The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4)

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Then we may safely assume that we in this room are the only living persons in this house,’ said Mr Hope. ‘I have agreed, again upon the insistence of Miss Scarletti, that the gas will remain lit, but it will be turned down, although not so low that we cannot see each other.’ He turned to Mina. ‘Does that meet with your requirements?’

  Mina ignored the challenge in his tone. ‘If it does not I will be sure to let you know.’

  Mr Hope nodded to Mr Malling, who rose and attended to the gas. Even in the deepening gloom his figure could be seen as he moved about the room. Finally, he returned to his seat.

  ‘I would like to ask one thing,’ said Mina.

  ‘You have asked several already,’ said Mr Hope, heavily, as he took his place at the table. ‘Well, say it and be done.’

  ‘I ask only that if any person here makes a noise such as a cough or a movement of the foot, perhaps striking the table by chance, that they own to it at once. Then we need not be distracted or unnecessarily alarmed.’

  ‘That seems very sensible,’ ventured Mr Honeyacre.

  Mr Hope made a sound like a snarl. ‘Very well. We will begin by placing our hands upon the table where they can be seen by us all, grasping the hands of the persons on either side. Then we will say the Lord’s Prayer and after that I command everyone to be silent and still.’

  Mina placed her tiny hands on the table in front of her. To her left Dr Hamid clasped her fingers in a manner that offered reassurance, to her right Mr Beckler’s large hand enclosed hers completely.

  Mina closed her eyes to accustom her vision more quickly to the dimness. All present, led by Mr Hope, recited the prayer aloud in unison. As the last whispers died away Mina allowed her breathing to settle into as even a rhythm as possible. There was always a point when her lungs, cramped by the distortion of her ribcage, could not expand as far as she might want and she could feel it like an obstruction in her chest. All exercise had to be taken with care and emotional exertion was no less difficult. Now she needed to remain calm and observant, open-minded, so that her senses would not be deluded by expectation.

  Mina opened her eyes and looked about her at the persons seated at the table and the servants sitting in a row against the far wall. In the soft light all could be readily identified. No one moved. The only sound in the room was that of breathing and the soft hiss of gas. Every so often there was a distant creak of old wood settling, which provoked a sharp intake of breath from Kitty, then all fell quiet again. Outside the rain throbbed like a beating pulse, the wind gathering it up and hurling it against the windows.

  Mina tried to estimate how much time had passed; she thought some fifteen to twenty minutes. Despite the assistance of her little cushion the lengthy immobility began to irk her back and shoulder and she had no idea how long the sitters were expected to remain there before Mr Hope declared the attempt a failure. A failure, she reminded herself, for which she would undoubtedly be blamed.

  Time passed. The hallway clock struck the hour. There was another creak and this one appeared to come from directly above. Mina, her back muscles protesting, hoped that she would not have to wait until the clock struck again. Another creak followed, then another, and it became plain to everyone that it was moving, slowly and rhythmically as if someone was walking along the upstairs corridor. Now they were all controlling their breathing, not daring to make a sound. There was a sudden loud echoing bang like a fist pounding on a door and a startled little gasp from Kitty. Once again it struck and was followed by a moaning that might have been the wind, or something else.

  The sound slowly died away into nothingness. Everyone was breathing a little faster and the rain was tapping on the window like fingernails.

  They became aware of a new noise, a squeaking like metal grinding against metal, and the light above them began to move, flowing back and forth, brushing its glow up and down the walls, revealing frightened faces. Mina glanced up and saw that the central inflorescence of lamps was swaying back and forth.

  Then the linen runner on the sideboard unfolded itself and flew across the room.

  Those who had witnessed it gasped and squealed in unison.

  ‘Stay quiet!’ exclaimed Mr Hope. ‘No one move! There is a spirit present and I will try to question it.’

  One of the candlesticks began to slide across the sideboard, not smoothly, but in little jerking steps. They watched it reach the edge and tumble to the floor. Even though they had expected to hear a clatter as it struck it was still a shock in the stillness.

  ‘Spirit — can you answer me?’ called Hope.

  The other candlestick tilted a little but it didn’t fall, instead it regained its upright position with a slight thud.

  Kitty uttered a slight squeal and her husband tried to hush her.

  ‘Do you have a message for the living?’ asked Mr Hope.

  Another tilt and a thud.

  ‘Are you the spirit of someone who once lived in the house?’

  Another thud.

  ‘Were you once a man?’

  The candlestick remained still.

  ‘Were you once a woman?’

  A thud.

  ‘Did you die a natural death?’

  No sound.

  ‘Were you killed?’

  And then it came — a scream of the most piercing intensity and thunderous noises from above like the hammering of angry feet, and the candlestick rose up and flew across the room, striking the far wall. One of the plinths tilted and Mina expected a valuable Chinese vase to crash to the floor, but miraculously it stayed in place. Then a row of plates began to cascade from the upper shelves of the sideboard, one after the other, tumbling like leaves, shattering into pieces as they struck the floor, and a shower of tiny stones cascaded from the ceiling, striking the glass lamps like a carillon of tiny bells, then falling onto the table, bouncing and rattling across the polished surface, overflowing into people’s laps. Kitty stood up and shrieked. Mr Honeyacre also stood. ‘Enough, I beg of you, enough!’

  Mr Honeyacre, whimpering as he went, hurried to comfort his distressed wife, his arms flapping distractedly like the wings of a bird trapped in a snare. All efforts at stillness and quiet were over. Even Mr Hope was aware that the proceedings could not be rescued and remained seated, making no attempt to resume the séance or bring the company to order.

  Mr Malling, looking confused, left his seat but could only stand and stare at the displaced and broken property, contemplating the fortunate survival of the Chinese vase in wonderment. Mr Gillespie remained calm and turned up the gas lamps while Dr Hamid stepped forward with quietly spoken advice. Kitty’s terror finally dissolved into convulsive sobs and before long she had been sent off to bed with Miss Pet and Dr Hamid to attend her. Mr Honeyacre wanted to accompany them but was gently persuaded to wait until his wife was comfortably settled and assured that he would then be sent for. He sat miserably on a dining chair and Mina went to sit beside him.

  ‘She is so delicate,’ he whispered, ‘so very delicate.’ There were tears glistening in his eyes.

  Nellie took the opportunity of the distraction to examine the sideboard, the plinth, the candlesticks and the linen runner. Mina glanced at her but received only a shake of the head.

  Once Kitty was safely away Mrs Malling took on the task of clearing up the mess in the dining room and Mr Malling, assisted by Mr Gillespie, Mr Hope and Mr Beckler, busied themselves with replacing the furniture and silverware to its usual position. Mina expressed the wish that everything should be left as it was until the room could be examined in daylight, but her suggestion was overruled, Mrs Malling looking especially horrified at the idea that all should not be restored to order well before breakfast.

  The work was still not complete when Dr Hamid returned to reassure everyone that Kitty was very much better and no harm had been done. ‘Mrs Honeyacre requires only a good night’s rest in a quiet room and she will be perfectly well by morning.’

  ‘We are so very grateful to you, Dr Ham
id,’ exclaimed the anxious husband and hurried away to see his wife.

  Due to the lateness of the hour and the excitement it was naturally assumed that they would all shortly be retiring to their rooms and Mina and Nellie were already making their way to the door when Mr Hope rose to his feet and spoke.

  ‘And now,’ he announced, ‘it is essential, while the events of tonight are fresh in our minds, that we gather together to discuss them. The drawing room will be ideal for my purpose. Come with me!’ He strode purposefully to the door with complete confidence that everyone would meekly follow. At the door he paused and glanced back. ‘Mr Gillespie, I think a restorative glass of sherry would be appropriate for the ladies and brandy for the gentlemen.’

  Mr Gillespie’s expression did not change. ‘I will see to it at once, my Lord,’ he said.

  ‘And once Mr Honeyacre has satisfied himself that his good lady is well, please fetch him. I am sure he will want to join us.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  Eventually, Mina, Nellie, Dr Hamid and Mr Beckler were all assembled in the drawing room and, after a short wait, Mr Honeyacre arrived and the restoratives were served.

  Mr Hope was in a state of the most inordinate excitement. He was unable to sit for long, but after a brief period of deep contemplation he rose and paced up and down the room with long energetic strides, while Mr Honeyacre clutched at his head as if the movement alone was causing him pain.

  ‘It must be apparent to the meanest intelligence that what we have experienced this evening is of the very highest order!’ exclaimed Mr Hope. ‘The materialists and doubters who refuse to accept that raps are a method of communication used by the spirits cannot deny it now! In the past the difficulty has always been that raps at séances are only heard and we never see what produces them. This results in the most uncalled for and nonsensical attacks on mediums, who are actually accused of making the sounds themselves by tapping their feet on the table legs and other such nonsense. Tonight, however, we have ushered in a new era of belief. We are fortunate to have had the observation of several respectable and reliable persons, one of whom is a photographer and therefore with a discerning eye second to none and one, dare I say it, a former opponent of spiritualist matters who has now seen the evidence for herself and cannot fail to admit her former error.’

  He gazed meaningfully at Mina and it was not a pleasant expression.

  ‘It is my belief that the testimony of persons of education and quality should be admitted as wholly and unquestionably true. Indeed, it should be regarded as actual scientific proof. We saw with our own eyes, all of us, the raps giving answers to my questions being made by the movement of an object, which no human hand or foot could have reached. Really,’ he went on, ‘I cannot understand how so many people refused to believe in it before. Raps are one of the oldest and most widespread means of communication by the dead. They were known in Ancient Egypt and by the Greeks and the Romans. Independent witnesses, from all corners of the world and across the centuries, have experienced the same phenomena. It is impossible for it to be either chance or invention.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Mr Honeyacre, wearily, although he looked relieved to have a distraction from his woes. ‘I have made a study of this and while the old myths of the barbarous races have been explained by natural events and are no longer current in modern civilisation, there are, today, scientifically trained witnesses, sane and credible, who can attest to spirit rappings, apparitions, clairvoyance and even levitation.’

  ‘And let us not forget,’ said Mr Hope, nodding approvingly, ‘that modern science now accepts as true many phenomena which past centuries rejected and ridiculed.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ wailed Mr Honeyacre. ‘How can we comfort the unhappy spirits that exist in this house? We really cannot hold another séance as my poor wife is so distressed.’

  Mr Hope looked shocked. It really seemed that, until that moment, it had never crossed his mind that he would not be permitted to hold another séance. He narrowed his eyes and bit his lip, as if hardly knowing how to respond. Clearly, he cared nothing for Kitty, whose distress he considered a small price to pay in his pursuit of the truth, but he declined to mention this. He paced again, thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘It has been revealed tonight that the spirit who is haunting Hollow House is that of a woman who once lived in the house and was murdered. Do you know of any such individual?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mr Honeyacre.

  ‘But someone must surely know of this. A murder — and almost certainly one where the culprit has not been found to pay the price of his villainy. How is this not the common talk of the village?’

  ‘It might be,’ said Mr Honeyacre, ‘that the body of the victim has never been found and the individual is simply assumed to have gone elsewhere. The Lassiters’ nursemaid for example; we do not know for certain what became of her. There may be others we know nothing about.’

  Mr Hope nodded meaningfully. ‘That could be it, yes — a murder that is not yet suspected to be a murder. I suggest that we make it our business to bring Ned Copper here and question him closely. His memory may well hold the secret.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Honeyacre, ‘I will ask Mr Malling to bring him here after church tomorrow.’

  ‘And if the weather improves,’ Mr Hope continued, ‘then Mr Beckler and I will go up to view the windmills. It may be necessary in time to bring a powerful medium to the site and then we may learn more.’

  It was by now obvious, even to Mr Hope, that the company was weary and he graciously but reluctantly permitted them to retire to their beds.

  Zillah came to help Mina and Nellie prepare for bed, moving about them with quiet attentiveness.

  ‘Do you have any observations about the séance?’ Mina asked Nellie.

  ‘Only that some of the activity took place inside the room and some on the floor above. I saw no one leave their places, but such things can be done on stage. I was once in a tableau representing a haunted mansion. There were ornaments on a mantelpiece and a man poked a stick through a hole in the scenery and pushed them off. Then a vase of flowers slid across a table and fell on the floor. One of the actors had a black thread attached to it, which the audience was unable to see. Distance renders many things invisible. So does darkness.’

  ‘But you saw no threads.’

  ‘No, none. And, of course, on stage we all know what is about to happen and everything is carefully planned and arranged. The setting of the stage for such tricks takes far longer than the performance of them. As far as we know no one here has the experience to carry out such a convincing deception with so very little notice.’

  ‘And the noises above, the swaying of the chandelier and the cascade of stones? What was the cause?’

  ‘None of it was chance, which means either some human agency or a ghost. Again, it was like a piece of theatre — everything was timed to coincide with events.’

  ‘I agree with Mr Honeyacre that we should not attempt another séance,’ said Mina, ‘but in one way it is a pity. If we did some trusted person could conceal himself or herself on the upper floor and keep watch. I would be glad to do it. If a ghost should appear I would not allow it to leave until I had interviewed it and written its story.’

  ‘Zillah, did you notice anything that particularly struck you?’ asked Nellie.

  Zillah, brushing out her mistress’s cascade of auburn hair, looked thoughtful. ‘There was something, but it was before.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was when the gentlemen were moving the furniture about. Before the servants were sent for. Miss Pet came upstairs to fetch one of Little Scrap’s toys for Mrs Honeyacre and she was halfway down again when she thought she heard a strange noise and went back up to listen.’

  ‘What sort of a noise?’

  ‘She said it like a little bird in a cage, chirping. But before she could find out where it was coming from it stopped.’

  ‘There are no caged birds in the house, a
re there?’ asked Mina.

  ‘No, Miss. I asked Miss Pet and she said not.’

  When they were ready to sleep Nellie insisted that Mina take the more comfortable bed. She did not need to insist very hard.

  A clock began to chime and Mina, against her better judgment, found herself counting the strikes. One, two, three, four. Four in the morning, an ungodly hour to be awake. She usually slept soundly, but something had awoken her and she was confused as to what it might be. An ache in her back, the unfamiliar bed, or a draught? None of those applied. She eased into a more comfortable position and pulled the covers warmly to her throat. Nellie was asleep, her breaths soft and even.

  If she closed her eyes, Mina thought, and lay very still and measured her breathing to resemble that of one asleep then she might be able to drift into slumber again. Mina drowsed contentedly, consciousness sliding away, and that was when she heard it, the creaking of wood on wood, rhythmic, insistent. A voice was whispering softly, a woman’s voice, gentle, as a mother would speak to her child. She found herself listening, concentrating, trying to make out the words, but it was too far away. The voice was just the rise and fall of a tone. A child laughed, a happy sound, and still the creaking, creaking, and suddenly, abruptly, it stopped. Then a scream ripped through the air, once, twice, a cry of terror and pain.

  Mina sat up in bed. Nellie too was awake. The screaming didn’t stop, although it gradually reduced to sobbing and gurgling. There were footsteps running along the corridor. Mina struggled to separate dream from reality and, as one faded and the other remained, realised that the creaking and the voice and laughter had been a dream into which some very real screams had intruded. Nellie got out of bed and put on her wrap then helped Mina out of bed and made sure she was warmly enfolded. They both went to the door and peered out. Mrs Malling, blinking away sleep, stood in the corridor holding a candle.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Mina.

  ‘Mrs Honeyacre,’ said the housekeeper grimly, ‘woke up to see the figure of a woman standing by her bed. Dr Hamid is with her now.’