Mr Smith followed the dark shape with its pale but beautiful head. Its voice had mesmerised him. It exuded a power of attraction, like a magnetic force, drawing him on. His head seemed to spin and he had no idea where he might be. There was the sound of a door opening and the face turned to him. ‘Come,’ it said and a white hand extended from the darkness and beckoned him. He was powerless to do anything other than obey.
He followed the shape into a room but saw no detail of his surroundings. He began to stumble around in the dark but the figure told him to hush. There was a strange rustling noise, the sound a nest of insects might have made, all running about with their horrid scaly legs, but that was impossible, he knew. At that time of year, there could be no insects. ‘Close your eyes and you will understand why you are here,’ said the voice.
He closed his eyes. All was now silent apart from the sound of his own ragged breathing. Somewhere in the room, he knew there was another creature, but what it was and why it had brought him here he dared not think. After what seemed like an age, he decided to risk opening his eyes. There was a faint glow in the room from a single candle, casting a pale flush over the walls, and he now knew that he was in the bathroom. The large shape of the old iron bath, its legs cast in the form of lions, dominated the room. Of the mysterious figure, however, there was no sign. Then there came a new sound, almost like a laugh, a low chuckle of anticipation. It came from within the bath and it was followed by a dry rustling like paper or silk or twigs and then a clicking scraping skittering as if something, a trapped bird perhaps, something with sharp talons was inside the bath and trying to gain a purchase on its curved inner surface in an effort to climb out.
He crept closer to look but was still about two strides away when he saw a large black claw rise up and clutch at the side of the bath. Then there rose up a head, a pearl grey head with fierce red eyes, followed by an ugly black body borne along by multiple legs. Mr Smith did not stop to think whether it was even possible for a spider to be that size, all he knew was that there was one in the room with him. His throat constricted in terror and he jumped back and then began groping madly about the room trying to find the door. It eluded him in the semi darkness. When he did find what felt like a handle he pulled and shook and twisted it for all he was worth, but somehow could not get it to open. He turned and faced the creature, which was now halfway out of the bath and staring at him with slowly blinking eyes and a smile on its face then he sank to the floor, crying and gibbering in terror.
Then the spider spoke to him.
Zena and Petronella found themselves in the room occupied by Viscount Hogg. The nobleman lay on his bed, clad only in his nightclothes and the lantern light revealed a ghastly sight. His throat had been cut from ear to ear and from the great gash there trickled a flow of dark blood, cascading down his chest. He was still just alive, as from his open mouth there came a horrid bubbling sound, the sound of a man drowning in his own gore.
‘There is nothing we can do for him,’ said Zena.
As they stood considering whom they might fetch to assist them there was a new disturbance from outside and they peered out of the window. In front of the house a bonfire had been lit and around it a coven of unearthly shapes had assembled. A figure, that of an ancient female clad in the most hideous rags was brandishing a staff topped by a skull and declaiming words in a language neither girl could understand.
‘Who can help us?’ exclaimed Zena.
‘There is one person here with the understanding, the courage and the resolve,’ said Petronella. ‘One person whose advice we can truly trust. Miss Claretti will know what to do. Let us look for her.’
They emerged into the corridor when they heard, coming from the bathroom, sounds that could only have been made by a human being in dire extremity. They decided to go in.
‘Are you afraid, Mr Smith?’ purred the spider in the bathroom. ‘You are a despicable creature. You present yourself to the world as a respectable person, you say you are a lover of nature, but you are neither. You claim to be a writer, an honest and noble profession whose members toil long hours for inadequate reward, yet you are not. You are a liar, and a spy. You serve men who make themselves rich by cheating others. You are the tool of those who harbour hatred and jealousy and greed. You are a destroyer of happiness, a breaker of reputations. Admit it, Mr Smith, admit it!’
‘Yes, yes, I admit it!’ he blubbered. ‘I am a private detective working for Mr Blank the property dealer. He sent me here to learn all I can about the estate and its owners to enable him to buy it up cheaply.’
‘Is that all? What has he authorised you to do?’
‘Anything! Blackmail, bribery, sabotage. I do all of those things for the right price.’
The spider made a clicking noise expressing disapproval. ‘And what should be the fate of vermin like you?’
‘I — I’ll go away! I promise! Spare me and I’ll never work for Mr Blank again!’
The spider uttered a cackling laugh. ‘Oh, I can promise that you will not work for him again. Him, or anyone else.’ It heaved its huge shape from the bath. Mr Smith sobbed. The horrible thing must have been three feet wide, black and shining. He had no doubt that it intended to eat him. He gazed around him for a weapon, but there was nothing. He curled into a ball of terror and whined.
The bathroom door opened.
Mr Sweetacre, creeping along the corridor with his dark lantern, heard a noise he had been dreading, yet it filled him with a strange excitement. Here at last, he thought, lay the secret of why Ditterling Manor was so cursed. Inside the haunted nursery he heard the creaking of the rocking horse, the toy that had been so beloved of the infernal child. He pushed at the door expecting it not to open, but to his surprise, it did, and he gathered all his courage and entered. There at the far end of the room he saw the rocking horse move, as if under its own volition. He crept forward.
‘If you are the ghost of the child that once lived here then appear before me,’ he cried.
There was a burst of evil laughter. The curtains flapped in the wind of a storm that seemed to have sprung up from nowhere and as they billowed filling the room with whirling flakes of snow, so a figure appeared, very small at first then steadily growing and forming itself into the unmistakable proportions of the white lady of Ditterling Manor. Beside her the rocking horse moved and there appeared upon its back a form the size and shape of a child, but scarcely human, clad all in blood red, its face covered in dark fur with sharp teeth and yellow eyes.
The white lady pointed to Mr Sweetacre who stood his ground. ‘You are cursed!’ She screamed. ‘You and everyone in this house are cursed!’
‘What must I do to break the curse?’ asked Mr Sweetacre.
‘You must die!’ She clenched her fist.
Mr Sweetacre felt a pressure on his chest as if the ghostly hand had taken hold of his heart and was squeezing it. He gasped and sank to his knees. All went dark before his eyes.
Mrs Sweetacre ran into the room, hardly knowing where she was. Before her, her beloved husband lay dying and the ghosts eyed him in malevolent fashion. She screamed and hurled her lantern at the spectres. The candle fell and ignited the old desiccated and threadbare curtains, which were almost instantly aflame.
When Miss Claretti and her companions reached the top of the stairs they saw that the walls of the attic room were smeared with indescribable filth and painted with magic symbols. An altar had been constructed from boards laid across wooden trestles on which human bones were displayed. Dishes of herbs were burning, filling the room with a ghastly stench. Mr and Mrs Miller in gross costume, stood at the altar and there, tied to the boards, its tiny muzzle bound with rope, was little Spot the puppy. The expression of terror in the little dog’s eyes was painful to behold. One of the maidservants, clad only in her nightshift was dancing about the room in a frenzy. Mrs Miller wielded the meat axe, raising the horrid weapon over the form of the whimpering dog and was about to bring it down and sever its tiny body in ha
lf when Miss Claretti prevented her by hurling the candlestick across the room. It struck Mrs Miller smartly on the hand and the axe clattered to the floor.
Before anyone could move, Miss Claretti darted forward and took up the axe, brandishing it angrily at Mr and Mrs Miller. On seeing this, any courage they might have had drained away and they cowered back in fright. Mrs Johnson took the opportunity to release little Spot from the ropes and gathered him into her arms where he mewled most piteously.
The maidservant, who seemed to be half demented, perhaps from the noxious vapours she had inhaled, shrieked loudly and then, baring her teeth like a wild animal, advanced on Mr Bickley. Terrified by this demonic creature, he backed away and as he did so the old floorboards crumbled to dust beneath his feet and he plunged through them with a scream.
Zena and Petronella had managed to drag Mr Smith out of the bathroom, but he had lost his mind. Unable to stand up, he was lying pressed against the wall, gibbering with fright. The spider ran out into the corridor and was about to attack the two ladies when Mr Bickley fell through the ceiling and crashed heavily onto the hideous creature. This did no more than anger it and it shook itself, turned on him and tore him limb from limb.
At that very moment, a loud noise began to reverberate throughout the house, a steady repeated and determined thumping at the front door. Who could the mysterious visitor be?
Mina, satisfied with her creation, selected a newly sharpened pen and began the next section.
PART THE FOURTH
The hammering at the door of Ditterling Manor was like a death-knell, a harbinger of doom announcing the imminent demise of everyone in the cursed house. As the flames took hold, the old wood and dusty curtains spat their sparks and ignited everything about them. Miss Claretti looked about her and saw no avenue of escape. Within, there was consuming fire. Outside, there were howling demons bent on her destruction.
Knock! Knock!
Who or what could be at the front door demanding admission? Was it too much to hope it was a saviour or was it as she feared, an infernal creature risen from the abyss and bent on their destruction?
There was only one way of being sure. Miss Claretti called to her friends and roused them to a resolve of going to the door and, if necessary, defending themselves against what lay without and making an escape. All agreed and seized whatever weapons were at hand then they rushed down the stairs. Whatever was outside was undoubtedly large and powerful. At each booming strike the door, large and solid as it was, seemed to cave inwards and threatened to come off its hinges.
It was only a matter of time. As they waited and prayed, Mr Gillery, awoken by the noise, joined them carrying an ancient blunderbuss. The gentlemen sought to send the ladies away, but Miss Claretti told them that there was nowhere in the house that could be deemed safe. Neither she nor Mrs Johnson consented to leave.
With a loud crash the door finally gave way, but before anyone could move, Mrs Bunn arrived, brandishing an iron roasting spit and with a roar of defiance charged at what lay outside.
Mina, disturbed in her composition by actual knocking, looked up from her desk as Rose entered. ‘Excuse me, Miss, but Mrs Jordan and Miss Zillah are here to dress you for the costume ball.’
Mina laid her pen aside with a touch of regret, as she had thought of a clever device to enable Miss Claretti and her friends to escape unscathed from the fire-blackened ruins of Ditterling Manor and was looking forward to writing it.
The Pavilion was crowded with a glittering company of some thousand persons and Mina was astonished at the beauty, richness and good taste of the costumes. There were ladies and gentlemen who might have descended from oil paintings, sprung from the pages of storybooks or even magically arrived from past times. Here were Marie Antoinette, Little Bo Peep, Lady Teazle, and Good Queen Bess; Sir Walter Raleigh, Dick Turpin, Mephistopheles, and Rob Roy and a great host of others, all mingling with elegance, charm and good humour.
Mina’s dress, the finest she had ever worn, was a cerise skirt overlaid with black lace, a black silk bodice trimmed with cerise ruffles and a mantilla draped over a high comb in her hair. Nellie was in blue and white silk with a pink rose corsage and a towering coiffure of powdered hair. Mr Jordan was there, too, and in common with some of the less adventurous gentlemen, was in evening clothes, which made him resemble a waiter rather than a guest. Richard was clad as a matador, dashingly handsome in red satin trimmed with gold, although Mina secretly thought that he was better suited to the costume of a court jester.
The music room, the banqueting room and the saloon had all been designated for dancing, each having its own band, and while no special decorations had been supplied apart from some exquisite floral arrangements, no more seemed to be necessary since nothing could outshine the beauty of the costumes.
Mina did not feel that dancing would be her great forte but was happy to watch as couples whirled their way around the rooms in waltzes or enjoyed a quadrille or a polka. For those less inclined to dance there were comfortable divans in the south drawing room, where quiet tête-à-têtes could be enjoyed and no doubt something in the nature of flirting and scheming and a great deal of nonsense was taking place.
Along the length of the banqueting room tables had been laid out with a bewildering variety of refreshments and as soon as one platter was emptied a member of the attentive staff would replace it with a laden one.
A waiter was moving about the company with a silver tray offering small printed cards to those in attendance and Mina took one. It advised her that a new establishment was to open in Brighton in the spring, one that enjoyed the patronage of the aristocracy. Each card was a special introductory voucher for the business of photographic artist, Mr A Beckler…
***
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A NOTE TO THE READER
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading the fourth of Miss Mina Scarletti’s adventures, my pocket-sized yet bold young heroine. It was fun for me to write about Sussex locations with which I am familiar and explore their past. With each Mina story I discover more about Sussex and Brighton and the strange history of spiritualism. For this book I was especially inspired by the Stockwell poltergeist hoax of 1772, but most of the strange goings on in Hollow House came from the fevered imagination of the author! For more details I have provided some Historical Notes at the end of this book.
Reviews are so important to authors, and if you enjoyed the novel I would be grateful if you could spare a few minutes to post a review on Amazon and Goodreads. I love hearing from readers, and you can connect with me online, on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
You can also stay up to date with all my news via my website and by signing up to my newsletter.
Linda Stratmann
lindastratmann.com
HISTORICAL NOTES
The Weather
It is a standing joke in my family that whenever I visit Sussex we get torrential rain. The records for January 1872, when Mina visited, do suggest that it was very wet with occasional flash floods.
Sussex Villages
Ditchling Hollow is a fictional Sussex village. However, the other named villages nearby, Clayton, Hassocks (the railway station of Hassocks Gate is nowadays just called Hassocks), Burgess Hill and Hurstpierpoint and the town of Horsham, are all very real.
Clayton Railway Tunnel
The Clayton railway tunnel on the Brighton line was opened in 1841. Its ornamental north portal, which resembles a castle in miniature, is a Grade II listed building. On the morning of 25 August 1861 three trains left Brighton station within a few
minutes of each other. The first train passed through the tunnel but due to signalling errors the second train stopped in the tunnel and the third one ploughed into it. Twenty-three people were killed and 176 injured. It was, at that date, the worst ever British railway disaster.
On Saturday 27 October 1871, 24-year-old Charles Tune, who had been ill for some months, took the train from Brighton to London Bridge Station. Halfway through Clayton Tunnel, he threw himself from his carriage. He was seriously injured and died a few hours after reaching hospital. (The Times, 2 November 1871, p. 10)
The Clayton Hill Windmills
Their history can be found here https://www.jillwindmill.org.uk/jjhistory.htm. They can still be seen today and are known affectionately as Jack and Jill.
Mr Hope’s Search for Dr Livingstone
Dr Livingstone was located by Henry Morton Stanley in November 1871, however news of the discovery did not reach England until May 1872, so in January 1872, Mr Hope still believed Dr Livingstone to be missing.
Odic Force and Baron Carl von Reichenbach.
I did not make this up. I wouldn’t have dared. Baron Carl von Reichenbach (1788-1869) was a respected man of science who suggested that there was a force of energy within and connecting all living things. He studied, amongst other things, hysteria, somnambulism and mesmerism, and believed that there were some individuals whose nervous systems were unusually sensitive. These ‘sensitives’ were especially responsive to the Odic Force. He first published his studies in the 1850s, and they were later available in English translation.
The Ghost of Hollow House (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 4) Page 30