‘This is such an adventure!’ said Zena, her eyes shining.
‘I knew you would be brave enough for it, my dear,’ said Petronella, squeezing her friend’s hand in encouragement.
‘Whatever is strange in this house we will discover it and end all the unhappiness and fear.’
‘We must go quietly. I am wearing my very softest shoes and will not be heard.’
‘And I my new slippers that you so beautifully stitched for me.’
They smiled and began to creep slowly along the corridor past the doors of the servants’ rooms.
‘Hush!’ said Petronella suddenly, laying her hand upon Zena’s arm. They stopped and listened. Behind them and coming closer they could hear footsteps. They exchanged glances. Up ahead was a laundry cupboard and Zena managed to open it soundlessly. They squeezed inside, huddling closely together, their arms about each other’s waists. Fortunately, they were slender enough that there was just enough room for them both. Petronella drew the door almost closed leaving a small gap for her to peer through.
The footsteps came nearer and both maids held their breath, anxious not to be discovered. Whatever or whoever was passing along the corridor was tangible enough to make a noise and visible enough to be perceived as two distinct silhouettes. One figure carried a small candle in a lantern with a hand over the slits so as to conceal much of the light. The other carried something wrapped in a parcel. Petronella stifled a gasp and moved back from the door. Zena craned her neck, not daring to speak. At length the figures had passed beyond their hiding place and were far enough away not to overhear their conversation.
‘What did you see?’ asked Zena.
‘There were two people,’ said Petronella. ‘I could not see who they were, but from their proportions I suspect that they were Mr and Mrs Miller.’
‘I wonder what they are about?’
‘The same as us, perhaps, hunting for ghosts?’
‘There will be more ghost-hunters in the house than ghosts,’ said Zena with a smile.
‘They were carrying something besides the lantern. I couldn’t see what it was.’
Zena thought carefully. ‘Did you not tell me that the Millers have always said that they didn’t believe the house was haunted?’
‘They have claimed so, yes,’ agreed Petronella.
‘They why are they looking for ghosts? And in the middle of the night? If there was some natural explanation for the haunting such as the settling of an old building it would be more easily detectable during the day than at night.’
‘Unless,’ said Petronella, ‘they have laid traps and are going to inspect them. That is a very good scheme.’
‘We need to find out what they are doing,’ said Zena.
‘We do.’
‘But we must use our resources with care. You, my dear, must follow Mr and Mrs Miller, but do not confront them. If they should see you, pretend to be sleepwalking. That is very easy to feign. All you need to do is stare straight ahead. I will see if they have any clues in their room.’
‘That is a good idea, but their room may be locked.’
Zena removed a hairpin from her pretty tresses. ‘That will not present any difficulty.’
They emerged from the cupboard and, after an encouraging embrace, went their separate ways.
Mrs Bunn had retired to her room where, as she was often proud to claim, she enjoyed a sleep that could not be disturbed by the loudest thunder and would not wake till wakefulness was required. She attributed the soundness of her slumber to a clear conscience on all subjects, although there were suspicions that a nightly noggin of brandy assisted the matter. Long before the midnight hour had come she was snoring robustly, her trusty meat-axe, an implement that her brawny arm had used to butcher many a carcass, laid by the side of the bed in case of burglars. So sound asleep was she that she did not hear or see the hand that purloined that gruesome weapon.
In the next room, Mr Gillery, Mr Sweetacre’s loyal manservant also enjoyed a dreamless and untroubled sleep.
Below stairs, all was quiet in the kitchen. The housemaids, Maria and Sally who usually refused to sleep at Ditterling Manor because of the nightly hauntings had been obliged to stay in the house because the turn in the weather had prevented them from walking to their homes in the village. They were wrapped in blankets and lying on the kitchen floor. The gentle warmth exuded by the range was most conducive to sleep, but, despite this, both were restless. Maria readily agreed to Sally’s suggestion that they should encourage restfulness by sampling the bottle of sherry that Mrs Bunn had been saving to make a tipsy cake. Neither were used to strong drink and before long they confessed to each other that they were a little drowsy and settled down comfortably before slipping into a peaceful slumber.
Alone in her room, Mrs Sweetacre carefully locked her door as she had been advised, but when she looked for her puppy dog Spot, she was unable to find him. Knowing that it would be impossible for her to sleep without the company of her darling, she decided, despite all her husband’s careful warnings, to take a lantern and venture out into the darkened corridors of Ditterling Manor.
Mr Smith’s unexpected arrival had resulted in him being allocated a tiny room in the servants’ wing, but he found that this arrangement suited his purpose, since he could come and go as he pleased. He had told his host that he was an expert on the flora and fauna of Southshire, on which subject he was writing a book. This was a double lie, since Mr Smith knew nothing of nature and had no literary ability whatsoever. Mr Smith was a secret agent, a collector of scandal that he would use to pursue his real profession, blackmail. Poor Mr Sweetacre, little realising what a treacherous reptile he had admitted to his home and hospitality!
Mr Smith, being an expert on foul deeds, well knew that these were generally done at night under cover of darkness. He had no fear of ghosts and often boasted that if he ever saw one it would fear him far more than he would fear it. Mr Smith was afraid of nothing, or so he claimed; however, this was not entirely true. The one thing he could not abide was a spider. It was not likely that he would encounter such a beast in the month of January, but even the tiny corpse of a deceased one, all dried up, its horrid black legs shrivelled and clenched into a little ball of evil was enough to produce revulsion and terror. In fact, it had been a source of great relief to Mr Smith to observe when he arrived at Ditterling Manor that it was kept very well swept and there was no sign anywhere of cobwebs.
He was wholly unafraid, therefore, as he prepared to creep from his room carrying a tiny stub of candle in a lantern; his object, to prowl about the house in the hopes of uncovering some impropriety from which he could make a profit.
There was a slight noise outside his door and he carefully opened it a little, a skill he had practised well in his nefarious career of spying and snooping. He was thus able to see the shapes of two persons gliding past, carrying a lantern and a parcel of some sort, and soon afterwards, two more shapes, clad in black, both female, emerging from a laundry cupboard. All of these circumstances were highly suspicious and excited his interest. After a whispered conversation one of the females walked back past his door and quickly effected entry to another room, while the other went in the opposite direction.
Whatever was happening, Mr Smith sensed that dark deeds were afoot. He liked dark deeds and, smiling to himself, slipped out of his room and followed the retreating figure. He might have interrupted the woman in the room to discover what it was she was about, as the slight hesitation in opening the door suggested that it was not her own room she was entering, but on reflection he decided that it was better to allow her to go about her business. The dimensions of the figure indicated that she was one of the servants and therefore susceptible to either threats or bribery, in both of which he had some expertise. He had no doubt that he would be able later on to discover her identity and extract from her both her purpose and what she had discovered.
Midnight was fast approaching and the ghosts of Ditterling Manor were preparin
g to walk.
PART THE SECOND
In the gloom of haunted Ditterling Manor, Mr and Mrs Miller pursued their silent course along the corridor, on a mission that they had kept a careful secret from all the occupants of the house. Mrs Miller held a lantern, while her husband clutched a parcel that exuded strange pungent odours. They said nothing to each other, but from time to time, Mr Miller pressed the back of his hand to his forehead to wipe away the bloom of perspiration that could only come from fear and anxiety. They passed like drifting spectres from the servants’ wing to the main portion of the house, where the full moon was casting its beams down the corridor. There they were met by a third shadowy individual and it was a meeting that was clearly anticipated. The third figure had brought a sack that contained something that wriggled. A few whispered words were exchanged and they nodded and walked on. They all knew what needed to be done.
It now wanted but five minutes of midnight and as the night plunged on towards the witching hour, the time when ghosts and demons venture forth, corpses rise from their graves to torment the living, and the forces of darkness are at their most powerful, the villainous Viscount Hogg slipped quietly from his room. He wore only a nightshirt and a dressing gown, the shameless dishabille he preferred for his amorous adventures, of which there had been too many to count. The enchanting Mrs Johnson had not replied to his note, but he did not see that as a refusal. Perhaps, he thought, she dared not put her acceptance in writing in case it fell into the wrong hands, her husband’s for example, or a blackmailer’s. Or maybe it was simply a female whim. Women in his experience were fickle creatures, demure one moment and enticing the next. All women, he assured himself, would fall under his spell if he so pleased, but there was a type he especially admired. Not that childish whining Mrs Sweetacre forever cuddling her unpleasant little dog, nor the acerbic Miss Claretti who thought herself so very clever. Mrs Johnson was a woman of splendid proportions and bold spirit and she could not help but excite his attention. Virtuous she might claim to be, but he had no doubt that before the night was over she would be in his thrall.
He descended the stairs and, as he did so, heard movements on the floor he had just left. Were the ghosts of Ditterling Manor walking? For once, they would have to wait. He had other more pressing business to attend to.
Mr Smith was confused. Unused to the layout of the large house he had turned the wrong way, found himself unexpectedly faced with a flight of stairs that ought not to have been there and been obliged to retrace his steps. By the time he reached the main corridor all the persons he had been following had vanished, leaving no clue as to where they had gone. Clearly, he could not go into the bedrooms without a good excuse. He tried peeping through keyholes but learned nothing. All the rooms were silent and dark. He wondered if it was better to hide in the shadows at the top of the staircase to see if anyone should leave a room and then follow, or continue his tour of the house.
There was the sound of a door opening and he quickly ducked into the nearest room, one that he knew to be the water closet, and fastened the bolt on the door. As he waited there was a pull at the door handle then the sound of someone entering the room next door, the one with an ancient cast iron bathtub. The steps in the corridor moved past and there was a soft creak on the top step of the staircase. He opened the door and peered out. No one was waiting outside, but someone, a man, was creeping down the stairs very slowly. This looked promising, so he left the water closet and silently followed the man, whom he felt sure could be up to no good. The size of the individual suggested that he was none other than Viscount Hogg, whose reputation virtually ensured that he was about some act of a nefarious nature, moreover, Mr Smith was well aware that the nobleman possessed more than enough wealth to be able to pay a handsome sum in blackmail.
Smith was halfway down the stairs when he thought he heard another door open in the corridor, but by now he had cast his die and continued on his way down.
Miss Claretti was unable to rest, since she was impatient to know what was happening downstairs. She disliked inaction, yet she knew that it would be dangerous to leave Mrs Johnson alone and unprotected. The hour of midnight approached and both ladies listened carefully and heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps moving towards the stairs. Undoubtedly it was Viscount Hogg, on his way, as he thought, to a secret tryst with Mrs Johnson in the drawing room.
‘Once he is disappointed he will guess that you have remained here, but I hope that by then he will have received a sound warning from the gentlemen. He would not dare try to enter this room,’ said Miss Claretti.
The old house was moving about them, its venerable boards bending and shifting, groaning and protesting, and they might almost have imagined a fluttering like the sound of many slippered feet passing back and forth. Outside the wild wind howled and snowflakes battered the windowpane like desperate moths throwing themselves against a lamp.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
Mrs Johnson started and gave a little gasp. ’Surely not?’ she whispered.
‘But he has hardly been gone two minutes,’ said Miss Claretti.
The knock sounded again.
They stayed quiet.
‘Miss Claretti?’ came a voice they recognised at once.
‘It’s Mrs Sweetacre,’ said Miss Claretti. ‘She should not be about.’
She opened the door. Miss Sweetacre stood there, still in her day gown, her hair dishevelled under her cap, a loose black silk wrap about her shoulders, its deep fringes sweeping the floor, the light of her lantern reflected in her eyes in a strange mad gleam. ‘Oh Miss Claretti, have you seen little Spot? I can’t find him anywhere!’
‘He is not here,’ said Miss Claretti. ‘But I promise if I do see him, I will bring him straight to you.’
‘Oh, what can I do!’ exclaimed Mrs Sweetacre. ‘He may be in the most terrible danger!’
‘Please don’t upset yourself,’ said Miss Claretti. ‘Your husband asked you to stay safe in your room. Do go back, or he will not know where you are.’
‘I can’t!’ wailed the distracted woman. ‘I must have my darling or I can get no rest! I will look everywhere until he is found!’ Before Miss Claretti could reason with her further, Mrs Sweetacre turned and hurried away.
‘What can we do?’ asked Mrs Johnson.
‘Nothing, I fear. But Mr Sweetacre is about and he should be able to calm her.’
They had hardly settled again, Mrs Johnson reclining on her bed and Miss Claretti in an armchair, listening to snowflakes making a constant damp patter against the window, when there was another knock on the door.
‘Really,’ said Miss Claretti, ‘this house is busier by night than it is by day.’ She rose and crept forward with some caution in case the presence outside was Viscount Hogg.
‘Miss Claretti?’ came a voice, ‘it is I, Bickley. Please let me in. I would like to talk with you.’
‘The audacity!’ hissed Miss Claretti to Mrs Johnson under her breath. ‘Of course, he must imagine that Viscount Hogg is in the drawing room with you and that I am therefore alone and vulnerable. I have half a mind to admit him and dash his brains out with a candlestick. No jury in the land would convict me.’
The knocking sounded again. Miss Claretti, now thoroughly exasperated, strode up to the door. ‘What do you want, Mr Bickley?’ she said sharply. ‘Do you mean to wake the dead at this unholy hour? Go back to your room!’
‘I wanted to explain myself.’
‘Explain yourself tomorrow morning. Now go away!’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Whether I am or not is none of your concern.’
There was a sudden yelp from the other side of the door then an embarrassed laugh. ’I thought I felt something brush past me just now, but there was nothing there.’
‘Go back to your room, Mr Bickley, and don’t bother me again.’
Miss Claretti listened carefully, hoping to hear his retreating footsteps, but instead she heard a sound that appea
red to be coming from further down the corridor. It was like hollow dry sticks or wooden pipes clattering together. Mrs Johnson came up and pressed her ear to the door then gazed at Miss Claretti in amazement. Whether the sound was human, animal or the product of some infernal instrument of percussion was unclear. Then there began the sound of a keening flute, now high, now low, the tone however always indicative of unrelenting misery.
‘Mr Bickley are you responsible for that noise?’ asked Miss Claretti.
He made a gasping sound and his voice sounded peculiar, as if his throat was closing up with terror. ‘No, but I can see what is.’
Miss Claretti finally succumbed to her curiosity, unlocked the door and peered out into the corridor. Mr Bickley was cowering against the far wall, trembling with fright. The soft light of the closed moon showed that his face was contorted, his eyes wide with fear. Miss Claretti and Mrs Johnson, clasping hands for assurance, walked out. There was nothing to be seen. The unearthly noise abruptly ceased.
He stared at them, astonished to see the two women. ‘Your ruse did not work,’ said Miss Claretti scornfully. ‘You and your master should be ashamed of yourselves. Now, what did you see? A ghost? A demon? A monster?’
‘It was a skeleton,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t conjure that up or mistake anything else for it. And I am wide awake, not dreaming.’
‘Where was it?’
His hand shook as he pointed to the far end of the corridor.
‘It is not there now. Where did it go?’
‘It vanished. In the blink of an eye.’
‘Then we will go and hunt it. All three of us.’
Miss Claretti took a candlestick from the mantelpiece in case defence should prove necessary and secured her bedroom door. ‘Come now, Mr Bickley,’ she said, ‘you have two ladies to protect you. Have no fear.’
The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4) Page 28