The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery

Table of Contents

Cover

Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

TOWER OF SILENCE

A DARK DIVIDING

ROOTS OF EVIL

SPIDER LIGHT

THE DEATH CHAMBER

GHOST SONG

HOUSE OF THE LOST

WHAT LIES BENEATH

PROPERTY OF A LADY *

THE SIN EATER *

THE SILENCE *

THE WHISPERING *

 

*
available from Severn House

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Rayne.

The right of Sarah Rayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Rayne, Sarah author.

The whispering. – (A Nell West and Michael Flint haunted house story; 4)

1. West, Nell (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Flint,

Michael (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Haunted

houses–England–Fens, The–Fiction. 4. Choirs (Music)– Fiction. 5. Horror tales.

I. Title II. Series

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8363-6 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-505-6 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-509-3 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

October 201—

Michael,

A note to wish you well on your journey into the deepest Fens. Fosse House is apparently in rather
a remote spot, but I'm sure you'll be all right, once you actually get there. It's a pity Luisa Gilmore didn't feel able to put you up at the house for a couple of nights, but I expect you'll fare well and forage sufficiently at the local pub. I've never met Miss Gilmore, but she's always been very helpful in our exchange of letters. She's a bit of a recluse, I suspect, and possibly a touch eccentric, but at seventy-odd years of age anyone is allowed a bit of eccentricity, I should hope. She's never married, and she's lived in the house all her life. But what's more to the point is that one of her ancestors was part of the ill-fated Palestrina Choir – actually inside the Liège convent when it was destroyed – so there could be a wealth of primary source material in the house.

The OUP are keen on our idea for a book focusing on the musical influences on the work of the Great War poets. They're also what they term ‘pleasantly surprised' at the level of sales for our joint book on the influence of music on the Romantic Poets last year, and they even mentioned receiving an email from a TV company about making a documentary based on it. I dare say it won't come to anything, and I expect it's all a flea bite compared to your Wilberforce books (incidentally my small niece is an avid reader of them), but I do feel we've made a modest contribution to the field, and this new
oeuvre
should add to that
.

I'm looking forward to the results of your sojourn at Fosse House, but do try to stay clear of any peculiar happenings while you're there. You seem to attract such odd occurrences. We heard snippets of rather intriguing gossip about your exploits in Derbyshire last year, and if Owen Bracegirdle in the History Faculty can be believed, there were some extraordinary shenanigans in Ireland a couple of years before that. (Dr Bracegirdle is given to exaggeration, however, not to say outright flippancy).

Kind regards,

J.B.

Michael –

I know you'll have had a note from J.B. about his new book, and I expect you're smiling with pleased anticipation at the prospect of getting to grips with all that romantic, tragic poetry forged by the Great War.

J.B. asked me if I thought you could cope with the extra workload, to which I said certainly you could, you were equal to anything. You might look like Keats or Shelley in the latter stages of a romantic consumption, and your poor deluded female students might yearn, and even occasionally write a sonnet to you on their own account (listen, I know for a
fact
that one of them did that), but actually you're as tough as old boots.

Anyway, the old boy seemed more worried about how you'd cope with Luisa Gilmore. He seems to find her rather daunting, and anyone who makes J.B. jittery has to be formidable.

J.B. has invited me to contribute to the book. I think it's on the strength of my treatise
The Great War: Causes and Conflicts
, which is required reading for all sixth form history students, and if it isn't, it ought to be. I've accepted with becoming modesty, but I have to say I'll enjoy having a hand in the mix. I'll also enjoy any fiscal rewards that might be forthcoming. There's an ancient curse, isn't there, (Ovid?) that says: ‘May your debts torment you.' Well, they do. The spectre of bailiffs camping out in the august halls of Oriel College is looming, although I shouldn't think it would be the first time College has seen tipstaffs.

Owen

Michael Flint, reading these two missives, thought it was impossible to know where truth ended and dramatic license took over with Owen Bracegirdle. But it would be good to have Owen's input for the book.

As for the Director of Music, it had to be said that he had honed the art of dropping subtle hints to perfection. Reading between the lines it sounded as if the reclusive Luisa Gilmore could be anything from a modern-day Miss Havisham draped in fossilizing wedding finery, to Madeline Usher falling into deathlike trances and being entombed alive by mistake, or even a contemporary version of Morticia Addams, vampiric as to nature and floury as to complexion.

But Michael was keen on the project, which would focus on the musical influences of the poets from the Great War, and flattered to be approached for help.

‘Although,' he said to Nell over supper in his rooms that evening, ‘the prospect of driving into the fens in October isn't very appealing. Particularly if Madeline Usher's hosting the party.'

‘Yes, but you'll like burrowing among old papers and journals and whatnot,' said Nell, who was inclined to regard Ushers and Addamses as frivolous distractions. ‘And you'll like working on the book. Plus, if there's been a serious TV approach about that first one, you need to bash out another as soon as possible.'

Michael pointed out that books of this kind did not lend themselves to being bashed out overnight, that Michaelmas term was apt to be crowded, and also that he was committed to produce a new Wilberforce the Cat adventure for Christmas. As if on cue, the real Wilberforce padded into the room and sat down on a sheaf of proofs cataloguing his latest exploits, which Michael had been trying to read for his editor.

‘Yes, but you're used to meeting deadlines,' said Nell, shooing Wilberforce off the proofs. ‘And it'll be good to switch roles for
once. I'm usually the one who goes yomping off into the wide blue yonder to buy stuff for the shop while you stay smugly at home in the ivory tower.' She grinned at him, and Michael wondered if he would ever stop finding deep pleasure in seeing her curled into the deep armchair like this, her hair lit to polished bronze by the light of the desk lamp. ‘And here's another thing,' said Nell. ‘While you're delving into the history of the ill-fated Palestrina Choir in the Liège monastery—'

‘I still don't know what the ill fate was—'

‘No, but while you're looking, you could see if there are any treasures Morticia Addams might be considering selling. Anything that might have found its way to England from Liège,' said Nell. Seeing his look, she said, with affectionate exasperation, ‘Michael, darling, Liège is in Belgium. And Belgium means beautiful handmade lace and Flemish tapestries and Delft pottery – all of which would look very nice indeed in the shop. To say nothing of any canvases that might bear the signature of Anthony van Dyck, or Pieter Bruegel or—'

‘Well, all right,' said Michael. ‘But I'm only there for a couple of days, and I doubt I'd know Delft from Pyrex.'

‘And,' said Nell, smiling, ‘you'll be so immersed in the Great War and all that heartbreaking poetry of those young men who fought, that you probably won't notice a Bruegel if it falls on your head.' She paused, then with a kind of reluctant anxiety said, ‘Come back safely, won't you?'

‘I will. Behave while I'm away, won't you?'

‘To make sure I do, how about if we misbehave tonight?' said Nell, with the sudden slant-eyed grin that transformed her from a purposeful seller of antiques to a very sexy imp. ‘Just very privately and discreetly, but fairly spectacularly?'

‘Have I got time to feed Wilberforce first?'

‘Five minutes.'

‘Oh, God, where's the tin-opener.'

The drive to the Fens and Fosse House took place two days later and was against a gathering storm that brewed itself up from the east and cast flurries of leaves and small branches against the car's windows. Michael eyed the skies with misgiving and tried not to think that invisible, mischievous celestial stagehands were setting the scene for a suitably Gothic backdrop so that Morticia Addams or Madeline Usher could make a grand entrance.

He had set off buoyantly, optimistic that he would find his way to the Fens easily because he had finally succumbed to buying a satnav, which Nell's small daughter Beth said meant he would never get lost again. The satnav had seemed a good idea, and Michael had managed to attach it to the dashboard, and had diligently followed the polite directions. Unfortunately, when he was about forty miles clear of Oxford it worked loose, and by the time Aylesbury was reached, it detached itself altogether and fell on the floor with a dismal crunch. Michael spent the next twenty miles listening to the now-drunken slur of the electronic voice which appeared to have lost all knowledge of the present whereabouts and might as well be saying, ‘Here be dragons,' like the old maps on unexplored areas.