The three unwilling adventurers began to creep down the corridor.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the drawing room was in darkness, apart from a faint glow from the last embers of the fire. Dr Haroon and Rickard sat silently waiting for their quarry. Since their characters were so very different they rarely had a great deal to say to each other. Rickard knew Dr Haroon to be a man of learning who commanded the respect and admiration of all who knew him. Dr Haroon regarded Rickard as a wastrel who lived a life of idleness and tolerated him only because he was also without guile. The absence of conversation was not therefore a great trial to either of them.
Outside, the wind made its strange music, as the snow fell relentlessly. Inside, there was only the occasional whisper of ashes settling in the fireplace and the kind of noises that old houses always make at night. The clock began to strike midnight.
Footsteps approached and Dr Haroon rose and secreted himself behind the door, while Rickard hid behind a curtain. Viscount Hogg entered and looked about him, but seeing no one, helped himself to some brandy from a decanter, seated himself comfortably before the fireplace and waited. It was only moments before he was confronted by the two other men, something that caused him no discomfiture at all.
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the Viscount with a broad smile, ‘So we are three! Mrs Johnson is a very busy lady, but I am sure she is woman enough for all of us. I had always suspected her to be an unmitigated strumpet.’
‘That is a grave insult to a virtuous lady!’ exclaimed Rickard, angrily. To his astonishment and that of Dr Haroon, Viscount Hogg simply threw back his head and laughed. It was an action he was doomed to regret.
Mr Smith reached the bottom of the stairs. He had spent too long wandering about the house and found to his dismay that his candle was guttering. He was not sure where the figure he had been following had gone and walked about the hall listening at doors until he heard what he thought were voices in the drawing room. He had been hoping to hear the tones of both a man and a woman but only heard what he thought were male voices. Perhaps he had interrupted no more than some gentlemen guests helping themselves to Mr Sweetacre’s brandy, very small grist to his disreputable mill. He decided to wait outside to observe who emerged and as he stood by the doorway his candle went out and he was plunged into almost total darkness. The only light in the hallway was now the faint moonlight that breathed softly through the worn and threadbare curtains.
There came from the drawing room a burst of laughter like the infernal cackling of a demon. The next moment the laughter abruptly stopped and devolved into a gurgle. Then there were louder voices, exclamations, the thud of a heavy object falling to the floor and a groan. A brief silence was followed by some urgent whispering.
Mr Smith held his breath. After what appeared to be an age the door of the drawing room opened softly and a head peered out. Mr Smith, thinking he recognised the silhouette of Dr Haroon by the shape of his beard, tried to press himself flat again the wall, hoping he would not be observed. There were some more whispers and then two figures emerged carrying a third one between them. The third figure was limp and unmoving.
Mr Smith suppressed a gasp of horror. Had murder been done? He was not about to challenge two desperate men and become their next victim. He felt the hairs on his head rise up in terror knowing what his fate would be if he were discovered. He was standing next to a hall chair and carefully, silently, lowered himself to crouch down beside it, hoping that his form would melt into a pool of darkness.
The two murderers, or so he supposed them to be, proceeded slowly up the stairs with the corpse of their victim and faded into the shadows. Smith stood up slowly. He dared not follow them and now was unsure of his way. Footsteps pattered swiftly down the stairs, accompanied by a tiny light, which showed the wild hair and staring eyes of a frantic Mrs Sweetacre. He backed against the wall once more as she ran about in a circle, then, sobbing, ran up the stairs again.
He became aware of a new sound, like the scraping of twigs, bare wintry branches caught in the wind and the low howl of a reed pipe. He determined to follow it and started groping his way about the hall. As he did so he sensed that the noise was behind him and realised that he was not alone. He turned and saw in the darkness the stark white glimmer of a skeletal figure.
He gasped but rallied his courage. ‘You — who are you? What is your name?’ he demanded.
The figure was silent. Did a skeleton even have the ability to speak? he wondered. It waved its thin pale arms at him, the skull moving from side to side. He braced himself and strode towards it, and then unexpectedly it vanished. He stopped, disoriented once again. ‘Where are you? Come back!’ But there was no sound.
‘Who is there?’ came a voice and Mr Smith recognised the tremulous tones of Mr Sweetacre. A slight adjustment to his host’s dark lantern cast a soft light in the hallway.
‘It is I, Smith. I heard a noise and came to see what the matter was.’
‘There was a curious sound just now. Was that you?’
‘No, but I heard it too. I thought it came from down here. It stopped and then I saw something, a skeleton.’ Mr Smith decided it might be unwise to tell his host that he had witnessed the aftermath of a murder. Ghosts, skeletons and adulterers he might pursue in the dark but not killers.
‘Where?’
‘It was here in the hallway. Not a dried-up dead thing, but it moved, it walked and then quite suddenly it vanished. I challenged it to speak but either it could or would not. And — I also saw Mrs Sweetacre.’
’Surely not! I have told her to keep to her room!’
‘She seemed most distracted, but I don’t know what the matter was.’
Mr Sweetacre stared about him and uttered a cry. ‘Do you see that! There! On the stairs!’
Mr Smith turned and saw most clearly a female figure clad all in white at the top of the staircase. It was poised and motionless and the head was heavily veiled so that its features could not be seen, and it appeared to be hovering with its feet not touching the floor. There were chains about its wrists and a line of heavy links trailed back into the darkness so that it was impossible to see where they ended.
Mr Sweetacre lifted his lantern and went to the foot of the stairs. ‘I see you, spirit! Speak to me! What is your name?’
The figure only shook its head sorrowfully.
‘Perhaps it can’t speak,’ said Mr Smith.
‘Oh, spirit I would learn of your sorrow!’ called Mr Sweetacre.
The chains clanked as the figure crossed its arms across its breast and hung its head as if to say that its sorrows were deep and inexpressible.
‘Should we approach it?’ suggested Mr Smith.
‘I dare not be too bold or I might chase it away,’ said Mr Sweetacre. ‘I always knew that I would not fear a ghost if I saw one. Why, this one cannot mean us any harm. It is a sad creature and I would give it comfort.’
Mr Smith began to climb the stairs, but he had not progressed far before the ghost suddenly threw out its arms in an attitude clearly banning him from coming closer. The chains slid across the stairs like scaly serpents, making a low slithering rattle and the spectre uttered a noise like a hiss. Mr Smith hesitated. Then the spirit began to laugh, a deep guttural mirthless laugh. Suddenly it threw back the veil and they saw its face, deep empty sockets where there had once been eyes, sunken cheeks, bleached white flesh and teeth that came to sharp points. Mr Smith, less confident than Mr Sweetacre of the harmlessness of the apparition stopped in his tracks and after a moment or two, slowly backed down the stairs.
‘That is a Hellish sight,’ he said.
Mr Sweetacre said nothing but made rapid gasping breaths.
The apparition turned and began to glide away.
‘I will follow it!’ said Mr Sweetacre.
’Surely not!’
‘A disembodied spirit cannot hurt me, and even if it could, I will gladly risk all to save my dear wife from this constant fear!’ Mr Sweetacre was not usually a bold
man but strengthened by resolve he began to mount the stairs.
Zena, having entered the Millers’ apartment by the dexterous application of her hairpin to the lock, held up her lantern to cast a gentle light on her surroundings. She was in a small parlour and all was very tidily arranged as she might have expected. A noise outside alerted her and she pulled the curtains aside and peered out of the window. The room overlooked the stable yard and she could hear the sound of restless horses protesting against the howling of the wind. Moonlight was reflected from the falling snow, which was thickly coating the stable roof and obscuring the cobbles. In the far distance she thought she saw the silhouettes of a line of figures, dark against the snow, moving towards the house, some of them bearing lighted torches; then they were hidden from her view by a dip in the land.
The chief item of interest in the room was a writing desk and on it stood a photographic portrait of a youth who was sufficiently similar in appearance to the Millers to suggest that he was their son. The photograph was draped in black crape. Zena began to examine the contents of the desk with meticulous care. There was a row of neatly arranged and labelled folders of household papers which contained nothing unusual, but she noticed that they projected a little further than she might have expected, which suggested that there was something hidden behind them. She removed the folders and, sliding her hand into the recess they had occupied, discovered what appeared to be the door of a small compartment. Feeling her way with her fingertips she encountered a small spring and on pressing it there was a click and the compartment opened. Zena drew out a small package of letters. Why had they been so carefully concealed? she wondered. There was only one way to find out.
Meanwhile, Petronella had pursued her quarry to the main corridor of principal bedrooms, leaving sufficient space between herself and the others so as to avoid being seen. The house was a veritable hive of movement that night. On seeing a new shadowy figure up ahead and coming towards her she was obliged to try and slip into the water closet only to discover it occupied and quickly entered the bathroom. The footsteps moved past then the door of the water closet opened and whoever had been in there departed. After a brief wait, she was just about to emerge then she heard someone knocking on a door and the voice of Mrs Sweetacre saying that she had lost little Spot and was searching for him. Her mistress conversed with someone and then abruptly ran past her door. Petronella knew that it would be impossible to console her mistress until Spot was found and determined to make that her most important task. The little puppy was of an inquisitive nature and could be almost anywhere, although he did prefer places that were warm and where there was something to eat. She decided to look in the kitchen. On peering out of the bathroom she found that the individuals she had been following had vanished. The shadowy figure of a tall man was standing outside one of the other bedrooms knocking on the door and imploring Miss Claretti to admit him. It was that scoundrel Mr Bickley and she decided to give him a fright. She occluded the light on her lantern and brushed past him as she proceeded down the corridor, which made him squeak in alarm.
At the end of the corridor was a door leading to the servants’ staircase. It was usually closed, but when Petronella pushed it, she found it slightly ajar. She opened the door and crept down the stairs.
Mr Smith, left alone in the dark hallway and hardly knowing which way to go was pondering this dilemma when he heard a soft feminine voice calling him. ‘Oh Mr Smith…’ He looked about him and saw, floating in the darkness of the hall, a face. It was not the demonic face of the white lady but a shapely pale countenance, half hidden in a cloudy mist.
‘Who are you?’ he gasped.
‘I am the ghost of Ditterling Manor,’ it breathed.
‘You are not the white lady?’
There was a laugh like the tinkling of a little bell. ‘No, she is not from the heavenly regions. She is a harbinger of doom and death. Do you not hear her knocking? If you do, she is your doom.’
‘But Mr Sweetacre has followed her. What should I do?’
‘Oh, poor Mr Sweetacre, it is far too late to help him now. You must come away. Follow me.’ The voice was gentle and melodious. Mr Smith was inclined to follow it and he did.
PART THE THIRD
Miss Claretti, Mrs Johnson and Mr Bickley, the two ladies clasping hands for mutual support and to show their shared antagonism towards their unpopular companion, slowly advanced down the corridor to the place where, so Mr Bickley claimed, the skeleton had appeared to him. There was a window overlooking the side terrace and they peered out. Mr Bickley, his height giving him some advantage, uttered a groan. ‘This is a strange place.’
Dark shapes were moving across the snow. A few carried lighted torches. Some of the travellers were human in form but others were not. Some left footprints, but others left none. All trudged in the same direction towards the desolate plain that lay in front of the house. Somewhere a dog howled.
‘It is as if they are coming to a great assembly of spirits,’ whispered Mr Bickley. ‘Are you afraid?’
‘Of things made of shadows and air? No.’ Miss Claretti turned to Mrs Johnson. ‘I mean to pursue the household ghosts. Will you come with me?’
‘I will!’ said Mrs Johnson boldly and Mr Bickley, who appeared a little nervous of being left alone, had no alternative but to accompany them. The door at the end of the corridor was unlocked and they pushed it open. There was a staircase leading down to the kitchen and another going up. As they hesitated they heard a shuffling noise from above.
‘Vermin?’ ventured Mr Bickley, but then they heard what sounded like whispers and the movement of feet.
‘Ghosts,’ said Mrs Johnson.
‘People up to no good,’ said Miss Claretti. She grasped the candlestick firmly in her little fist.
‘We should alert someone,’ said Mr Bickley. ‘Wait there and I will ring for the servants.’ It took hardly a minute for him to do so and return, but his expression was grave. ‘I went to wake Dr Haroon, but his room was empty.’ They listened, but nothing stirred.
‘Walk ahead,’ said Miss Claretti. ‘Go up the stairs and tell me what you see.’
Bickley hesitated, but at last he began to creep up the stairs and the two ladies followed. Quite what they were expecting to see none of them could say. Nothing perhaps, simply an empty room, from which any malefactors had escaped, some birds finding shelter from the cold, or maybe an assembly of ghosts. What they did find was very much worse than they could possibly have imagined.
The letters in the Millers’ desk, the ones Zena had drawn from the secret compartment, made terrible reading. Only six months before, the couple’s only son, disappointed in love and in a fit of melancholy, had taken his own life by throwing himself out of a moving train. There were notes he had left for his friends and relatives, letters of condolence and a newspaper cutting describing the inquest. The other documents were quite different — a collection of filthy scraps of paper, smeared with dark red stains. As Zena managed to make out the words scrawled on those papers she realised that out of grief and desperation, the Millers had taken a terrible step. They had gone up to the black windmill that overlooked the village and consulted the dreadful hag that lived there. In return for a payment of gold, they had received instructions for bringing the dead back to life. It wanted only a full moon and a blood sacrifice to achieve their aims.
Petronella had made her way down the stairs. She knew the servants’ passage well, a narrow place lined with shelves and cupboards. Her lantern was dim but it was enough. She had no wish to awaken the sleeping maids in the kitchen and walked carefully past the bundled forms, looking about her in case Spot was there. There was no sign of the little dog, but she noticed something strange. Lifting her lantern carefully and allowing light to fall on the sleeping forms, she saw that one of the maids was very pale and in a deep snoring slumber, which suggested that it might be hard to rouse her. A sherry bottle out of its usual place told the tale. The other maid, however, had vanished. In
her place was merely a rolled up blanket.
There was now, in addition to the dog, a missing girl to find. Petronella walked determinedly on. After a careful inspection of the washroom and scullery she mounted the steps to the main hallway, which was in complete darkness. A light was descending the stairs and she recognised the figures of Dr Haroon and young Mr Rickard Claretti, creeping very slowly as if they preferred not to be seen.
‘Dr Haroon,’ she said, appearing out of the shadows, and they both jumped and looked undeniably guilty. ‘It is I, Petronella. I would be obliged if you were to go to the kitchen where one of the maids may need your attention. She is either ill, or drunk. The other one is missing and I fear the worst.’
‘I will go at once,’ said Dr Haroon. He glanced at young Rickard.
‘Oh — yes, I will — er — attend to the other matter,’ said Rickard. He was carrying what looked like a bundle of towels that he was attempting to hide behind his back.
‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Petronella.
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I think I might have spilled some brandy in the drawing room when I was there after dinner and I’m going back to attend to it before it ruins Mr Sweetacre’s best carpet.’ He began backing away.
‘And if you should find Mrs Sweetacre,’ said Petronella, ‘she is running about very distractedly as she has lost her little puppy dog. I am hoping to find them both.’
Rickard nodded and dashed away before any further conversation was possible.
At that moment Zena arrived in the hallway and hurried up to Petronella. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so relieved you are safe! I have found out some terrible things about Mr and Mrs Miller. I know their secrets and they are too dreadful for words. Do you know where they have gone?’
‘No, but they are not in the kitchens. Let us look upstairs.’ As Dr Haroon went to attend to the unconscious maid, Zena and Petronella ascended the stairs to the main corridor. Hardly had they reached the landing when they heard a strangled gurgling sound that appeared to be coming from one of the bedrooms. They decided to investigate.
The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4) Page 29