didn’t sit down. ‘We thought it was something like that.’

  ‘As you’re aware, a hammer was located in the back garden of this house and forensic tests have shown beyond doubt that it was indeed the same hammer that was used to kill your father.’

  Rob said, ‘My God. Do you have any idea yet who might have killed him?’

  ‘We’re working on several theories, Mr Russell. The front door of the house was open when your father was found. His car was unlocked and there was an overnight bag in the boot, and we know that he was booked in to stay for three nights at the Marine Hotel in Paignton.’

  ‘Yes. He did that every month, without fail, although we never knew why.’

  ‘It’s possible that he could have been about to leave but returned to collect the accounts book and receipts that were found scattered on the staircase, as if he had dropped it. An intruder could have followed him into the house and attacked him. If he was attacked in the hall, however, it’s hard to understand how he could have dropped the accounts halfway up the stairs.’

  ‘Yes. I see the problem.’

  ‘In my opinion, Mr Russell, it’s far more likely that his assailant was already on the premises and attacked him at the top of the stairs, after which he fell down and dropped his accounts during his descent.’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at, yes. Do you have any idea who that might have been?’

  ‘He was governor of Dartmoor Prison for nineteen years. I imagine there are quite a few former lags who might bear a grudge against him, for one reason or another. We’ll be visiting the prison and going through their records to see who the most likely suspects might be. Perhaps it was somebody he shut up in solitary confinement, something like that. If it was a former lag, though, it’s questionable that your father would have invited him into the house voluntarily. And our examination of the doors and windows on the premises showed no indication of a break-in.’

  ‘So where do you go from here?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but a considerable percentage of homicides are committed by relatives. As a formality, we’re going to ask both of you and your sister to take DNA and fingerprint tests. Only to eliminate you, and so as not to confuse any other tests that we might be carrying out.’

  ‘Rather pointless, don’t you think?’ said Martin. ‘None of us were anywhere near here when Dad met his Maker.’

  ‘It’s only a formality,’ said DI Holley. ‘But we have to make sure that we’ve covered every possibility. Even the remotest possibility.’

  ‘I understand,’ Rob told him. ‘I’ve no objection to that.’

  ‘A forensic team will be here shortly to carry that out. Meanwhile, do you have any questions you want to ask me? Or has any further information occurred to you that might conceivably be of use to us in this investigation?’

  ‘I was going to call you about this anyway,’ said Rob. ‘When we were searching the house we found a number of suitcases in the attic, maybe as many as a dozen, all of them packed full of clothes. Every one of them was tagged with a label with the name of a Dartmoor prisoner on it.’

  ‘Really?’ said DI Holley, and then he turned around to Sergeant Billings. ‘Your officers searched the house, too, didn’t they, sergeant? Didn’t they see these suitcases?’

  ‘We didn’t check the attic, sir, on account of there was no way that a five-year-old boy could have climbed up there and shut the trapdoor after him. Not without leaving the stepladder under it, anyway.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said DI Holley, and turned back to Rob. ‘But – Mr Russell – do you have any idea why your father would have been storing all those prisoners’ suitcases?’

  ‘No idea at all, I’m afraid. They weren’t up there when my brother and sister and I were living here. But there’s something more. We looked up in the attic again today with Mr Kipling here because he was trying to find a priest’s hole.’

  ‘Really? I’ve heard of those. You think there’s one here?’

  ‘There is one here, and we’ve found it,’ said John. ‘It’s the largest I’ve ever come across. Just over six metres by two, behind three of the upstairs bedrooms. Very cunningly done, too, with duplicate stained-glass windows.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve found it?’ said Martin. ‘Well, thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Martin – we were still up there when DI Holley here knocked at the door.’

  ‘Nobody in it, though, I presume?’ asked DI Holley.

  John looked across at Rob as if to say, Let’s not tell him about the priest hole’s spooky atmosphere. Not just yet, anyway. He’ll probably think we’ve got a screw loose.

  Rob looked at Vicky and he could see that she had got the message, too.

  ‘No, nobody in it,’ he said. ‘But when we went up in the attic, we found that all the prisoners’ suitcases had been opened and the clothes inside them had been tossed around all over the place.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who might have done it?’

  ‘Absolutely no idea at all. Totally baffled. We haven’t seen or heard anybody breaking in, and we can’t u
nderstand how they could have got up into the attic or why they should have emptied all those suitcases out. They might have been looking for something, but of course we don’t know what.’

  DI Holley said nothing for a few moments, frowning as if he wished that Rob hadn’t told him about the suitcases, because it further complicated the mysteries of Herbert Russell’s murder and why Timmy had disappeared.

  At last he said, ‘You didn’t disturb any of the clothing? Good. When forensics come up here I’ll ask them to examine it. And you say that all the suitcases are labelled with the names of Dartmoor inmates?’

  ‘We assume that’s what they are. They’re all addressed Dartmoor Prison.’

  ‘Okay then. We’ll make a list of the names and when we visit the prison we’ll see if we can match them. Perhaps that might even give us a lead to whoever it was who assaulted your father. Meanwhile, do you want to show me the attic? And while we’re up there, you might let me take a look at this priest’s hole that you’ve found.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They all stood up. John said, ‘Listen – if you’ve no further need of me, I have one or two errands to run and things to do at home. I can come back later, though. About fiveish? Depending on – you know.’

  Rob gave him the thumbs up. He knew that when John came back, he would be bringing with him Ada Grey, the self-styled ‘charmer’.

  Martin said, ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing this priest’s hole too. You know – seeing as how I do have an interest in this property, no matter how tenuous.’

  Rob was about to tell him not to be so shirty, but he decided against it, not in front of two police officers. He didn’t want DI Holley to suspect that there was any resentment between them about the inheritance of Allhallows Hall. People had been murdered for far less.

  *

  Martin and DI Holley had much the same reaction to the priest’s hole. They were both deeply impressed by the mechanics that opened up the hidden panel in the dado, and by the way in which the stained-glass windows had been placed to conceal the room’s existence. But neither of them could see that it was any more than an historical curiosity. It was empty, and there was no indication that it had been occupied recently, even if the crucifix lever lifted so easily, as if it had been lubricated not too long ago. DI Holley bent over the window seat and sniffed it and said, ‘WD-40.’ If he picked up the scent of cinnamon and orange, he didn’t mention it.

  Four forensics experts turned up two hours later and Rob helped them to climb up into the attic to examine the suitcases and the scattered clothes. They were still up there three hours later, clumping about and taking pictures.

  With the help of two more uniformed officers, they removed all the clothing and the suitcases from the attic, carried them downstairs and loaded them into a police van. Then they took fingerprints and DNA swabs from Rob and Martin, as well as Vicky and Katharine, although Katharine made it clear that she thought it was preposterous. ‘Can you seriously see me driving two hundred miles down here to hit my father-in-law over the head with a hammer? I ask you!’

  Before the forensic officers left, Grace and Portia returned from searching the moors with the DSR team, and they were able to give their fingerprints and DNA samples too. Portia didn’t mind. She thought it was quite erotic that she should be suspected of being a murderer so that her lover could inherit her father’s sixteenth-century mansion.

  16

  It was nearly seven o’clock by the time John Kipling arrived at the house with Ada Grey.

  Martin had taken Katharine to Taylors restaurant in Tavistock because she had told him that she was becoming increasingly stressed and claustrophobic in Allhallows Hall and needed an evening away to calm herself down. Grace and Portia were snuggled up together on the sofa in the drawing room, watching a film about a domineering male lawyer being prosecuted for sexual harassment. They were murmuring together and kissing occasionally and sharing a bedraggled spliff.

  Rob had imagined that Ada Grey would be middle-aged, if not elderly, with her hair fixed up in a fraying grey bun and a shapeless ankle-length dress and about a dozen silver chains and pendants around her neck. He had guessed right about the silver chains and pendants, but that was all. Ada Grey couldn’t have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three years old. She was tall, with glossy black hair that was cut straight across her forehead in a severe fringe but then spread wide over her shoulders like a cape. She had dark-blue feline eyes, a short straight nose and full sensual lips, which looked as if she had just finished blowing somebody a parting kiss.

  Underneath her long black overcoat she was wearing a short grey velvet dress and shiny black leather boots. She had very large breasts, so that all her chains and pendants and magical talismans were arranged across them like a display on a jeweller’s tray. She smelled strongly of some floral perfume.

  ‘This is Ada,’ said John. ‘She says she can’t wait to see this priest’s hole that we’ve found.’

  ‘I’m Rob,’ said Rob. ‘And this is my wife, Vicky. Thanks for coming. We could do with somebody who knows about ghosts and spirits and stuff like that. This house is beginning to give us the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘You’ve heard things?’ asked Ada. ‘Seen things, have you? Felt things?’

  ‘Yes and no. Heard things and felt things but not actually seen anything. Come on in and we’ll show you the priest’s hole and tell you all about it. Here – let me take your coat.’

  Rob lifted Ada’s coat off her shoulders and as he did so Vicky raised her eyebrows as if to tell him, Just watch it, Russell, with this bosomy witch. I’ve got my eye on you.

  ‘John tells me you call yourself a charmer,’ said Rob, as he led them all upstairs. His ankle was still tender so he had to bite his lip and cling on to the banister rail.

  ‘I’m a witch, really, but most folks have totally the wrong idea about witches,’ said Ada. She had a soft Devon accent, slow and breathy. Rob almost felt as if she were breathing in his ear. ‘What I do mostly is tell fortunes and talk to hunky punks.’

  ‘Hunky punks?’ asked Vicky, as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘What are hunky punks when they’re at home?’

  ‘That’s what we call fairies, or piskies. But also the spirits of folks what’s passed over to the Otherland. Children, mostly, who went before they ever had the chance to be baptised.’

  ‘And you can really talk to them?’

  ‘Of course. Anybody can. Folks still say that their late loved ones are looking down on them from heaven, but these days hardly any of them really believe that’s true. And they’re right. Because you don’t go to heaven when you pass over – or hell, for that matter. You go to the Otherland, that’s all.’

  ‘And where is it, this “Otherland”?’

  ‘It’s here, close by. Only it’s not here. It’s like Alice, stepping through the mirror. It’s like seeing your reflection in the window, standing in your garden late at night, except that’s all you are, just a reflection, and there’s no you standing in the room looking out. Not any more.’

  ‘I think you’re giving me the creeps already,’ said Vicky. ‘In this end room – right here – I felt somebody pushing me. In fact, they pushed me right over so that I banged my shoulder. I felt them but I couldn’t see anybody.’

  Ada had been staring at the stained-glass window of Old Dewer, but when Vicky told her that she turned and looked into the bedroom.

  ‘Somebody actually pushed you? But what? They was invisible?’

  ‘I felt somebody brushing up against me too,’ said Rob. ‘Again, there was nobody there. Nobody that I could see, anyway.’

  Ada seemed puzzled. ‘That doesn’t sound like nobody from the Otherland. I’ve never known one act aggressive. Mostly they’re sad. They tell you how much they miss the folks they loved and the life they used to enjoy. When you hear them talking, it’s more like voices whispering inside your head, and if you see them, which isn’t often, they’re almost transparent. I’ve felt two
or three of them touch me, but it’s not much more than stroking your hair or kissing your cheek. None of them never pushed me, nor hurt me. Nothing like that, never.’

  ‘Anyway, come and see this priest’s hole for yourself,’ said Rob. He led Ada into the bedroom and opened up the window seat.

  ‘See this crucifix? Well, watch.’

  He swung up the crucifix and the panel in the dado creaked open.

  ‘Golly… that’s gurt amazing,’ said Ada, shaking her head.

  John said, ‘I’ll tell you – I could hardly credit it when it first opened up. I’ve seen some incredible priest’s holes built by Nicholas Owen, but this one really takes the cake. Come and have a look inside.’

  They all ducked down under the dado rail and then stood up inside the room. Ada slowly padded around the thick horsehair carpet, stopping now and again to close her eyes and take deep breaths.

  ‘There’s someone here,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘What do you mean? A spirit?’

  ‘Oh, there’s spirits everywhere around Sampford Spiney. Spirits and piskies. There’s a famous poem about it.

  ‘For mebbe ’tis a lonesome road

  Or heather blooth, or peaty ling

  Or nobbut just a rainy combe

  The spell that meks ’ee tek an’ sing

  An’ this I knaw, the li’l tods

  Be ever callin’ silver faint

  Thar be piskies up to Dartymoor

  An’ tidden gude yew zay there bain’t.’

  ‘You’re not trying to say that there’s piskies in here.’

  ‘No, not piskies,’ said Ada. ‘But there’s somebody here. In fact, there could be two or three somebodies. I can feel them. Possibly more. And I can smell at least one of them.’

  ‘We could smell something, too,’ John told her. ‘Sort of like cinnamon, and maybe oranges. Is that what you’re getting?’

  ‘I think… I think it’s a toilet water,’ said Ada. She breathed in again, and held her breath for at least ten seconds. Then she breathed out again and said, ‘No… it’s an aftershave, and I think I know which one. My father used to wear it. Old Spice.’