Whispering Corner

by Marc Alexander

  ‘Warren,’ I said. ‘Is there really anything in that stuff you were telling me about ley lines?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you think that places reputed to be haunted are most likely to be at sites where a number of these lines intersect?’

  ‘That’s the theory,’ he said. ‘Maybe people experience a time slip at such places — you know, a moment from the past overlaying the present. Perhaps that’s the explanation for ghosts.’

  ‘And Whispering Corner? You said once you had an idea that lines joined up here.’

  ‘Right. I checked it out on an Ordnance Survey map and it’s an amazing example. There must be half a dozen leys joining up here. There’s a very powerful one that comes up from Lychett Minster … I can show you on the map.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. So this place would be more likely to have psychic phenomena than other places?’

  ‘Right. Remember once we were talking about how ghostly voices were supposed to give this place its name, and I mentioned then that maybe ley lines had something to do with it? Why all the interest? I think you’re the biggest sceptic I’ve ever met, which is funny …’

  ‘… considering the sort of novels I write,’ I concluded for him. ‘The thing is, Warren, I’ve had to readjust my ideas.’

  And so I told him the story of the increasingly odd happenings that had occurred since I had taken up residence in the house, the jumbled voices in the beginning, the instance of someone breathing beside me, the sound of a crying baby that led me into the cellar and the vision of murder in the library. I was still too emotionally off-balance over Ashley to talk about her so I omitted to describe the sheet figure. Again without mentioning her I told Warren about the dramatic séance and finally how Hoddy had been possessed so that he saw me as an eighteenth-century murderer.

  This takes some believing,’ Warren said as I finished. ‘You know I’m into ley lines and the occult, but … not that I don’t think you’re telling the truth,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just so extraordinary. And there seems to be no rhyme or reason behind it.’

  ‘Ah, but there is,’ I said, and I went on to tell him about the ‘Narration’. ‘Mary Lawson experienced the same sort of thing two hundred years ago. I’ll get her account for you to read tonight,’ I said, and went to fetch it from my study.

  ‘Here we are,’ I said on my return. ‘Notes on the Experiences of the Lawson Family in the House of Colonel Elphick in the Wood on the Edge of Lychett Village.’ Warren took it eagerly. ‘This is like being a character in one of your novels,’ he said.

  ‘The thought has crossed my mind,’ I said.

  I poured us a brandy each while Warren glanced at the first page.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t explain everything, but I suppose the supernatural never has been explained and that’s what fascinates people about it,’ I said. ‘The same with religion. It’s the mystery which makes it work. Once a computer comes up with the equation for God the Pope can hang up his triple crown and all the wonder will go out of the world.’

  ‘I’d got the impression that you were anti-religion.’

  ‘I tried very hard to be, although I never lose my respect for what religion has inspired — art, music and learning. It’s just that I wanted it to work the way I wanted it to work, and it can’t be like that.’

  ‘I wonder if the lady who had Whispering Corner before you was troubled by ghosts?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘She spent all her life here — her ghosts were of a different kind, the ghosts of the lost generation. It seems to me that if you’re right about the ley line business it acts as a sort of catalyst that from time to time creates a climate for psychical phenomena which under normal conditions would have faded with time. Thus the whispered voices of the plague refugees have been heard occasionally, and the evil generated by Sir Richard Elphick has not dispersed. There must have been anguish and evil practically everywhere at one time or another — who thinks of Tyburn Tree when they come out of the Underground at Marble Arch? — but in certain spots the malady lingers on, or at least recurs from time to time. The effect is like watching a replay of something that happened long ago, and sometimes — as we’ve seen with Hoddy — it is actively evil.’

  ‘At least you’re getting good material out of this,’ Warren said. ‘But what can you do about it?’

  ‘Bring in an exorcist,’ I answered.

  *

  The next morning I awoke feeling dreadful. My body ached from its bruising in Abu Sabbah and my mind was disturbed and gloomy following nightmares inspired by the incident with Hoddy. A near scalding shower helped a little, as did the breakfast provided by Warren. While I ate I sifted through the letters which had accumulated while I had been away. Among letters from magazines and mail order houses suggesting that I had practically won a Ferrari or a Caribbean cruise for two I recognized an envelope from Paul Lincoln and another bearing the Hermes symbol of my literary agency. But the letter I had hoped for, a note from Ashley perhaps giving me her address, was not there.

  I opened the agency envelope and found a card depicting Humphrey Bogart on which Sylvia Stone had scrawled ‘Ring as soon as you get back!!!!’

  The letter from Paul Lincoln added not a little to my feeling of despondency.

  ‘Sorry to send you bad tidings, but the bank absolutely refuses to consider my suggestion of regular repayments over a specified period. I don’t know why they are being so harsh over this, but they are certainly out for your blood. Perhaps your partner made them so many false promises that they are taking it out on you. The fact remains that unless they are paid off immediately and in full they will take you to court as soon as they possibly can. I am afraid there is no doubt that they will get judgement against you. The time has come to brief your solicitor, as you must be represented. Meanwhile, is there any hope that the novel will be finished soon …’

  I did not read any further. I had more urgent matters to attend to this morning.

  ‘I’m going to the village to phone Dr McAndrew,’ I told Warren. ‘Perhaps you can have another look for Mrs Foch.’ Despite our efforts to find the cat the night before she had remained hidden away.

  It was a relief to get out of the house and feel turf beneath my feel. The storm had worn itself out during the night, and the sky I saw through the dripping canopy of leaves was a brilliant blue. The smell of moist earth came pleasantly to my nostrils. Small rivulets still trickled down the path and frequently a small shower of left-over raindrops caught me as the breeze shook a bough above my head.

  As I left the trees, I was aware of subtle changes in the landscape. Here and there hayfields had been mown. A field of wheat had changed from green to gold, while the trees on Stony Down seemed darker with the progress of summer. The scene was a delight after the aridity of Abu Sabbah.

  In the phone box I dialled the Nomansland number for the modest little clergyman I had met at Radio City on the Charity Brown Show.

  ‘McAndrew speaking.’ His voice still retained a touch of an Orcadian accent from his distant boyhood.

  ‘I’m Jonathan Northrop. You may not remember me, but …’

  ‘My dear boy, of course I remember you. Can I be of any help? Do you need some technical advice for one of your books? Exorcism has been rather overdone in fiction lately, I fear.’

  ‘I certainly need help, but I’m afraid it’s over something more serious than a novel.’ I explained about Whispering Corner as succinctly as I could, pausing every so often to feed more ten pence pieces into the slot.

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said simply when I had finished.

  There was something so matter-of-fact about those two words that I felt that lifting of spirits we get when we pass a responsibility on to someone else.

  ‘I don’t live at too great a distance from you — just across the Hampshire border,’ he continued. ‘If you care to drive over and pick me up we could do what has to be done today.’

  ‘Are you sure? Su
ch short notice …’ In a world in which little can happen before diaries and timetables and pocket computers are consulted I was surprised by such an immediate response.

  ‘Since I have retired from parochial duties I have more time for my real work,’ he assured me. ‘And from what you tell me no time should be lost.’ He then gave me directions for driving to his village and finding his cottage when I got there.

  Next I dialled the Hermes Agency and was switched to Sylvia Stone.

  ‘So you’re back in one piece,’ she greeted me. ‘What have you been doing in Abu Simbel, or whatever the place is called? I saw a headline “Queen Jo Owes Life to Brit Horror King”.’

  ‘We got blown through a doorway together by a fundamentalist bomb,’ I said.

  ‘You should get a medal.’

  ‘Between ourselves, I did. The Order of the Silver Leopard of Abu Sabbah First Class.’

  ‘Do I have to call you Sir?’

  ‘No, the correct form of address would be Highly Exalted — Most Exalted is reserved for those with royal blood.’

  Sylvia laughed heartily and I let her go on thinking I had invented it.

  ‘Now tell me, how has the Highly Exalted got on with his exalted novel?’

  ‘I didn’t get much done in the last week,’ I admitted.

  ‘I expect you got blown up or whatever to get yourself an excuse for late delivery, but it won’t wash. I’m having more difficulties with Jocasta Mount-William. Yesterday her secretary rang to see if Whispering Corner is on schedule, so please tell me when I can see the script.’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘That’s all you ever say.’ I heard her sigh over the telephone.

  ‘It’ll be all right on the night,’ I said as my money ran out.

  *

  I arrived at Dr McAndrew’s house just as he was returning from walking his plump Labrador, a picture of a retired country Vicar with silver hair and rosy cheeks. He wore an ancient panama, an open-necked sports shirt and a creased linen jacket.

  ‘I’ll just take Boots indoors, make you some tea and we can be on our way,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my case packed.’

  Inside I examined his collection of fans, his life-long hobby, and turned to his bookcase. Among his theological books I was surprised to see a copy of Shadows and Mirrors.

  ‘I must get you to autograph that before you leave,’ he said as he carried in two cups. ‘Bought it after I met you at Radio City. I found it very interesting.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Your characters,’ he replied in his soft voice while his sea-blue eyes watched me shrewdly. ‘They appeared so real.’

  I gave the automatic smile I use when someone compliments me on one of my novels, usually following their praise up with the remark that, books being so expensive these days, ‘I always get yours from the library.’

  ‘It was as though they had lives of their own — as though once you had breathed life into them they became independent and took over the storyline.’

  ‘That’s very perceptive,’ I said. ‘It was certainly true of Shadows. The characters did seem to follow their own destinies, and it gave me a strange feeling when they worked out an ending for themselves which was different from what I had originally envisaged.’

  ‘I wonder what happens to characters once a book is finished?’ he mused. ‘Somewhere Cinderella may have found marriage to Prince Charming boring; somewhere James Bond may have retired and be writing his memoirs. Eternity must be filled with authors’ creations who were not allowed to die decently in their books.’

  I smiled at his notion but he appeared to be quite serious.

  ‘Perhaps we are all characters in a novel written by an omnipotent author,’ I said lightly.

  ‘And the Word was made flesh,’ he quoted. ‘St John, chapter one, verse fourteen. Then he laughed. ‘Sometimes I get quite odd fancies for a clergyman,’ he said.

  In the car he began to question me closely on the happenings at Whispering Corner.

  ‘Contrary to popular belief an exorcist like myself does not go around laying ghosts,’ he said when I came to the end of the recital. ‘That in itself would be a fulltime job … Oh, yes,’ he added when he saw my quizzical look, ‘ghosts are all about us, though they’re not necessarily spirits of the dead — more psychic reflections from the past.’ He went on to say that he would exorcise a spectre if it was a suffering earth-bound spirit or if its manifestation had become a focus for the powers of evil.

  ‘Another fallacy about my work is that it consists of the ceremonial casting out of demons who have taken possession of human beings,’ he continued. ‘In fact only a third of the exorcisms I carry out relate to people, and even then it’s only after I’ve got a medical opinion. Some forms of possession have the same symptoms as certain mental disorders and I always want to be sure that I’m only involved in cases that medicine doesn’t provide the answer for. I might add that nearly all my eases are referred to me by doctors.’

  ‘So what’s the other two-thirds of your work?’

  ‘Black spots. That’s my term for them — sites where the power of evil has built up enough to influence those who live in the area. Such zones can be very large, like the Bermuda Triangle, or merely a few hundred square feet like roads with “black spot” reputations. There are stretches of perfectly ordinary highway with no physically hazardous aspects which nevertheless are notorious for unaccountable accidents resulting in injury and death — places where survivors of crashes tell the police that the car seemed to suddenly swerve off the road into the path of an oncoming vehicle.’

  ‘And does exorcism work in these spots?’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘If it didn’t I wouldn’t keep being asked to perform the ministry of exorcism in such places.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘When you perform an exorcism, do you believe that you cast out an actual demon?’

  ‘I do not believe in thousands and thousands of little imps each eager to possess someone,’ he said. ‘What I do believe in is the spirit of evil. Just as I believe there is a spirit of good, there is a source of evil. And I do think a tremendous harm was done when the Church ceased to preach about the Devil, because therein lies his strength — when nobody believes in the Devil he has won.’

  ‘So what you exorcise are not ghosts or demons but what might be called the essence of evil. But why should it manifest itself — what is its motive?’

  ‘I think it’s simply power. Evil — or its personification, the Devil — has a terrible lust for power over others.’

  ‘So you think that my house — Whispering Corner — may have become one of these places where some sort of evil power has become concentrated?’

  ‘From what you’ve told me it has all the hallmarks.’

  ‘But ghosts are involved there. I saw them.’

  ‘They’re probably just manifestations of the evil, and they suggest to me how it’s increasing its power. Evil draws evil unto itself like droplets of oil coming together to make an oil slick. This could be a classic example: first the voices, then frightening phantoms, and now a simple-minded lad temporarily possessed. I would say that the next step would be for someone living in the house to become much more dangerously possessed. But I’ll be able to tell you more when we get there. Now you tell me — what are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘A novel called Whispering Corner.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I wonder if that’s wise.’

  When I asked him what he meant he merely smiled and said. ‘Perhaps there would be a little too much mingling of fact and fiction for my taste.’ And he changed the subject.

  When we arrived at the house Warren made tea for our guest, who appeared to be a tannin addict. Dr McAndrew looked about him with interest but, other than to remark that the house was architecturally unusual, he said very little.

  Warren kept looking at him unobtrusively. With his interest in the mystical and arcane he was both fascinated and disappointed; here was a r
eal live exorcist, a priest with an international reputation for dealing with the forces of evil, but he hardly looked the part. As he raised his cup he looked more likely to be about to address the Mothers’ Union than wrestle with Satan. In fact, I began to have slight doubts myself. Saying a prayer over a stretch of dangerous road was one thing, but cleansing my home of the power that was endeavouring to possess it might be a very different matter.

  But even if my hope of expert help was to be disappointed, the exercise would not be a complete loss as far as I was concerned. Already I was picturing an exorcism scene in my novel based on first-hand experience. I even decided to get my pocket tape recorder so that I would be able to get the invocation of exorcism word perfect. Dr McAndrew could be transformed into an excellent character.

  For a while we sat without speaking, Warren and I feeling more and more awkward while Dr McAndrew had a second cup of tea.

  ‘Is there an official ritual laid down for exorcism?’ Warren asked to break the silence which had fallen upon us.

  ‘I have evolved prayers that seem to suit me best, based on the ancient Mozarabic rite.’ Turning to me, he added, ‘It’s very strange, Mr Northrop, but while I sense something malefic here, I don’t get any suggestion of supernatural characters. I do sense what you might term a psychical presence — a sort of reflection from the past — but there’s nothing at all malevolent about her. Indeed I get an impression of basic goodness coupled with sadness … perhaps the victim of some tragedy.’ He paused for a minute, his eyes unfocused, giving the impression of listening for something it would be impossible for us to hear.

  ‘Strange,’ he said finally. ‘Very strange. There’s something here that I haven’t encountered before and I must confess it puzzles me. I have absolutely no perception of Sir Richard Elphick and those unfortunate ladies associated with him. Please don’t think I am doubting your word, dear boy. Each case I deal with is different — that’s what makes my work so interesting — and in this one I have a blind spot. Perhaps I shall find out why in a few minutes.’