‘You’ll still carry out an exorcism?’ I asked.
‘Of course. I told you there is something malefic here. Oh, yes, no doubt about that, and unless it is stopped it will continue to grow.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, and so does the force of evil. I think we should get on with the work now. First I’ll change and then we can begin.’
‘Where do you want to do it?’
‘The cellar, without doubt.’
Dr McAndrew took a battered but once-expensive leather suitcase into the bathroom and I seized the opportunity to slip up to the study for my Pearlcorder. When I came downstairs again I saw that he had put on white vestments and a vibrant purple stole. He took two bowls from his suitcase and asked me to put some salt in one and water in the other. When I had done so he asked, ‘There’s no one else in the house, is there? No children or pets?’
‘Certainly no children. What about Mrs Foch?’ I added, turning to Warren.
‘I had a good hunt for her but I couldn’t find a whisker.’
‘The reason I asked is that the spirit of evil waits for the opportunity to enter someone who is unsuspecting or not even aware of the nature of evil,’ Dr McAndrew explained. ‘When I order it to “leave this place or person” it may find refuge in anyone spiritually weak, or children and sceptics who have no defence against something they don’t think exists. I’ve even known animals to be infected in this way. Now, lead on to the cellar.’
I opened the cellar door and switched on the light, and could not repress a shiver as the scene of my ordeal with Hoddy was illuminated by the yellow light.
Dr McAndrew led the way down the steps. In the middle of the main cellar he opened his suitcase and took out a small folding table. He laid a white cloth over it and placed a silver crucifix in the centre with a candlestick on cither side. Having lit the candles he took the two bowls from me.
‘Now we come to the preliminary exorcism of salt and water in order to obtain holy water for our ceremony,’ he said. Making a sign of the cross over the salt he began his ancient orison: ‘I exorcise thee, O creature of salt, by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God, by that God who by the Prophet Eliseus commanded thee to be cast into the water to cure its barrenness …’
The intonation of his voice took me back down the years to when I was an altar boy shivering at early mass.
A few moments later he turned to the other bowl.
‘I exorcise thee, O creature of water, in the name of God the Father Almighty, and in the name of Jesus Christ His Son our Lord, and in the virtue of the Holy Ghost, that thou mayest by this exorcism have power to chase away all the strength of the enemy; that thou mayest be enabled to cast him out, and put him to flight with all his apostate angels …’
While he continued with his prayer I noticed that he was changing. His voice, usually so soft that it was frequently little more than a whisper, was strengthening by the moment until there was a ringing note of authority in it. And in the dim light his white-shrouded body stood out from the shadows in a way that suggested a hitherto unsuspected strength. Again the word authority sprang to mind.
He now took the salt and poured it on to the surface of the water in the shape of the cross.
‘The symbolism is Christian because I am a Christian,’ he said matter-of-factly as he approached Warren and myself. ‘But I have known and co-operated with Islamic exorcists. It is a very strong vocation with them. Now for your protection.’
I felt his thumb, wet with holy water, make the traditional mark of blessing on my forehead. He did the same with Warren and then returned to his table.
After that I do not know what I had expected … a flash of hellfire and a whiff of brimstone? There were no dramatics, no trembling victim suddenly released from a demon, no green slime vomit or other manifestations devised by an enthusiastic special effects department. And yet there was something very impressive about Dr McAndrew as he intoned a series of prayers. Warren, who was more attuned to the mystical than me, said afterwards that he could feel spiritual power emanating from the little clergyman. Perhaps.
It was certainly like a scene from a horror film: the white figure raising his arms in the dim light, the radiance from the twin candles glimmering on the silver cross, the vague menacing shapes of accumulated junk in the background, Warren and I standing like statues in the shadows, the distant mutter of thunder as another summer storm approached. I thought the latter was particularly appropriate, and made sure that my miniature tape recorder was running. Then I concentrated on memorizing the scene for future reference.
‘O God, come in Thy mercy to cleanse this place, stretch forth Thy healing hand, destroy all polluting influences and cleanse the spirits of Thy children who frequent this sullied building …’ the exorcist recited. ‘Strike terror, O Lord, into the wild beast rooting up Thy vine.’
Now there was a hint of strain in the timbre of his voice, and I noticed that his hands were trembling as he picked up the bowl of holy water. Obviously something was draining him of energy, something more than the conducting of this short service. Outside, in the real world, thunder growled louder. I guessed the climax of the ritual was at hand; Dr McAndrew appeared to brace himself, and then in a powerful voice he uttered the last words of the exorcism, at the same time sprinkling drops of holy water about him.
‘Begone, thou hideous demon, unto thine appointed place and return no more to plague the servants of Almighty God!’
At that moment there was the wild cry of a cat in pain and from the dark entrance to the wine cellar Mrs Foch shot out like a white fluffy cannonball. She leapt straight on to the portable altar, scattering candles and cross, and prepared herself to spring at Dr McAndrew. Her eyes blazed emerald and her red mouth was wide as she continued to screech.
I moved forward to try and prevent her from furrowing his face with her unsheathed claws. Warren was even faster and managed to grab the frantic animal from behind. At the same time Dr McAndrew flung the remainder of the holy water over her. The effect was remarkable. Mrs Foch gave vent to a scream that hurt our cars, then crumpled up as though dead in Warren’s hands.
‘Help me, please,’ I heard Dr McAndrew mutter. I took him by the arm as he swayed alarmingly on his feet.
‘I’ll get you upstairs where you can lie down,’ I said, and led him to the steps. When we reached the well-lit hall I was alarmed at the grey pallor of his face, and I half carried him to the sofa in the living room.
‘Tea. Plenty of sugar,’ he croaked.
I hurried to the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. Warren came in holding the limp Mrs Foch in his arms. In the daylight she was a pathetic sight. Her long white fur was filthy from hiding away in some hole in the wine cellar, blood from her dismembered tail stained her rear legs and her head hung at an unnatural angle. Her eyes appeared to have taken on the glaze that every pet-owner fears.
‘She’s had it,’ Warren said, still stroking the dirty fur. ‘Poor bloody animal. It got her just as he warned us.’
‘Something certainly sent her berserk,’ I agreed, the sight of the lifeless animal bringing a lump to my throat.
Remembering the other casualty, I threw a teabag into a mug and heard Warren utter an exclamation. Mrs Foch was defecating over his tartan shirt.
‘She’s still alive,’ he cried delightedly.
‘Perhaps it’s just a reflex action.’
‘If you’ll trust me with your car I’ll rush her to the vet in Poole. He might pull her round with a jab or something.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I might need it to rush Dr McAndrew to the doctor.’
I spooned an indecent amount of sugar into the mug and hurried back to the living room.
‘Don’t be anxious,’ Dr McAndrew said. ‘An exorcism always takes it out of me — more so as the years go by. In a few minutes I’ll be back to normal.’
‘You sure?’
He nodded an
d took the mug gratefully.
I hurried back to the kitchen where Warren had laid the cat in a washing basket and tossed him the car keys.
‘Say she had an accident in the woods or something,’ I said. ‘Don’t mention exorcism to anybody.’
‘’Course not. I don’t want people to think I’m round the twist.’
He hurried out into the garden. Fat raindrops were falling, and the lightning born of hot summer air flashed over Morden Heath and made our old windows vibrate with its thunderclaps.
‘Appropriate sound effects,’ commented Dr McAndrew with touch of his old wryness when I returned to him.
That evening Warren, having returned from Poole with a drugged Mrs Foch who had been given a fifty per cent chance of survival, drove Dr McAndrew home in the Peugeot. Fatigue and pain had caught up with me again and as soon as I was alone I poured a glass of Courvoisier and Perrier. The house was very quiet. The summer storm had passed quickly. I put a Dian Derbyshire record on the turntable and her playing of Auber’s Etudes continued the work of the brandy in relaxing me.
Mulling over the events of the afternoon I did not know what to think. At best the house had been cleared of an evil influence which had unaccountably returned from the past; at worst I had obtained some colourful copy which could be incorporated in Whispering Corner. But I had to admit to myself that there had been something unsatisfactory about the exorcism. I certainly had no doubt about the sincerity of Dr McAndrew. I knew that during his long career he had never taken a penny for his services. He worked at his singular calling because he humbly believed he had received his ability as a gift from God.
But he, too, had been puzzled. During the simple meal that Warren had prepared for us he had repeated that it was strange that apart from a sense of evil he received not a single impression of the manifestations I had described to him.
‘But it couldn’t have just been in my mind. Someone else experienced them with me.’
This interested him and he asked where this person was. I had no wish to mention Ashley, so I side-stepped the issue by referring vaguely to the séance. It certainly diverted his attention; the mild clergyman grew grim and muttered about fools meddling with dangers of which they had no concept.
Now, alone in the house for the first time since Ashley had moved in a lifetime ago, I tried to review my situation. As far as she was concerned I still held to the belief that something as important to us both could not be sundered so easily; I still secretly hoped for a letter from her expressing regret that she had acted so hastily (‘If only there hadn’t been a plane leaving that day!’) and suggesting a meeting to talk things over.
Meanwhile the fate of my house seemed to depend on when the Regent Bank could get a hearing before the Queen’s Bench. If their solicitors could arrange it soon — as Paul Lincoln feared — the place would have to be sold.
Now, more than ever, I would have to work on the book to the exclusion of all else. I must forget Jonathan and Ashley in favour of Falco and Lorna, I must ignore the real Whispering Corner in favour of the fictitious. Every line I typed would bring me that tiny bit closer to solving the mess that Charles Nixon had led me into.
With this thought in mind I went up to my study, unpacked my typescript and tried to focus my mind on my characters. Perhaps influenced by what had happened in Abu Sabbah, I decided that the time had come for their honeymoon period to end. Perhaps Lorna might even walk out on Falco for a while.
Why the hell should I be the only one to suffer!
20
‘I don’t know why we’re quarrelling like this,’ Falco said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.
‘Well, if you don’t know, I certainly do,’ Lorna retorted.
The sun streamed through the kitchen window, the cloth on the breakfast table was pleasantly floral, the breakfast that Lorna had cooked — still untasted — was good enough to be photographed for a cookery magazine, so Falco had said. So how had their bitter quarrel begun? he wondered. He could not recall what had been said, what thoughtless sentence had caused it to flare up like dry brushwood ignited by a carelessly thrown match.
‘I think it’s perfectly reasonable to stay here,’ he continued. ‘It’s my home. I can’t just abandon it because some weird things have happened here.’
Lorna paused in her pacing and stood looking at Falco, who sat with his elbows on the table.
‘Weird things is putting it mildly!’ she exclaimed. ‘After what happened at the séance it’s dangerous to stay here. Anyone would see that except you. You’re besotted by this bloody place. I’m just saddened that you think more of it than of me, after what you claimed you felt for me. I don’t think you care about me at all. It’s true what people say about you — you’re a natural recluse, and as long as you’re stuck away in the middle of a wood and you’ve got your drawings to do you’re happy and sod everyone else.’
‘But we have to stay and fight this thing.’
‘James, try and grow up. This place is haunted and dangerous and a leading medium has told us we should leave.’
‘If we leave it’ll make a better story for his memoirs, soon to be serialized in the Weekend Herald …’
‘After all he’s done to try and help us, how can you say that about XXXXX?’
I stopped typing. The XXXXX referred to the medium, the self-seeking villain of the piece who was trying to manipulate the situation at Falco’s house in order to build up his reputation as a psychic. As yet I could not visualize him — in fact I hadn’t even decided on a name which I felt would suit him, hence the Xs.
In Abu Sabbah I had given him a lot of thought before the explosion, but so far he remained out of focus. This did not particularly worry me; having come so far with the book I was confident that soon he would make his entrance in my imagination. At the moment my concern was with the temporary estrangement between my hero and heroine.
Falco said nothing.
‘Oh, hell. I know I sound like a fishwife — whatever a fishwife sounds like,’ said Lorna, sitting down opposite him. ‘I hate myself when I go on like that. It’s symptomatic of what’s happening to us. There’s something here — something that has come down from the first owner, who strangled his wife — which is affecting us, killing our feelings for each other.’
‘But my feelings haven’t changed a bit,’ Falco protested.
‘In that case please humour me … Let’s get away for a bit.’
‘OK. You go away until I’ve got this place sorted out and then I’ll join you.’
‘How can you sort it out? There’s only one person who can do that …’
‘XXXXX only wants to turn Whispering Corner into another Borley Rectory — you know, the place that used to be billed as “the most haunted house in Britain”. I’m going to call in an exorcist.’
‘James, you’ve been seeing too many movies. My nerves are like violin strings, and all I want is that we go away together for a while. Surely that’s not too much to ask …’
Falco shook his head stubbornly. ‘I can’t abandon Whispering Corner.’
‘In that case you’ll have to abandon me, because I can’t stay here another night.’
‘So be it.’
I stopped again. From my window I could see the postman approaching across the lawn. And suddenly I found myself running down the stairs.
‘Mornin’, Mr Northrop,’ he greeted me as I met him on the steps leading to the French windows. ‘Funny weather we’re having. More thunderstorms than most folk can remember. If you ask me there’s still a lot of fallout from that Russian nuclear accident floating about and buggering up our weather.’
‘Very likely,’ I said, taking a padded packet and a number of letters. But when I hurriedly sifted through the envelopes, most of which were Amazing Free Offers, I felt sickened by a sense of anti-climax. I had convinced myself there would be a letter from Ashley in the pile. Surely she must have seen something in a newspaper about the bomb blast in Abu Sabbah and felt so
me concern over me.
My disappointment was followed by almost childish anger. At the moment the only thing that mattered was to continue with Whispering Corner, now at least sixty pages behind schedule, probably more if I was honest with myself, and here I was squandering concentration like a love-sick youth over a girl whose early protests of devotion mattered nothing once she had got a mistaken idea into her head.
With a kitchen knife I opened the packet and found it contained a gleaming eyepiece for a telescope and a letter from a Holborn optical supplier I had written to saying he was delighted that he had been able to locate this secondhand part for my Norbury and Poole instrument.
Normally I would have hurried up to Miss Constance’s parlour immediately to fit it into her father’s telescope, but this morning I had no interest in such trivia. I discarded the Amazing Free Offers and the Free Lucky Draws and was left with an envelope addressed in a hand that was vaguely familiar. Then I remembered Notes on the Experiences of the Lawson Family and realized that Henry Gotobed, who was in London for a few days, had written to me.
I read the short letter and let it drop to the table. I was so stunned that I just sat there like a fool, unable to come to terms with what it implied. Obviously Henry had no notion of the significance of what he had written, or the devastating effect it would have upon me.
As I write this account, separated by distance and time from Whispering Corner, I have the letter beside me. Reading it again still gives me a frisson. It says:
‘Dear Jonathan,
‘In between doing my research at the Reading Room at the British Museum I have tried to discover more about the history of Whispering Corner. I approached this by concentrating on the unsavoury Sir Richard Elphick, and as a result I find that we have been labouring under an extraordinary misapprehension.
‘To cut a long story short, Sir Richard never built Whispering Corner or lived in it. He did in fact build a house in a wood outside Lychett Minster!
Whispering Corner Page 26