Authors: Neil Spring
‘I worked as a manager in a munitions factory. Our weapons were used by the troops in the very last battles of the conflict.’
‘I see. And which battles were those?’
He paused, but before he could provide an answer, Mother asked him if he would care for a drink. It seemed a peculiar intervention, but one that Price accepted with grace.
‘That would be marvellous, thank you. Brandy, please, if you have any?’
Mother nodded.
‘You will join me, I hope?’
‘Oh … It’s a little early for me, Mr Price.’
She seemed to relish this moment of moral superiority, and as she rose from her chair I mouthed a silent apology to Price before joining her at the dusty drinks cabinet next to Father’s old piano.
‘Really, Sarah!’ Mother said quietly. ‘Bringing that man to my house.’
‘That man is my employer,’ I reminded her, clinking the decanter and brandy glasses slightly louder than was necessary. I needed a drink too. ‘Because of Harry, our lives are about to change for the better. Just think, we could have a maid again.’
‘He has misled so many people.’
I didn’t want to get drawn into an argument, but I had to wonder whether Mother realised her conversion to Spiritualism was just as fervent as Price’s devotion to scepticism. ‘People change their minds, Mother. You did.’
‘On second thoughts, ladies, I should leave.’ Price was behind us suddenly, placing his battered hat on his head. In the heat of our conversation I hadn’t notice him rise to retrieve his belongings from the hall. ‘It was presumptuous of me to come here unannounced. Forgive me. Sarah, I shall see you in the morning, bright and early. We have quite a trip ahead of us. I’ll be counting on you to keep an eye on that silly reporter from the
Mirror
too.’ He gave a gallant bow. ‘But, oh! I almost forgot …’ And now he was rummaging in the deepest recesses of his overcoat pocket, picking something out and handing it to Mother. ‘This belongs to you, I believe.’
Mother’s face lit up with relief. ‘Yes, oh, yes! Wherever did you find it?’
‘At the Laboratory, in the seance room. You must have dropped it during your tour.’
‘Sarah, look – my bracelet!’
Strange. I was sure I had asked Price about Mother’s bracelet… Why had he never mentioned it? ‘You must trust me,’ Price said to Mother with compelling authority. ‘Like you, madam, I am jaded by the cruelty of war. While you have rushed towards the charms of the mediums I have moved away from them, if only that I may spare the living any further suffering. I am here to help. Mrs Grey – Frances – if there is anything you need, all you have to do is ask.’
I don’t know if Mother sensed in him, then, the mystery and possibility that was so attractive to me, or whether it was his open smile, infused with charm as he touched her arm, but something in his response made her nod and smile with a modicum of acceptance. I let out a quiet sigh of relief as Price turned and headed for the hallway. His parting words left Mother hanging in hope:
‘And you can tell your spiritualist friends that if there is anyone destined to discover a genuine ghost, have no doubt – it’s going to be me!’
Old Servant’s Story of a Midnight Visitor
LAYING THE ‘GHOST’ – by V.C. Wall
Psychic Expert to Investigate a Suffolk Mystery
One of the leading British psychological experts is to investigate the mystery of the ‘ghost’ of Borley Rec-tory, Suffolk, described in the Daily Mirror.
In an effort to lay the ghost by the heels, and either prove or disprove its existence, Mr Harry Price, honorary director of the National Laboratory of Psychic Research, is to conduct the investigation.
Mr Price is famous in this country and in America for his research work and his exposures of exhibitions of psychic ‘phenomena’.
Striking confirmation of the weird experiences of the present and past occupants of the Rectory is forthcoming from Mrs E. Myford of Newport, Essex.
In a letter to the Daily Mirror, Mrs Myford reveals that forty-three years ago, when she was a maid at the Rectory, similar phenomena were quite openly discussed in the Rectory and neighbourhood.
‘Much of my youth was spent in Borley and district, with my grandparents,’ writes Mrs Myford, ‘and it was common talk that the Rectory was haunted.
‘Many people declared that they had seen figures walking at the bottom of the garden.
‘I once worked at the Rectory forty-three years ago, as an under maid, but I only stayed there a month, because the place was so weird.
‘The other servants told me my bedroom was haunted, but I took little notice of them because I knew two of the ladies of the house had been sleeping there before me.
‘But when I had been there a fortnight, something awakened me in the dead of night.
‘Someone was walking down the passage towards the door of my room and the sound they made suggested they were wearing slippers.
‘As the head nurse always called me at six o’clock, I thought it must
be she, but nobody entered the room, and I suddenly thought of the “ghost”.
‘The next morning I asked the other four maids if they had come to my room, and they all said they had not and tried to laugh me out of it.
‘But I was convinced that somebody or something in slippers had been along that corridor, and finally I, became so nervous that I left.
‘My grandparents would never let me pass the building after dark, and I would never venture into the garden or the wood at dusk.’
1
Note
1
Article from the
Daily Mirror
, 12 June 1929.
The warm summer breeze blew through the open window of the saloon as it chugged along the country road. I was at the wheel – Price had insisted – and my spirits were high. Out here on the broad flat lands of Suffolk, on the outskirts of Sudbury, the problems waiting for us back at the Laboratory were forgotten, and I was relishing my freedom from the incessant grind and bustle of London.
The hedgerows and green fields rushed by on both sides, bringing a calming sense of ease. I needed this: a break from the routine to which I had become accustomed in recent months, forever following Price, jumping to carry out his orders and worrying about him. At least with him sitting beside me in the passenger seat I could be certain he wasn’t barricaded in his study, tormenting himself with self-criticism or writing letters to critics like Conan Doyle, further invoking their wrath. Here, thankfully, my companion seemed at peace, and as I looked across at him I saw he was smiling as he turned his head to the open window to catch the fresh air.
‘Sarah!’ he said suddenly. ‘Which turning is it?’
‘How should I know? You’re supposed to be reading the map!’
If Price heard my response, he made no acknowledgement of it.
‘Any idea, Mr Wall?’ I called back to our companion, who was bundled up uncomfortably among our cases on the back seat. I looked up into the rear-view mirror to catch his reflection, and was surprised when our eyes connected instantly; his gaze had been waiting for me. The expression on his face caught me off guard: that wonderful smile of his might have conveyed any number of feelings – fondness perhaps, admiration or respect – but his eyes revealed everything I needed to know. No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking at me now. Or if they had, I hadn’t noticed.
Breaking the connection, I put the car into gear and glanced furtively at Price, whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead. But Wall answered me regardless, raising his voice to make himself heard above the rumble of the engine. ‘Afraid I haven’t the foggiest! First time I came here it was already dark. I stayed at the Bull Inn and took a taxi up to Borley. But we can’t be far away – this looks like Sudbury.’
Price was clearly less than impressed with our companion; when Wall had suggested that we make the journey together, he had been reluctant to agree and I had had to persuade him. The truth was, I rather liked Mr Wall.
‘Sudbury itself has a somewhat macabre history,’ Price said suddenly. ‘It dates back to the time of the Saxons.’ He turned his head towards me. ‘Did you know, Sarah, that Thomas Gains-borough, the eighteenth-century painter, was born in this part of Suffolk, and in 1381 Simon of Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, was beheaded on Tower Hill?’
‘I did not,’ I replied, wondering how he knew all this. He had clearly done his homework.
Price nodded. ‘Yes indeed! The poor fellow’s head was brought back here to Sudbury and installed in the vestry of Saint Gregory’s Church. If we get time we should stop and take a look.’ He glared at Wall in the rear-view mirror. ‘Mr Wall here might learn something.’
Twenty minutes later we were still off course and Price was rapidly losing his patience. As I turned the saloon into yet another winding country lane that looked just like the one before, I had to admit that we had lost our way. The area was quite desolate, the road ahead empty, and we had travelled perhaps four miles and passed no houses at all. I was just about to suggest that Price take the wheel, when I spotted a farmer emerging onto the lane from the entrance to a nearby field.
‘Thank goodness! We can ask him,’ I said. Stopping the car, I rolled down my window. ‘Excuse me, hello there …’
The man ambled closer, an expression of wary cooperation on his weathered face. I had a sense that he knew what was coming next.
‘I’m afraid we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,’ I began. I wonder if you could—’
He cut me off before I could finish. ‘It’s directions that you’ll be after then, I suppose?’
‘Yes, yes please. If it’s not too much trouble.’
He grinned, showing crowded yellow teeth. Prediction confirmed.
‘You from London?’ he grunted, casting an inquisitive glance over the saloon. He seemed intent on extracting either some amusement or some interesting diversion in exchange for directing us on our way.
‘Yes, indeed we are, but—’
‘Thought so. You can always tell. Even before the accent. It’s
the cars, see? Not enough mud on ’em to be from round ’ere. You don’t bother tryin’ to keep a tractor clean, do you?’ He chuckled as if he had said something deeply witty and I gripped the wheel, forcing a polite smile to cover my mounting impatience. Price wouldn’t keep silent through much more of this, and I didn’t want to risk offending the man and being sent off with no directions or, worse, deliberately incorrect ones. But he persisted in his rambling monologue, peering at Wall in the back seat. ‘And then there’s the clothes, a course. You can tell a lot from a person’s clothes, I always say.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ I interrupted, ‘but we’re in the most dreadful hurry.’
‘You people always are, aincha?’ he said, talking over me, but I pressed on, resolute, noticing gratefully that he had yielded to me, lips pursed in resigned disappointment.
‘We have an urgent appointment in Borley, and I fear that our awful map-reading has delayed us too long already.’
As I gave the name of our destination I saw the man’s eyes narrow with unmistakable suspicion. We were lost, true, but not in the wrong place altogether. A place like Borley Rectory casts a long shadow, and those living under it felt its chill. He had heard the stories. I could read them in his face.
‘Borley? Now, why you be wanting Borley?’ the man enquired, peering into the saloon with pointed interest even as he took a cautious step back. He glared past me and across to Price. ‘Don’t get many folk going up to Borley. Not unless they want their head seen to.’
I glanced sideways, exchanging the briefest look with Price, who was muttering under his breath, a sound that increasingly made me visualise a burning fuse. I could tell that he too knew where this was going but, unlike me, wasn’t at all worried about
offending this man. It was never in Price’s nature to shy away from an argument.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, my good man, but we simply don’t have time for conversation,’ he said, leaning forward so he could see the farmer through my window. ‘We want the Rectory; we’re expected for lunch. We’re late enough already, so could you indicate the route?’
‘The Rectory, you call it?’ The man’s face was distorted by fear, and he raised his hands to pat the air between him and the car. He shook his head and said slowly, ‘What you mean is – the most haunted house in England.’
‘What?’
The man was nodding. ‘Aye, sir, that’s what they call it down in the village.’ He looked away from Price then fixed his gaze on mine. ‘Now then, miss, you listen here: anyone in these parts will tell you to steer clear of Borley. If you’ve some sense about you, you’ll do exactly that.’
‘But why?’
‘Why?’ he cried, as if the reason were obvious. ‘Her, that’s why!’
‘Her?’ Price sneered. His tone made it clear to me that he did not consider this fellow very bright. I hoped his condescension was not as obvious to this uncomplicated man who was obviously mired in a swamp of superstition.
‘She’s been seen near the churchyard in Borley, on the corner of the road, and at the end of the driveway leading up to the Rectory.’
‘Forgive me, but to whom are you referring?’ asked Price.
‘The Dark Woman, sir; that’s what they call her in the bar at the Bull Inn.’
‘I assume you mean this legendary ghostly nun we’ve read about?’
The farmer nodded gravely. ‘But she’s no legend, sir, as any right-minded person round here will tell you. Watch yourselves. These lanes are lonely places at night. No one in the village will come near.’
Perhaps it was because of our beautiful and peaceful surroundings, but I was struggling to take the farmer’s words seriously. It sounded like superstitious nonsense. Quite amusing, actually.
Price had also heard enough, but he was less than amused. Scowling, he slapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘For the love of sense, man, do you really expect me to swallow this routine? Has someone put you up to it? Do you recognise me from the papers or something? Well, I don’t take kindly to being mocked, sir!’
The farmer assumed a look somewhere between mystified incomprehension and wounded humour. ‘I got no idea who you are, mister. What you on about? I’m just tryin’ to do a good turn.’ He prattled on, more to himself than to Price, ‘Well, I suppose no good deed goes unpunished, as they say.’