The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (29 page)

But I can't rid myself of the feeling that Leonora is still here.

Everything is so quiet, and there are long, empty hours to fill. Ordinary activities don't seem to be thought suitable. Mother keeps saying things like, ‘I would have thought you'd have found something better to do than read those rubbishy books, Luisa.' And, ‘Turn off the wireless, those droning voices make my head ache.'

Late last night, after she was in bed, I got an electric torch from the scullery and went to open the panelled door. The broken lock has been repaired after they broke it down – Uncle Charles had a carpenter here within two days – and there's a new key in the drawer of the hall desk.

‘Best leave that room locked up,' Uncle Charles said firmly. ‘No need to go down there. Unpleasant places, cellars, anyway. Best forgotten altogether.'

But I couldn't forget it, so last night I crept through the house, which was dark and silent – at least, it was as silent as it ever is, which is to say it was filled with odd whisperings and creakings.

The new lock turned with a slight grating sound, then the door swung open. The steps were in darkness, and it was like facing a climb into a deep old well, but I went down them and shone the torch cautiously around. Everything was exactly as I remembered it.

The oak chest was exactly as I remembered it as well. Without realizing what I was going to do, I knelt down and placed my hands on the domed lid. Oak is a lovely thing – oak trees are beautiful and friendly, and furniture made from them is beautiful as well. Solid and sturdy and with a satiny gloss. But the oak of the ancient chest felt dull against my skin, as if it had been torn from the tree, and left raw and untreated. I laid my cheek against it.

Stephen, are you there? Did my father succeed in hiding you in there?
I think I even held out my hand, hoping – longing – to feel those poor sounded fingers close around mine again. But there was nothing. If Stephen or that strange fragment of him still lingered in this house, it did so invisibly and soundlessly.

The Holzminden sketch lay against the wall, and I had the curious impression that it did not like being down there in the dark— No, that's absurd, I shouldn't have written that.

I've brought it back upstairs, that sketch, and I'll find a space to hang it on a wall somewhere. In the meantime, I've left it in Father's room.

Going into his room upset me, which I hadn't expected. I don't think I love my father, and I don't think he's ever loved me. But entering his bedroom, I smelled the bay rum he rubbed on his hair and the wintergreen he used for his chest in cold weather. And I remembered that he was shut away in a place where the smell of sickness and insanity is everywhere, and where there are long, bare corridors that need painting, and that ring with people's hurrying footsteps, and scrape-wheeled trolleys bearing nameless pills and injections for all the poor bewildered people who will never again see the outside world. I don't think my father will ever see the outside world again, either.

I stood there in his bedroom, and I thought: I'm the cause of him being in there. His mind cracked because of Stephen, and I was the one who let Stephen in. Then I sat on the edge of his bed and cried for a long time over the pity of it all.

But later I hung the sketch on the small landing. It feels as if it's a little piece of Stephen, and for that reason alone I'd like to be able to see it each day.

It looks quite nice. I think I'll hunt out some of the photographs of Fosse House from the war, to hang with it – some of the nurses took photos of the men who were here convalescing.

Next week we have one of our permitted visits to see Father. They seem to think it's unlikely that he will ever improve. He has created a hiding place in his room – a wardrobe – and he sits in front of it, watching and waiting. Sometimes he crouches on all fours, like an animal waiting to pounce. The doctors say they can't find out what he waits for. I know, of course, but I can't bring myself to tell them. I can't bear to think of them discussing Stephen, analysing his life, making judgements about him. It wouldn't make any different to Father's treatment if I did tell them, so I shan't.

Mother says she does not know what we will do for the fees of the nursing home, but Uncle Charles says we are not to worry about that; he will see everything is taken care of. Dear Uncle Charles.

When we get home from the visit, I think I might go down to the stone room again. I feel close to Stephen there – I feel Leonora would like prayers to be said for him. I can do that. Leonora grew up knowing about prayer, and I know about it as well.

The more I think about it, the more I think I shall go down there from time to time.

Michael turned the page. There were a few more entries – brief notes about ordinary day-to-day life at Fosse House. Luisa, having recorded the traumas and tragedies of those years, seemed to have lost interest in keeping the journal.

But there was one entry right at the end, and although Michael thought it was in Luisa's hand, it was no longer the writing of a fifteen-year-old girl. This was something she had written very recently.

I had not thought I would want – or need – to write in this private book again. But once, all those years ago, Leonora said I might one day meet someone I would feel I could trust with the contents of these pages. I never thought so myself, but I was wrong …

Because yesterday I believe I met that person, the one I can trust with the truth—

The final word trailed off, and Michael, staring at it, thought: that's when she had the heart attack. His mind presented him with a picture of Luisa writing that entry, then feeling the heart pain, and falling. But at least I heard her, he thought. At least I could summon help. He reread the last sentence.
Yesterday I believe I met that person, the one I can trust …

He closed the diary and put it into his jacket pocket. He was scarcely aware of the modern surroundings – the buzz of conversation from the drinkers at the bar, preparations at the far end for what looked as if it might be a pub quiz.

Nell's train had probably reached the local station now. He would try phoning her to find out. He felt in his jacket pocket for his phone, then realized with annoyance that he had left it up in the bedroom. He was just getting up to fetch it, when the barman called out to ask if he would be having dinner there that evening.

‘Because if so, I'll reserve you a table, Dr Flint. It's a quiz night, and we get fairly busy.'

‘Yes, please,' said Michael. ‘There'll be two of us. At least, if the trains run to time there will be.'

At this a man who had just come in and was helping with the tables for the quiz, looked sharply round.

‘Dr Flint?'

‘Yes.'

‘The same one as booked a taxi at the station earlier?'

‘Yes. You were going to pick up my partner and bring her here. Was the train delayed or something?'

‘As a matter of fact, it was early,' said the man. ‘Which is a miracle these days. But your lady wanted to be driven past Fosse House, and we saw lights on, and we thought you were in there, so— You were in there,' he said, half accusingly, half puzzled. ‘We both saw you. So your girlfriend said she'd go in and drive out here with you.' He was starting to look more than puzzled. ‘I saw her go up to the door,' he said. ‘I waited and saw her knock on the door.'

Michael said, ‘I've been here since about half-past four. I locked up the house and switched off all the lights.'

‘Then,' said the man, ‘who was it I saw at the window?'

N
ell thought Michael was taking a long time to come to the door and let her in. She had seen him cross the room on the right-hand side of the front door, and she had heard him walk across what was presumably the hall. Then nothing.

She tried the knocker again and heard it reverberate in the house. Surely no one could have missed hearing that? She pressed her ear against the door, to listen, and for a dreadful moment had the feeling that someone was standing on the other side, listening to her. This was absurd. Probably the house and the darkness was affecting her. She delved into her bag for her phone to ring Michael's number, but it went straight to voicemail. Clearly, Michael had switched it off for some reason and forgotten to switch it back or he had let the battery run down. Either of these would be like him. Nell left a message on the off-chance he would pick it up, then walked to the lighted window and tapped on it.

‘Michael? Are you in there? It's me – Nell. For heaven's sake let me in, it's freezing out here.'

Still nothing. She stood close up to the window, trying to see inside, but the curtains were drawn tightly and there was no chink. She thought the room was empty – the silhouette she had seen earlier was no longer there, that was for sure.

A tiny beat of apprehension began to tap against her mind. She was not going to recognize, even for a second, any thoughts about spooky goings-on. What she was going to think was that Michael had not, after all, heard her knock. He could have had a radio on – headphones plugged in, maybe. He might, by pure coincidence, have walked across the hall just at that minute. She would walk round the side of the house; there was bound to be another door at the back. Tradesmen's entrance. And very suitable too, thought Nell.

The lighted window cast a faint radiance over the house's front, but when she came to the corner, deep shadows lay everywhere. She glanced back at the driveway and for the first time realized she had not seen Michael's car anywhere. It might be parked on the other side, of course, but it would be reassuring to see it.

Walking along the side of the house was eerie. The house was on her left, and there was a narrow, uneven path. Nell could just about see her way, but trees and shrubs grew thickly along the side of the path, and overhead boughs dipped low, turning the path into what was almost a tunnel. Once she stumbled over a broken flagstone or a tree root, and only just managed to save herself from falling. She was starting to dislike the isolation of Fosse House very much, and she was wondering how Luisa Gilmore had managed to live here by herself for all those years.

She had been hoping to see lights at the back of the house, but it was in darkness and she could not make out any doors. The gardens were almost entirely in shadow, but beyond a sweep of slightly overgrown lawns was what looked like an inner walled garden. Hugbert had mentioned that; it felt strange to be actually seeing it.

Nell began to wish she had taken the number of the taxi driver who had collected her from the station. Still, it would be easy enough to call one of the enquiry numbers and find it – or if not, there would be a local firm who would come out. But if Michael was in the house … Yes, but his car was not here.

She stepped back into the tree tunnel, intending to return to the front of the house, but she had only gone a few steps when a dark figure appeared at the other end. Nell gasped, then drew a shaky breath of relief, because it must be Michael – he must have been out here all along. She was about to call out and go towards him when an alarm bell sounded in her mind. If this was Michael he would have called out. Her heart skittered unevenly, and she backed away, going towards the rear of the house again, desperately trying not to stumble on the uneven path, but reaching the corner safely. She risked looking back. The figure was still there, a black silhouette, featureless, almost two-dimensional, as if it had been cut out of the darkness and pasted on to the night. He was coming towards her.

Nell sent a despairing look at the dark house, then felt for her phone. But she would not be able to key in a number in this dimness, and she dared not stay here for long enough to make the call anyway – he was coming down the pathway towards her – she could hear his soft, light footsteps. If she could hide somewhere, she could use the phone, though. How quickly would the police get out here? And where could she hide that would be safe? Would there be an unlocked door into the house? But it would be almost impossible to locate a door in this darkness.

The walled garden was barely twenty yards away – she could see the glint of the black wrought-iron gates. If she could get in there she might be able to hide, or even climb over a wall. Nell thought she was so pumped with adrenalin she could probably scale the north face of the Eiger at the moment. She took a deep breath and, trying to keep to the shadows, ran towards the gate.

He came after her at once, as if he had known all along what she would do, and she heard him call out. But his voice was indistinct, and Nell could not tell what he said. It was not Michael's voice, though; Nell would have known Michael's voice if all the tempests of hell had raged and the skies had been rent asunder.

The wrought-iron gate was closed, but the latch clicked up easily. The door swung open with a squeak of sound; as Nell stepped inside, the walled garden seemed to envelop her with a scent of wet grass and the tang of box. She went towards the concealment of the tangled vines growing against the old wall and crouched down. But as she reached for her phone, he was framed in the gateway, turning his head this way and that, looking for her. Nell's hand had closed over the phone, but she hesitated. He could not fail to hear her make the call, and he would be on her long before help could get here. She pressed back into a thick mat of ivy, willing him to decide she was not here, praying he would go away.

She thought he called out again, and for the first time a tiny doubt brushed her mind, because his voice was hesitant, almost whispering. Or was that a ruse? For the first time she spared a thought to wonder who the man was – was he simply a chance intruder? Whoever he was, Nell was not going to risk letting him know where she was. She remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe.

The man seemed to hesitate, then stepped forward. If he closes the gate we'll be shut in together, thought Nell in horror. But he left the gate open and began to move around the edges of the garden. Nell, keeping her eyes fixed on him, edged away. If she could keep to the wall, she might manage to work her way back to the open gate and get out.