Authors: Neil Spring
I can remember very clearly laughing at that remark. I should not have done so.
‘Mark my words,’ said Mary, ‘there will be doings here tonight. Let no lies be told. Spirits feed on lies. Lies give them power.’
We watched her go. Price looked thoughtful, Wall agitated, Mr and Mrs Smith nervous; as for me, I was intrigued – not just by the possibility of ghosts in this house, for I did not truly believe at that point there were any, but by the idea that such normal, apparently honest, people could be so gravely mistaken over so many years.
‘Well,’ said Price at last, ‘I think it’s perfectly clear what we should do now.’
‘Oh?’ asked Wall.
‘Or at least it is clear to
some
of us,’ said Price under his breath. Then, loudly, ‘You and I must take up our posts in the summerhouse and hold a vigil for the nun, just as the late rector used to do.’ He rose. ‘But we must go quickly. Sarah, I suggest you stay inside and keep watch with Reverend and Mrs Smith.’
I agreed, relieved to escape the awkwardness dividing the two men. But then I remembered the cold and draughty corridors that ran throughout the house like a rabbit warren and wondered where I would rather be: outside or in.
I said to the rector, ‘Mary did look very unsettled, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Sweet girl. My utmost concern is to ensure she is happy with us; Mabel and I have rather come to rely on her.’
I considered this and went on, ‘She said she feared there would be “doings” here tonight. What on earth does she think is going to happen?’
The rector looked at me coolly. ‘I think, Miss Grey, that by now you have heard enough that you might hazard a guess. These things, whatever their cause’ – he hesitated – ‘do happen.’
I stared into the rector’s wide, haunted eyes and believed him.
Before either of us could utter another word, the faint tinkle of a bell sounded from the depths of the house. Everyone heard it. Mrs Smith drew an anxious breath, her husband’s eyes caught mine and Price turned his head slowly towards the open door. ‘But that’s … impossible,’ he said in a low voice, his eyes narrowing. ‘The bell wires are disconnected. I inspected them myself.’
Vernon Wall got quickly to his feet. ‘It’s beginning,’ he said, the alarm in his voice unmistakable.
I gripped Reverend Smith’s arm urgently. ‘What did Mary mean, sir? What did she think is going to happen here?’
Another bell rang, louder this time.
‘Sarah,’ Price muttered, ‘I think we’re about to find out.’
Note
1
That there were bats in the house cannot be disputed; for although Sarah’s manuscript informs us that the Smiths flatly denied the presence of any vermin in the Rectory, this information is contradicted by Mrs Smith herself, in the following signed statement provided to investigators of the affair: ‘I have gone upstairs in the dark at Borley and watched in the supposed Haunted Room and looked from the windows, and the result has been always “nil” – only bats and the scratching sometimes of rats.’ In a separate, later
statement, Mrs Smith states: ‘I saw enormous rats in the place, and am sure these were responsible for bell-ringing and many noises attributed to the supernatural; they would scratch the boards. The house had been empty for a long time, and rats had taken up abode in kitchens and cupboards’ (signed statement from Mrs Smith, published in
The Haunting of Borley Rectory
, p.47).
We arrived in the kitchen passage just in time to see the spring and clapper attached to the bell that had rung still moving. It was the bell connected to the Blue Room.
Price was silent for a moment, an expression of utter bemuse-ment on his face as he shone his torch along the row of brass bells. ‘But that room is secure,’ he said. ‘You all saw me close and double-seal it.’
The look of satisfaction on Wall’s face as he turned to face Price was palpable. ‘Now you have finally seen for yourself. I shall write this up for my newspaper.’
‘Will you indeed?’
‘It is abundantly clear that this house is haunted, sir. What other explanation is there?’
‘We saw bats in the attics,’ said Price. ‘Perhaps one found its way down here and brushed against the bell.’
‘That is your theory?’
‘Do you have a better one?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then if it is all the same to you, Mr Wall, might I propose that you leave the business of this investigation to me?’
‘If you insist, but I really do think—’
‘What you think is irrelevant!’ Price snapped. ‘What’s important now is that we gather as many facts as we can.’ He looked at me and said, ‘Facts are all we have. That’s right, isn’t it, Sarah?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said with a grin, delighted to see him still on form.
Wall looked exasperated. ‘Then what do you propose?’
‘That like the old rector before us, we head down to the bottom of the garden, install ourselves in the old summerhouse and watch for the nun. Together.’
‘Don’t forget the globe of light which appears in the window of the Blue Room.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Smith. I will keep my eyes peeled.’
Mr Wall glanced at me. ‘What about Miss Grey? You’re happy to leave her here, all on her own?’
‘She isn’t on her own,’ said Price.
I nodded and said I would remain in the house. As the two men turned to leave I felt a tap on my arm and heard a low voice whisper in my ear, ‘Stay here, and don’t take your eyes off them.’ It was Price. I followed his eyes and saw that he was staring at the Smiths, who were standing now at one of the windows in the passage, checking it was secure.
‘You don’t suspect them, surely?’ I whispered. But he said nothing and so, to satisfy him, I nodded to show I had understood.
Watching Price and Wall go, the rector said gravely, ‘I warned him. I warned you both, Miss Grey. Demons, vengeful spirits, fallen angels … they have but one mission: to wreak havoc, to bring consistent ill luck, to break down a person’s will so that they can take over.’
And with a sharp turn he marched away, ignoring me as
I called after him. I was left alone with his wife and could see from the way she clasped and unclasped her hands that the poor woman was nervous, so I took her hand in mine and told her everything would be all right. ‘Perhaps a cup of tea is in order?’ I suggested.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Grey. That sounds like a very sensible idea.’
As we made our way to the kitchen, the distant rumble of thunder made me think of Mother, at home on her own in London. Only the night before, she had asked Price if I would be safe with him, here at Borley Rectory.
And now I couldn’t help asking myself the very same question.
*
Almost an hour had passed since Price and Wall had commenced their vigil in the summerhouse, and in that time there had been no further disturbances. The Rectory was quiet now, but it was a fragile silence and brought little comfort.
‘What first attracted you to the Rectory?’ I asked Mrs Smith.
She stood with her back to a wide window barred with iron. It was pitch black outside; anyone could be out there, I thought, looking in at us, and we’d know nothing about it. The idea made me shiver.
‘I suppose it was the quietness of the place. We lived very busy lives in India, you see, employed in the civil service. My husband has told you that I have suffered with my heart?’
‘Indeed, and I am sorry to hear it.’
‘You’re very kind, Miss Grey. Thankfully the condition isn’t too serious, but it was enough for us to decide that a quieter life was in order. And on first inspection Borley seemed ideal, tucked away up here at the top of the valley.’
‘Oh, it’s a splendid spot,’ I agreed, a little half-heartedly.
Mrs Smith’s expression had darkened and her eyes were moving slowly around the room. ‘How could we have got a place so wrong? Living here, Miss Grey … it is troubling and most unpleasant. The Rectory, its quietness – it holds mysteries, and memories not our own. You can sense it too, can’t you? I’ve been watching you, my dear; I can see you’re frightened.’
My stomach fluttered. ‘It must get lonely for you, up here.’
‘Oh, it certainly does.’
‘Do you go down into the town often?’
‘No, only when necessary. To be honest, the looks we get deter us from doing so. Mary runs our errands there twice a week, and when we have guests they prefer to stay there. Mr Wall, for example.’
‘Really? I was under the impression that he was staying here with us tonight.’
‘No, we did offer to prepare a room for him, but he insisted that he would be staying at the Bull Inn tonight, when his business here is completed. It’s a lovely old place, said to be haunted itself.’
‘I see.’
‘You look disappointed, Miss Grey.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you do,’ she said, smiling. ‘I do believe you might have an admirer in Mr Wall.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I said awkwardly. ‘He’s a little earnest, don’t you think?’
‘He is rather. I just hope his articles don’t attract too much unwelcome attention to the house. The last thing we would want is to upset the locals.’
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ I lied, ‘and I’m sure it’s not
intentional on Mr Wall’s part. He doesn’t want to make life difficult for you; it’s his job to report these things. In some ways I think he is very similar to Harry – he can be a little earnest too; he likes to shake things up a bit.’
We were both startled by an unexpected rumble of thunder. ‘It’s getting nearer,’ said Mrs Smith, flinching. She drew up a chair next to me at the kitchen table. ‘I wonder how the men are getting on outside?’
I had been thinking the same, hoping that by now Price and Wall might have resolved their differences. It was unlikely. Their professional ambitions knew no limits. If either man could, they’d drop the other like a stone. I said quietly, ‘I’m sure we would have heard if they had seen anything.’
‘For all his complexities, Mr Price seems to me such a committed man,’ commented Mrs Smith.
‘Certainly, he has given his life to this subject.’
‘And what about you, Miss Grey?’
‘What do you mean?’
She smiled. ‘Well, if I may say so, you’re a very glamorous young woman and clearly intelligent. There must be any number of secretarial roles you could perform, yet you’ve chosen to work for Mr Price helping the likes of us, scrambling around in dirty cellars and attics and heaven knows what else. What on earth led you into such a thing?’
‘The irony is I never wanted to be a secretary,’ I explained. ‘I was going to be a model; I
was
a model, for a short time. But then …’
‘You met Mr Price.’
I nodded. ‘Our worlds collided and everything changed. Life does lead us to the strangest places, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, it certainly has in your case. Do you know why exactly?’
Having no definite answer, I shrugged and said, ‘Why do any of us do the things we do? I did it out of love, I suppose.’
‘Love? I didn’t realise you and Mr Price were—’
‘Oh, no, no,’ I said quickly, ‘I mean my love for my mother.’ I explained the impact of fraudulent mediums on her emotions since the year before I met Price, and how I had arrived at this stage in my life through my sympathy for the living, my respect for the dead and the anger I felt towards those who exploited both so callously. ‘I’d have done anything to protect her from that,’ I explained. ‘But you see, Harry offered me a solution. I could relate to him; his perspective on the problem was unique. No one else has done what he has done: developed a science out of psychical research, tested mediums under laboratory conditions.’
‘Is Mr Price making progress with his work?’
‘He was,’ I said ruefully. ‘In its early days the Laboratory seemed capable of explaining mysteries, perhaps even confirming the existence of supernormal phenomena and bringing them in line with science.’
‘But you have made no such confirmation?’
I nodded. ‘Only one long list of disappointments.’ I explained then about the numerous instances of trickery I had witnessed in the seance room: the teenage girl with red skin and a swollen face who could make cutlery stick to her limbs, the child who barked with ‘the voice of the Devil’, Mrs Tyler and the regurgitated cheesecloth. ‘She’ll be prosecuted before long under the Witchcraft Act. Harry is going to give evidence against her.’
‘But why you?’ Mrs Smith enquired. ‘Why does he need a woman to help him with all this?’
‘Well, most of the mediums are females,’ I explained, hoping she would understand.
‘So … ?’
‘Well, I’m able to assist with all those awkward tasks that he can’t perform.’
‘Such as?’
I gave a slight cough, embarrassed, and lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Umm, examinations.’
‘You don’t mean …’
‘Internal examinations. Yes.’
Mrs Smith’s mouth dropped open.
‘It saddens me that his work isn’t achieving the recognition it should; it saddens him too. The people who helped fund his Laboratory are now the very people who are trying to destroy it: the Spiritualists, people like Conan Doyle. They disagree with his scientific approach. They see it as disrespectful, incompatible with their faith.’
‘But
is
it compatible?’ asked Mrs Smith. ‘Spiritualism, though unconventional, is ultimately a faith. Whether or not you agree with the principles of that faith, I’m not sure I agree that faith requires scientific validation.’
‘But why not?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it reasonable to ask for some evidence to support our beliefs?’
‘On certain matters, yes,’ she agreed, ‘but surely it is not so with faith?’ Another rumble of thunder drew her eyes nervously to the window. ‘We need some certainties in this world, Miss Grey. Faith never changes but scientific principles do. All the time.’
For a moment not a word passed between us; she was analysing me, inwardly determining the reasons why she believed I had agreed to work for a man who fashioned himself on Sherlock Holmes and at the same time hunted ghosts.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, how old were you when your father died?’
‘It was just before the end of the war. I was thirteen.’