The Ghost Writer

by John Harwood

  The second of the Banham keys fitted the lower keyhole: the snap as it turned over was startlingly loud. I lifted the latch and pushed, against resistance. To my surprise the door opened silently.

  I WAS STANDING AT THE ENTRANCE TO A TUNNEL ABOUT eight feet high, formed by hooped metal frames over which branches of some kind had been trained. Dim twilight filtered through an arched roof of dense greenery; a few spots of sunlight glowed on the flagged stone floor. At the far end, some thirty feet away, I could just make out two steps leading up to another door. Vines and creepers and climbing roses had grown up amongst the gnarled branches; the metal hoops were heavily corroded. But the inside of the tunnel had been recently pruned. The clipped ends of vines and shoots were still sharply defined, the dark, lichen-stained flagstones bare except for a scattering of leaves.

  I withdrew the key and let go of the street door. It closed behind me with a faint hiss. The spring lock clicked shut; suddenly fearful, I snatched at the knob to make sure I wouldn't be trapped.

  It had been quiet in the lane outside, but you could still hear the faint hum of traffic from East Heath Road, the occasional howl of an accelerating motorbike, the distant whine of a jumbo from the endless queue descending towards Heathrow. With the closing of the gate, all of those sounds had ceased. The tick-ticking of my pulse was suddenly louder. I set off along the path, accompanied by faint rustlings and stirrings. Birds, I hoped, though I couldn't see any. The surrounding vegetation was impenetrably dense.

  At the far end, the sides thinned out enough to allow glimpses of red brick and stonework, and the light was a little better. Though the tunnel-what was the word?-espanniered?-no, pleached-extended all the way to the porch, you could see where the original structure had ended and another section had been added, also many years ago, by the look of the gnarled vines overhead. I went up the two steps into a porch, only a few feet deep, with solid brick walls on both sides. It looked as if there had once been vertical windows on either side of the door, but the apertures had been bricked up. No glass in the door, either. Its dark green paint was cracked and peeling.

  Three locks this time. After the snap of the second Banham, I had to wait until my heartbeat had slowed enough to distinguish it from approaching footsteps. I glanced back along the green, twilit alley and turned the key in the spring lock.

  The door opened quietly, on to a dimly lit entrance hall. Dark panelled walls, an elaborate hall-stand immediately to my left, then a recessed wooden bench. Carpeted stairs at the far end ran up to a half-landing. Light filtered through a doorway to the left of the staircase. I stepped across the threshold, keeping hold of the front door, which like the street door appeared to be self-closing. I took another step forward, letting the door close behind me with the same faint, unnerving hiss.

  The hall-stand was draped with hats and coats and scarves; there were several umbrellas and at least three pairs of Wellingtons. The sense of trespass was suddenly overwhelming.

  'Is anyone here?' A muffled echo-I couldn't tell from where-sounded disturbingly like a reply. Then I noticed that the hats and coats-all of them women's-looked very old-fashioned indeed. Tentatively, I drew out one of the umbrellas. A small cloud of dust followed, and I saw that there were holes in the fabric.

  I TRIED TO MOVE NOISELESSLY, BUT THE FLOORBOARDS creaked at every step. At the far end of the hall, I found a closed wooden door to the right of the staircase. An opening to my left led into a passage running towards the rear of the house. Multi-coloured light shimmered through a doorway opposite.

  At first I thought I had stumbled into a chapel. Two tall, narrow stained-glass windows shone in the upper half of the wall to my left, an elaborate design of leaves and vines and flowers climbing over a plain, lead-lighted background. The moving shadows of actual leaves and branches outside made it look as if the pattern had come alive, greens and golds and brilliant crimsons rippling upwards into darkness.

  Tall wooden shutters, latched on the inside, concealed the windows in the lower section. Humped shapes of furniture stood around a massive fireplace opposite the door. To my right, the lower half of the rear wall opened on to what looked like a dining-room. A gallery was built out above the opening, running the full width of the room.

  Crossing to the shutters, I got the first one open and came face to face with a chaotic mass of nettles, buddleia and leaf litter, shot through with ivy and rising above head height. Sunlight filtered through the foliage overhead. The windows were protected by vertical metal bars almost eaten through with rust.

  Apart from some archaic electric light fittings mounted on wall brackets, I could have stepped back into the 1850s. The brocaded chairs and sofas, mostly faded lemons and pale greens, the chests and screens and occasional tables, were all marked and worn by use. The polish on the woodwork had faded long ago; you could see the outlines of ancient stains on the huge, threadbare Persian carpet. And yet someone must be coming in from time to time to dust and air the place, and turn on some sort of heating in the winters, or everything would be rotten with damp and mould.

  I moved on towards the dining-room, whose dark panelled ceiling, though still ten or twelve feet high, was only half the height of the drawing-room's. The opening between the two, I saw, could be closed off by a set of sliding panels which stood folded, concertina-fashion, against the right-hand wall. The gallery loomed overhead: it had a gilt rail at about waist height, with vertical rods below the railing, and doors at both ends.

  Troubled by a vague sense of something missing or wrong, I moved on through the dining-room, between a long oak table with chairs for a dozen people, and a massive sideboard laden with tarnished serving dishes and candlesticks. With the drawing room closed off, it would be pitch dark in here. But when I got the shutters in the end wall open, daylight filled the room. I found myself looking down on to a flagged courtyard, surrounded once again by an impenetrable tangle of greenery.

  The land on which the house was set evidently sloped downwards, for the window was at least ten feet above the ground, but the view beyond the courtyard was obscured on every side by rampant, towering foliage. Weeds sprouted between the flagstone^. Below and to my right, a long, narrow conservatory had been built out along the rear wall of the house. From the far side of the courtyard, a path continued a few yards further, towards what looked like the remains of an ancient gazebo or summerhouse, half buried beneath a canopy of nettles.

  I pressed my face against the glass, but could see nothing more. There were no bars on these windows, and no visible locks or bolts, but neither side would budge. I went on through a door to the right of the windows, on to a landing from which a wide staircase descended. A narrower flight ran steeply up to another half-landing on its way to the floor above. There were several other doors to choose from, but I went on down, hoping to find a way out on to the courtyard so that I could see the house from the outside.

  I found a small parlour or breakfast room, immediately below the dining room, with shuttered French windows opening-or rather refusing to open-on to the courtyard. Behind the parlour was a small kitchen-1920s or 30s, I thought-three-burner gas cooker, chipped porcelain sink, wooden cupboards and benches. Mixed crockery, also chipped and cracked, that looked like the remnants of expensive services. A few tins rusting in the food cupboard, labels long gone.

  The main house door next to the parlour was painted a drab black. It appeared to be locked and bolted. To the right of that was another set of French windows, also locked, into the conservatory. Peering through the glass, I saw a long trestle table crammed with pots and seed trays from which a few desiccated sticks protruded. Garden tools leaned against walls and benches. An old wooden barrow stood blocking one of the aisles.

  No other doors. The stairs continued on down, back in under the house. Daylight slanted down the stairwell on to a patch of stone floor. From where I stood in the entrance, the original kitchen extended out to my left. An ancient black range with a corroded flue; brick walls; a scarred worktab
le; canisters rusting along a wall shelf in descending order of size. The air down here was colder, and distinctly damp; the ceiling was only a foot above my head. I took a few uneasy steps into the gloom. There was a doorway in the opposite wall, opening onto darkness.

  I RETREATED UP THE STAIRS TO THE LANDING, TOOK THE first door on my left, opposite the dining-room, and was greeted by the warm, faintly sweet smell of printed paper and cloth boards, dust and leather and old bindings.

  The shutters-polished wood here, rather than painted-opened into a library as imposing as the drawing-room. Tall bookcases rose like pillars between four high, narrow windows in the rear wall of the house. Around the other three sides of the room, a mezzanine gallery had been built about seven or eight feet above the floor, giving access to a second tier of shelves, with cases built out like piers from the recessed shelves below, so that the books in the lower section were housed in a series of alcoves. There was an open spiral staircase at the far end of the room, leading up to the gallery; a chesterfield and two cracked brown leather armchairs stood below the windows. The centre of the floor was taken up by a massive table covered in worn green baize, with four high-backed library chairs ranged around it. Several large blank sheets of what looked like butcher's paper had been left at one end of it, with a folded chessboard and some sort of child's toy on top of the pile.

  I wandered along the cases, pulling out volumes at random. Blue books, parliamentary papers, regimental histories, accounts of military campaigns and naval battles, gazetteers, clerical lists, law lists, county histories and so forth, occupied an entire wall. A nineteenth-century gentleman's library. Belonging to one J.G. Ferrier… and a G.C. Ferrier… then a C.R. Ferrier, in thick, greyish ink on the flyleaf of A Narrative of the Operations of a Small British Force Employed in the Reduction of Monte Video on the River Plate, A.D. 1807. By a Field Officer on the Staff.

  I moved on to the next wall. Literature: Greek and Latin, all J.G. Ferrier; the standard English poets, mostly in nineteenth-century editions inscribed by J.G. and G.C… until I took down one of several disintegrating Byrons and found 'V. Ferrier/ Jan. 1883' on the flyleaf in a clear, spiky hand. And in the next alcove, in a well-worn copy of Balzac's Illusions perdues, 'V. Hatherley/ Oct. 1901'.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, THOUGH I HADN'T EVEN STARTED ON the mezzanine gallery, I knew that Viola Ferrier had become Viola Hatherley some time between 1887 and 1889; that she often marked passages in her books, but did not annotate beyond an occasional cryptic reference such as v. P. de C, ix'; that she, or someone with whom she shared her books, had been a heavy smoker-traces of ash and fine shreds of tobacco appeared between numerous pages in all her books-and that she read widely and eclectically in French as well as English. A system of shelving books by author and subject had been gradually subverted, so that a book by one Georges Lakhovsky, he Secret de la vie: les ondes cosmiques et la radiation vitale, marked simply 'VH/ Aug 1930', appeared between Richard Le Gallienne and Alice Meynell on a shelf devoted to the poets and essayists of the 1890s. Percy Brown's American Martyrs to Science through the Roentgen Rays, which looked as if it had been dropped in the bath or left out in the rain, lay sideways across the top of Lakhovsky.

  Suddenly overtaken by a lurching wave of fatigue, I sat down at the central table. Filaments of dust drifted in the light from the four great windows on my right. Soon, maybe sooner than you think… Perhaps Alice would simply appear in her white dress, leaning over the gallery rail, smiling down at me… 171 come to your house.

  From my perspective, the gallery formed an elevated U, with the spiral staircase immediately to the right of the windows. At the corresponding point on the opposite side, just before the end wall, one of the bookcases seemed to have been set back into the side wall at a considerable angle. No; a dummy bookcase, disguising a low, narrow door, like the ones on the galleries in the old Round Reading Room. Odd that I hadn't noticed it before.

  Idly, I reached over to the stack of paper and picked up the toy. It resembled a miniature tricycle, four or five inches long, with two polished wheels at the back of a boat-shaped platform of the same dark wood. But instead of a front wheel, the stub of a pencil had been pushed through a hole at the front, point downward, and secured with a rubber band.

  I put down the toy and opened the chessboard. Only it was not a chessboard. Instead of squares it had YES in the top left corner, next to an image of the sun, and NO opposite, next to the moon, above the letters of the alphabet set out in two shallow horseshoe arcs, then the numbers 1 to 10, and below that, GOODBYE. The William Flud Talking Board Set. John Waddington Ltd, Leeds & London, permitted user of the trade marks Ouija, William Flud and Mystifying Oracle.

  Now I knew what the tricycle was. I leafed through the sheets of paper, but they were all blank. After a little practice with the-plechette?-no, planchette-I could produce legible words. On a clean sheet of paper I wrote

  WHAT HAPPENED TO ANNE?

  in large, spidery letters, and set the planchette below the W, with my fingers resting lightly on the wooden platform.

  I DIDN'T-DID I?-SERIOUSLY EXPECT IT TO ANSWER. YOU needed at least two people, anyway. But I did have to find the answer myself if I possibly could. Because clearly Miss Hamish had given me the keys as a sort of test. To prove myself a worthy heir to Ferrier's Close and Staplefield. She had all but said so on the last page of her letter. There is a destiny at work here… my passionate yearning to know, for certain, what became of my best and dearest friend… if anyone is ever to uncover the answers, it will be you.

  But suppose-just supposing-I were to discover that my mother really had murdered her sister? I would have to live with the knowledge for ever; it would poison my reunion (as I often found myself thinking, perhaps because of our shared dream) with Alice; and Miss Hamish certainly wouldn't leave me the estate.

  Of course I didn't know that Anne Hatherley was dead. She might have… packed her things, suffered an attack of total amnesia, and started a new life under a different name? Joined a silent order of nuns and forgotten to tell anyone? Been abducted by aliens? All we knew for certain was that her body had never been found. Or at least identified.

  The police found nothing amiss. But how thoroughly had they searched the house? Had they dug up the garden? What if the person who left with Anne's suitcases hadn't been Anne at all?

  The old sick feeling of dread came flooding back. I released the planchette and tried to focus on breathing deeply and slowly. Unclench your hands. Concentrate on breathing. Repeat after me: if the police and the lawyer hadn't been certain that Phyllis was innocent, Miss Hamish would have known, because she was their principal witness.

  And in the very worst case, if I were to uncover anything along those lines, telling Miss Hamish would be sheer, pointless cruelty. Whereas if I could come up with something benign-amnesia was, after all, a possibility, especially after so many traumatic events, coming so close together-or even a religious conversion, one of those blinding light experiences… really, I owed it to Miss Hamish to keep an open mind and not leap to conclusions that could only distress her. I hadn't even seen the upstairs rooms yet.

  I HAD ASSUMED THAT BY THE END OF THIS FIRST EXPLOration, I would have gained a clear picture of the house and its surroundings. But the higher I climbed, the more disoriented I became. The air grew hotter and stuffier. I tried various windows on the upper floors, but none of them would budge: many above the ground floor were so thickly coated with grime that when blurred patches of the Heath began to appear amongst the treetops, I wasn't always sure which direction I was looking in. And yet there was something oddly familiar about the place.

  The blurred views compounded the sensation of slipping backwards and forwards in time, for if it was still 1850 in the drawing-room below, the first-floor sitting-room had got as far as the 1940s: a large, light, comfortable room furnished with a sagging floral sofa, stuffed chairs, a massive cabinet radio to the right of the fireplace, and a bookcase full of novels: Galsworthy, Ben
nett, Huxley, early Graham Greene… Henry Green, Ivy Compton-Burnett… detective stories even I had never heard of, such as The Public School Murder, by R.C. Woodthorpe, inscribed 'V.H. Xmas 1932'. The window looked down upon the overgrown courtyard. A door to the right of the window led to the rear stairs-there seemed to be at least two different ways of getting from any one room to another-and to an L-shaped passage with doors leading to the mezzanine floor of the library at one end, and to the gallery above the drawing-room at the other.

  Apart from the sitting-room at the rear of the house, there were only two other rooms on this level: another, much smaller sitting-room, and a bedroom, both opening off the front landing. The upper levels of the drawing-room and library and their respective galleries took up the rest of the space. The two front rooms, I decided, had probably been Iris's: the sitting-room bookcase held long runs of two spiritualist journals from the 1920s and 30s: Light, and The Medium, along with numerous volumes on theosophy, the tarot, Buddhism, astrology, astral travelling, divination, reincarnation, and more. I noticed a copy of An Adventure-which I had once skimmed-about the two women who claimed to have got lost in the gardens of Versailles and found themselves back in the eighteenth century. The closet was still full of clothes that looked as if they might have belonged to a tall, elderly woman; a rusting lipstick and several faded cardboard containers were neatly arranged on the dressing-table beneath a thick layer of dust.