Whispering Corner

by Marc Alexander

  The middle door revealed the drawing-room whose French windows opened on to the garden.

  There was no body hanging in the stale air.

  Falco ran back into the hall and flung open the remaining doors, but all that did was prove that he had already found the right room.

  He returned to it and sank into a shrouded easy chair. He told himself that he must have been deceived by his own reflection, a bizarre trick of the light on the grimy glass. It could not be anything else, and yet … the face he had seen was older than his, the hair was dark whereas his was fair — and his tongue had not been protruding from purple lips.

  That gets over it, I thought. It could be a ghost that Falco sees or a psychic glimpse of a future event, either of which can be worked into the story as it develops.

  I read what I had typed, and although I saw that I could probably utilize Falco’s unexpected experience I had a niggling feeling about the way it had appeared. In the past my characters had taken on lives of their own and my plots had taken turns which I had not intended, but this had only happened when I was well into the work, when my ‘people’ had had enough time to come alive. For it to happen on the second page was so curious that I could not let it pass.

  In trying to analyse it, I took into account the fact that I was using my own situation as my background. Could it be that when I was in the garden some light effect had implanted an image in my imagination without my being aware of it?

  Even then I knew that if that was the answer I would be relieved.

  To test out the theory I went downstairs, put on my new wellingtons and walked to the spot in the garden where Falco would have made his entrance. I turned so that I’d see Whispering Corner just as he would have done.

  Then the absurdity of it struck me. In my eagerness to get the novel started I had placed Falco into my situation, and now I was putting myself into his. I had a sudden flashback to my childhood, when I had held pocket mirrors of the same size opposite each other to create endless corridors out of their mutual reflections.

  Nevertheless, I approached the house with my eyes on the French windows through which Falco would have seen the suspended horror. All I could see was the reflection of a flock of cirrus clouds fleeing before the southerly breeze. I moved my position, hoping that by altering the angle of sight I might still find a clue to the origin of the unbidden scene, but all I got was a mirrored view of dark trees instead of light sky. I climbed up the steps between the twin urns whose moss half obscured the bas-relief of nymphs and pursuing satyrs, and still there was nothing to suggest the impression of a hanged man behind the glass. I was about to turn away in disappointment when I gave an exclamation of surprise — and fright. In one of the panes a shadowy figure had loomed. I spun round and the ominous reflection resolved itself into the unalarming figure of a middle-aged postman.

  ‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully as he handed me a letter redirected from London. I could see it was from my bank, the usual statement I supposed, and I thrust it into my pocket.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I came here,’ he said. ‘You going to do something about that drive? It’s full of bloody brambles.’

  ‘It’s going to be cleared,’ I promised. ‘Did you used to come here often?’

  ‘Naw. The old dear used to get the usual bills and a few overseas cards at Christmas time, that’s all. Must’ve been lonely, just her and her cat. First time I came she were throwing bread on the lawn for the birds. I thought that was nice, until I realized she were using it as bait for the cat’s benefit. Funny, I think I saw it just now as I came through the trees. I suppose it could be another, but there aren’t many pure white cats about.’

  ‘I’ll look out for it,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Hope you settle in all right,’ he said as he turned to go. ‘Be a sight too lonely for me. Just wait until winter comes.’

  A couple of minutes later I heard the distant sound of his van start up and then fade. Solitude returned and at that point I should have returned to my desk, but the Imp had followed me and whispered that a young man like Falco, with his inquisitive artist’s eye, would explore his new surroundings. Apart from the overgrown driveway leading down from the lane I had not yet gone beyond the precincts of the house and I decided to collect local colour for half an hour.

  I went to what I thought of as the front garden and through the wicket gate on to the path which led through the trees. Later I learned it was called Church Walk, being an ancient track which ran through the wood to the centuries-old church of St Mary the Virgin.

  The branches of the trees met overhead so that I had the impression of walking down a tunnel, an effect which was heightened when high earthen banks rose on each side. At a point where the path curved sharply the roots of a huge tree flowed down the bank like a cascade of intertwined serpents. There was something menacing about the twisted roots, and I made a mental note to have Falco sketch them as a background to one of his fairy tale illustrations. I could imagine a child being scared that they would reach out to grab passers-by and pull them into the earth.

  I descended the path for several more minutes and then it emerged from the trees to continue between the edge of the wood and the barbed wire fence of a farmer’s field in the centre of which a small herd of black cattle socially chewed the cud. On the other side of the shallow valley a cornfield provided a contrast to the expanse of grassland curving towards a dark horizon of forest.

  I was filled with delight. This panorama of unspoilt countryside, the scents of growing things, the trilling of a bird deep in the woods on my right … this was what I had hoped for when I began my dream of a rural life.

  With a light step I continued down the grassy path until I came to a stile set in the lichened wall of St Mary’s churchyard. Among the numerous stone crosses and time-softened memorials to forgotten lives rose the square Norman tower of the church which, with its backdrop of bright windswept sky, looked like an illustration out of the pages of Heritage magazine. I climbed over the stile and picked my way among the ancient tombs to where a burly man in his middle thirties brooded over a pile of smouldering weeds. He was prematurely bald — a condition compensated for by a full beard — and his heavy brows gave him a sombre look. He wore jeans, an old sheepskin coat and a clergyman’s collar.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  He started, and his solemn face became unexpectedly youthful as he smiled. His eyes of darkest brown shone with a gentle light which, if it reflected his nature, suggested that he was completely suited to his calling.

  ‘Sorry. Looking into a fire always makes me introspective, I’m afraid,’ he said. He held out his hand, then, aware of the grime of his labours, started to withdraw it, but I shook it just the same.

  ‘You must be Jonathan Northrop,’ he said. ‘I’m Henry Gotobed.’ I could not help smiling at the Old English surname.

  ‘It’s better than Cometobed — if you’re a vicar,’ he said with a grin which suggested it was an old joke. ‘I understand from Hoddy that the redecorating is finished up at Whispering Corner, and that you’ve just moved in.’

  I nodded. ‘If you see Hoddy, would you be kind enough to tell him that I’ve found a few little things that still need attention? There’s a boxroom door I haven’t been able to open.’

  ‘Certainly. I see him quite often as he does little jobs about the church. One of God’s simples, but very willing. I had planned on visiting you today — to welcome you to our community and …’ he smiled shyly ‘… I must confess to a vested interest.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, thinking that a request for a donation to the organ fund was coming a little sooner than I had expected.

  ‘I’m afraid that, in my spare moments, I’m a bit of a horror buff and … well … for some time now you’ve been my favourite author. I loved Shadows and Mirrors. The last chapter was amazing. Well, I’m endeavouring to write a book myself … oh, not in your field … and I did wonder if you could spare a few minutes to give m
e some advice.’

  ‘What’s your subject?’ I asked, stepping back as a shift in the breeze whirled aromatic smoke about me.

  ‘It’s historical,’ he replied. ‘When I came here I happened by chance to read Alexander’s Phantom Britain. He wrote that this place is supposed to be haunted by Sir John Maltravers who was associated with the murder of Edward II and that might have something to do with the Whispering Corner phenomenon. When I heard that the author of Shadows and Mirrors was actually taking over Whispering Corner I thought I might ask for a few words of advice. Awful cheek, I know, but I’m desperate to get started.

  That’s something we have in common, I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Why not come up to the house and have a chat and a dr … coffee.’

  ‘I’d rather settle for the drink,’ he said with his shy smile. ‘I’m sure it would be such a help to me, but perhaps you’re in the middle of your next novel. I’d hate to play the role of Coleridge’s “person from Porlock” who caused him to lose his inspiration half way through Kubla Khan.’

  I assured him that my work was far less inspirational and added, ‘What was the Whispering Corner phenomenon you mentioned?’

  ‘Oh, that. It’s one of our quaint old bits of Dorset folklore. The story is that when you pass a certain bend in Church Walk you sometimes hear the murmur of soft disembodied voices which are never quite loud enough for the words to be distinguished. You would have passed the spot coming down here. There’s a huge tree overhanging it with a lot of its roots exposed. Obviously the name got transferred to your house through being so close to the spot.’

  ‘Have you any idea how the legend came about?’

  ‘Well, as I said, there’s a very vague tradition that Sir John Maltravers was involved in some way, but I haven’t been able to find out how. I think he was probably tacked on to a much older legend — in this case going back to the time of the Black Death in the fourteenth century. In those days Lychett Matravers was huddled about this church, though it’s hard to imagine now we are surrounded by empty fields and woods. The village was particularly badly hit by the plague, and when most of its inhabitants were dead the survivors decided to leave the valley for the hills above Poole harbour where the sea breezes kept the air pure. According to the legend those villagers who could still walk set off up Church Walk, which would have been the main track to the south then. It is said they rested at the spot now called Whispering Corner, and that many who were badly afflicted died there. The tradition is that the whispering which gives the place its name is an echo from that time.’

  ‘A supernatural reply of the plague victims.’

  ‘Precisely. The strange thing is that after the Black Death the survivors never returned to their village. Instead they built a new one where the present Lychett Matravers stands, and that’s why this church is now so isolated from it.’

  I looked at the serene landscape beyond the stone walls of the graveyard.

  ‘So, apart from the church, nothing remains of the original Lychett Matravers?’

  ‘In the fields to the right of the wood there are mounds said to be the foundations of the old village dwellings. Nothing more.’

  Returning up Church Walk I felt like a veteran prospector who after many disappointing seasons in the wilderness has struck pay dirt. The legend the vicar had just told me was pure gold as far as my novel was concerned. Something would happen after Falco’s arrival at Whispering Corner to trigger off a psychic time-bomb which had been primed since the Black Death.

  Of course, I’d have to rework the legend; it was too straightforward as it was. Perhaps some of the villagers had made a pact with Satan to avoid the infection, or perhaps a local robber baron had taken advantage of their distress to plunder the village and their posthumous desire for vengeance had survived down the centuries, waiting to be activated.

  I laughed aloud as ideas began to pop, one leading to another as they had in my creative days.

  What could set off the phenomena which would scare the hell out of Falco? Suppose … suppose he was a descendant of the baron who had razed the village … ? No, trite!

  I reached the bend where the tree roots clawed at the bank and I felt the least I could do was acknowledge my debt to the legend. I stood still and strained my cars, but all I heard was the susurration of my own blood and not a single whisper.

  I returned to my typewriter more confident than I had been for weeks. Bless the Reverend Gotobed and his interest in old wives’ tales.

  For a while I worked steadily, describing Falco’s exploration of his new home and his moving-in. I hoped I was making it interesting enough to hold my readers but sufficiently low-key that they would be totally unprepared for the first shock.

  What concerned me now was to introduce my heroine as soon as possible. As yet I could not visualize her or her background, or her reason for turning up in the middle of a Dorset wood. This was worrying because women have never been secondary in my novels. A reviewer once said that I always fell in love with my heroines, which may not have been far from the truth.

  I stopped typing and considered the problem. Could the heroine be an ex-girlfriend of Falco who wanted to rebuild their relationship? No. Let her be someone new in his life. Supposing Lorna — that was it, her name was Lorna, a name invented by R. D. Blackmore for his heroine Lorna Doone … supposing she is the author of a children’s book which she wants Falco to illustrate …

  As I glanced thoughtfully out of the window I had the curious sensation that something I had just written was coming to life.

  A young man appeared by a huge hornbeam at the edge of what had once been the lawn, his lower half submerged in weeds. He stood stock still and although he was about fifty yards away I could see that he was an outdoor man.

  In his mid-twenties, he had keen bronzed features and long, sun-bleached hair almost down to his shoulders. If his denims and tartan shirt had been transformed into a robe he would have had the appearance of an Old Testament prophet, an effect heightened by the fact that he was holding a straight branch in the manner of a staff. Then, like the fictitious Falco, he advanced across the garden.

  I hurried downstairs and appeared at the French windows just as he reached the steps leading to them.

  Seeing me standing there startled him, but as I opened the glass doors he said in an unmistakable accent, ‘G’day. You fair made me jump. Must have been a trick of the light.’

  I felt a curious little shiver, a goose walking over my grave.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing really. It was just that the windows all looked blank, as though the house was deserted, then — shazam! — there was a figure there. The magical appearing act!’

  ‘The place won’t look so deserted when I get the curtains up, but as you can see it’s well and truly occupied.’

  My words were a challenge but easily repelled. ‘That’s a relief. I hope you’re Jonathan Northrop.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted warily.

  ‘Great. I’m Warren Turner. I’ve come down from London in the hope of meeting you.’

  ‘Really? You’d better come in,’ I said, my heart sinking at the possible prospect of my second would-be author in one day.

  ‘Thanks.’ He shrugged off a light pack and followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘You could use a cup of tea?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  While I filled the kettle he said, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m some sort of nut, but the fact is I just wanted to meet you. Back home a couple of years ago I saw a film on Channel Nine based on your book The Dancing Stones.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He was referring to a book about the folklore connected with Britain’s megaliths I had written before I was in a position to concentrate on fiction.

  ‘That film really got to me. I bought your book and then read everything I could about stone circles and prehistoric religious sites. I came over because I wanted to see them for myself. I suppose you could call it a sort of pilgrimage. Do you un
derstand?’

  I nodded. The book, and the documentary film based on it, had raised quite a lot of interest in Britain’s ancient monuments and this young man was not the first to have sought me out.

  ‘Anyway, I hope you won’t take it amiss that I just wanted to say hello and thanks.’

  I handed him a steaming mug.

  ‘Have you seen many circles yet?’

  ‘Those up north. I found the Castlcrigg Circle fantastic, and Long Meg and Her Daughters. I’m just back from Brittany where I visited Carnac.’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked, annoyed at the possibility that my publishers had given my address to a stranger.

  In reply he opened his wallet and held out a newspaper clipping. It was a piece from a diary column revealing that Jonathan Northrop, one of Britain’s leading writers, had bought a house near Lychett Matravers where he was finishing his latest novel, which his publishers hoped would be another Shadows and Mirrors after the disappointing reaction to his last book.

  ‘What is the betting that the new Gothic masterpiece will be named after the scribe’s new home — Whispering Corner?’ the columnist concluded.

  ‘So it was no problem to track you down,’ said Warren, ‘and here I am. But if you’re busy I’ll be on my way to the Badbury Rings.’

  I felt a pang of envy. How wonderful to be in one’s twenties again with nothing to weigh on one’s mind other than travelling from one prehistoric site to another. Perhaps it was the freedom he enjoyed which gave him his ease of manner. Although I had only known him for a few minutes he no longer seemed to be a stranger.

  ‘Are you hungry? I could do with a bacon sandwich,’ I suggested.

  ‘I can see you’re a big fry-up man,’ he said, nodding to the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink and the frying pan with its patina of bacon fat. For all the new stove and the gadgetry of my modernized kitchen, I had attempted nothing more adventurous than bacon and eggs or toast that usually ended up as a burnt offering.

  ‘I worked in a restaurant before I came over,’ he remarked. ‘Food is my profession.’