The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  The maids tumbled outside, whooping and laughing. Mrs Quinn and Mrs Bawden followed amiably behind. But the trio at the rear were an ominous sight.

  Rosewyn grinned foolishly, a rose between two black thorns. Gerren linked one of her arms through his; Creeda took the other. Each guardian looked solemn, determined somehow, as if they were facing down enemy fire. Beside Rosewyn’s innocent joy it was terrible.

  Now Miss Pinecroft and I are alone.

  Church bells ring in the distance. The racing wind distorts them. I am better off here, anonymous in a dark room with an unspeaking companion. There is no disputing that fact. But in my heart, I wish I had gone with the others.

  The smell of my earlier fire lingers. Miss Pinecroft’s nostrils flare; she must know what I have done. I yearn to ask her why we cannot be warm, why we cannot have a little light. I doubt she would answer me. But the longer I stare into her face, the more I am convinced: I am not the only person who has seen and heard things within this house.

  A bell rings.

  I start to my feet, bewildered. Miss Pinecroft glances briefly at me before returning her gaze to the china.

  The bell jangles again. It is coming from the entrance hall.

  Warily, I steal to the door and push it open. Now there is a knock. I flinch, as if knuckles rapped against my body. Then I remember: the curate.

  Half-tripping on my skirts, I hasten to the front door. Once I have lifted the latch, it blows in towards me, sending me staggering again. I must present a comical picture, for the first thing I hear from the young man outside is laughter.

  ‘Careful! How she blows today.’ He holds his wide- brimmed hat firmly over a spill of deep red hair. He is much younger than I expected, little more than a youth.

  ‘Mr Trengrouse, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. How do you do?’ He bends in a bow, the flaps of his greatcoat whipping up behind him. ‘You must be Miss Why. I was told to knock this week, so that I did not frighten you with my entrance.’

  ‘I do not know why Mrs Quinn should suppose me easily frightened.’ I stand aside and let him in.

  He looks relieved to find shelter. In his right hand he clutches a Bible, dog-eared and much scuffed from overuse, but in a better condition than Rosewyn’s.

  I close the door behind him and shut out the boom of the wind. ‘Allow me to take your hat and gloves,’ I offer. ‘You may wish to keep the coat. Perhaps you are accustomed to the temperatures Miss Pinecroft prefers, but I am still adjusting.’

  His smile widens. He looks like a man who is always smiling, who cannot help it. ‘Believe me, after the walk I have had, Morvoren House seems perfectly warm.’

  He shakes off his greatcoat, removes his hat. The gloves take a little longer. He starts to hand them all to me in one messy pile.

  ‘Thank you, I believe that I . . .’ All at once, the smile is knocked from his face.

  ‘Sir?’ I tug at his belongings but he clings to them, oblivious of my efforts. ‘Sir, are you well?’

  ‘Great God,’ he breathes. ‘It’s you.’

  Time seems to stop. He must have read the advert seeking my arrest.

  I imagined I would cry out, faint or run. None of these things is possible. I simply stare at the warm brown eyes that bore into mine. Such handsome eyes to instigate my doom.

  Mr Trengrouse releases his coat. Everything drops to the floor as he seizes my hand.

  His hold is painfully tight. For a moment he stares at my fingers, their tremor. Then he raises them to his lips.

  ‘God bless you! A thousand times, bless you!’

  I think I have truly lost my mind.

  ‘Did you believe that no one observed? I saw it all, although I was so struck with horror that I could not move a muscle. I, his brother-in-law! You put us all to shame.’ He gabbles on, not just smiling but positively grinning now. ‘Forgive me for not recognising you at first. Without your hat, and in the daylight . . . But I should never forget your face. Someone said you must be an angel when you disappeared, so suddenly like that. I could not find you to thank you! Were it not for your actions, I’m sure he would have died. The leg should certainly have been lost. Our own physician confirmed it. And where would poor Polly and the children be, with only myself and a cripple to support them?’

  My mind struggles, dulled by laudanum. Memories are surfacing from its black greasy depths.

  ‘Do not be modest, Miss Why, I know it was you.’

  ‘You were . . . on the Mail coach,’ I realise slowly. ‘At Exeter, when the man fell?’

  ‘My sister’s husband! We rode together, on the roof. Upon my word, that was the most terrible night of my life.’

  You would not believe it from the way he is beaming. My fear that night was correct: people noticed me. The consequences could be – very nearly were – dreadful.

  ‘And . . . and the gentleman will recover?’

  ‘It is our daily prayer. Time must tell, but our physician thinks him over the worst of the danger. He is still in Exeter, with my sister and our medical man. They do not think it advisable to move him yet.’

  ‘I was concerned about the possibility of infection. That crack to the head . . . I wished to stay and assist, but the surgeon dismissed me and of course I had to take my seat . . .’

  He grimaces. ‘We were paid up until Falmouth too. In the end I arrived home much later on the stagecoach, only to trade places with my sister. Her children fall under my care while she is away. Pity the poor little souls, Miss Why.’

  ‘May I ask you to keep me informed of the patient’s progress, Mr Trengrouse? I should like to know how he fares.’

  ‘That I certainly shall.’

  Together, we notice his hat, coat and gloves heaped upon the floor, and both laugh.

  I stoop to pick them up. ‘Please go on through to Miss Pinecroft, sir. I shall put these away and fetch you some tea.’

  He seems to recall that he is my superior, clears his throat, straightens his waistcoat. ‘Thank you. Thank you, I shall see you presently.’

  The house feels brighter for having him in it. There is a lightness to my step as I make my way to the kitchen and begin preparations.

  A drop of laudanum ensures my hands are quite steady to carry out the heavy tray with its pots, cups, urn and spirit lamp. This tea service is blue and white like the collection, but it is Wedgwood jasperware, quite affordable. To my eyes, it is prettier than the produce of Nancarrow Bone China.

  I find Mr Trengrouse already reading aloud to my mistress, his chair much closer than I have ever pulled mine. It is a poor light. His head is bent over the page and he does not look up at my entrance.

  I have never seen hair quite like his. When people talk of ‘chestnut’ horses, they are usually describing an orangey hue, but this is exactly the colour of a conker from a chestnut tree: the same deep, burnished red threaded with brown. It becomes him.

  If I had a mistress with that colouring, she would truly be a challenge to dress.

  Miss Pinecroft listens passively. The curate’s presence seems to soothe her; her posture is less rigid, almost relaxed. The wrinkles on her face soften to creases.

  I set the tea tray down quietly. Mr Trengrouse finishes his reading and Miss Pinecroft croaks ‘Amen’, although it is not called for.

  ‘It is good of you,’ I say, ‘to come out like this for the parishioners with poor health.’

  He smiles again, leans his hands upon the closed Bible. ‘It is my duty. And it is always pleasant calling here. There are a few cottages with sick inmates I must attend later, and they will not be able to offer me tea.’

  This is my signal to begin serving. The tea leaves are good, fragrant. I take a steaming cup to my mistress, which she receives with an ill grace, evidently irritated that I have disturbed her devotions, and then one to Mr Trengrouse.

  ‘Wi
ll you not sit and drink with us?’ he asks.

  I waver. Accepting would hardly be proper, but refusal seems rude. Were Miss Pinecroft an ordinary lady, I do not suppose Mr Trengrouse would dream of asking me, but she will slurp at her tea in silence, unable to make conversation with him.

  ‘How kind of you. I shall fetch another cup.’

  He is pleased.

  ‘Do not forget that you are a member of this parish also, Miss Why,’ he says as I sit beside him with my tea. ‘I hope that you will stay and pray with us, once you have taken refreshment?’

  Without looking to Miss Pinecroft for permission, I nod.

  ‘You have not had the opportunity, I suppose, of seeing the area much, Miss Why? You have no acquaintance here?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I am recently come from Salisbury. My mistress’s life is much retired, and that suits me.’

  ‘Then you are new to Cornwall entirely,’ he announces.

  ‘I am.’ Blowing on my tea, it occurs to me that he may know more about Creeda and the strange ways of this house. Mrs Quinn might take umbrage when I scoff at fairies, but surely a man of the church, even a Cornish church, will not hold truck with such superstition? ‘Already I have offended a servant or two by scattering their lines of salt and refusing to carry a bible-ball.’

  ‘Ah!’ he throws back his head, apparently delighted. ‘The folklore and the little people. Fascinating, is it not? My mother was not native to this area either; she used to collect up the local stories in a great book. Many places have their tales, but Cornwall is prolific, I believe.’

  Miss Pinecroft slurps at her tea.

  ‘I was unsure how you would view such fancies, given your profession.’

  He cradles his cup thoughtfully. ‘The Methodists abhor them. For my part, I cannot see the harm, providing one does not get carried away. With a head of hair like mine, Miss Why, you learn to view superstitions facetiously. And people are so fond of the stories. Some even make reference to Christianity.’ His eyes light with a memory. ‘My mother told me one that I often think about. It says that when our religion arrived on these shores, there was a group of elders who refused to convert from their pagan ways. Unable to receive salvation, they were not yet bad enough for hell, so they were doomed to shrink, smaller and smaller each day, until they finally disappeared. An ingenious explanation for fairies, do not you think?’

  My glance flicks to my mistress. She is ill at ease. This topic does not please her; she chafes under Mr Trengrouse’s playful tone.

  I swallow my mouthful of tea. ‘It is excessively diverting. But I cannot help thinking these ideas could be dangerous, if truly believed. Not everyone is so fortunate as to have your education; they may not see the tales for what they really are.’

  ‘True enough,’ he admits. ‘We had a to-do a few years back with a fisherman’s babe. It thrived to begin with, but after a few weeks it failed to suck. Folk put all kinds of notions into the mother’s head. Said it was not her child any longer but a changeling, unable to eat human food. Our vicar, Dr Bligh, was obliged to speak very plainly, I remember, to set her straight.’

  ‘That is precisely my meaning. Surely Dr Bligh deplores such beliefs in his parishioners?’

  He sees that I am in earnest and arranges his expression accordingly. ‘Well, Dr Bligh is a more learned man than I,’ he says with modesty. ‘He has studied much. He has spoken with professors. And it is his opinion that the bad fairies – not the useful ones who clean houses and such – well, that they are real.’

  My eyebrows climb.

  ‘I do not mean he thinks to see winged creatures frolicking around toadstools,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘No, it is more complicated than that.’ He raises the cup to his lips and drinks as he considers how to explain. ‘His belief is that fairies, or goblins, mermaids, pixies, ghosts – all of them – are the same at heart. Creatures of the devil. Enchanting, whispering in ears that are eager to listen.’

  Some of his mother’s fondness for storytelling has passed on; he speaks the last words with dramatic relish.

  ‘How frightening, Mr Trengrouse.’

  Miss Pinecroft slurps more tea.

  ‘I daresay he is correct. That is what the Enemy would do: manifest itself in the image of what we most desire. Or,’ he goes on pensively, ‘those that we have lost.’

  Waves slap against the cliff face. I close my eyes briefly, picturing them rushing headlong to the place where they break and scatter. What we desire and what we have lost. Are they not always the same?

  Something snaps.

  Both of us jerk to attention, aware once more of the woman in the wingchair whose house we sit in, whose tea we drink.

  ‘Miss Pinecroft?’

  She is staring at the china urns, thin-lipped.

  To my horror, I think she has shamed herself. But then I realise the patch upon her lap is spreading, fed by sepia drips.

  A lightning bolt streaks down the centre of her cup. Jagged, black.

  My mistress has gripped the jasperware so hard that she has cracked it.

  Part 4

  Forty Years Ago

  Chapter 17

  Stalactites pointed down at Louise like an infantry of bayonets. She could not take her eyes from them, even though her spectacles were beginning to mist and obscure the view.

  At her heel, Pompey tilted his head, first left and then right, puzzled. How must this cave appear to the poor dog? The way sound echoed, the flickering rock pools, the scent of damp stone. His senses would be overwhelmed.

  But Papa, for his part, seemed delighted. ‘See how far it stretches back?’ He gestured, throwing his hand and his voice towards the pitch dark of the cave. ‘There will be room for half a dozen at least, perhaps ten if we are fortunate.’

  ‘Why not start with a small number?’ she suggested. ‘It may always be increased if we enjoy success.’

  Her caution seemed to irritate him. ‘Early intervention is vital. I wish to save as many people as possible, Louise.’

  Her name resounded in the rocky space. Pompey muttered.

  Louise bowed her head. Papa had not used to snap like that. ‘Of course, Papa. Of course.’

  One of the four Cornishmen accompanying them lifted his lantern and sent shadows flowing over the stone like water. ‘Don’t belong to me to say,’ he whispered to the fellow beside him, ‘but I shouldn’t like it. Living beneath the earth.’

  His companion was dressed in a worn coat of dark brown, nearly the same shade as the rocks. He did not take the same care in moderating his voice. ‘Naught different from a body working in the mine. Though how that’s supposed to help an invalid, I can’t tell ee.’

  Papa closed his eyes, inhaled heavily. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. You have spent your whole lives here upon the coast. You no longer remark how fresh and cleansing the air is.’ He breathed in again, as if to demonstrate. ‘It will work wonders upon the lungs. And look.’ He pointed to the mouth of the cavern. Outside the day was mild and spring-like. ‘The sun cannot penetrate this shadowy space. It remains damp.’

  The Cornishmen swapped blank glances. Pompey’s claws clicked against rock as he paced unhappily back and forth, listening to the distant boom of the sea.

  Louise stepped forward, clearing her throat with a touch of self-importance. ‘It is a counterbalance, you see. The phthisis – or consumption, as you know it – is dry and hot; it needs damp and cool humours to treat it. There is nowhere on earth like a cave for cold moisture.’

  Papa nodded approvingly. She felt the accustomed glow in her chest. After all the years she had spent looking up to him, learning from him, her desire to impress had never faded. Papa was a great man. He had studied in Edinburgh, attended at the Royal Bristol Infirmary and been selected by Lord Redfern to act as personal physician to his noble family. He had done everything she would have liked to do, were ladies permitt
ed the chance. But alas, other cares fell to her lot.

  Cares such as these hard, unyielding stones. It was a woman’s place to administer comfort, and somehow she had to achieve this within the confines of a cave. Although she understood the theory behind her father’s venture, she could not help a traitorous suspicion that an invalid might feel better laid up in bed with feather pillows, for the short term at least.

  ‘I shall require some time to make the accommodation more suitable for the men,’ she told her father. ‘They cannot sleep on rock, ill as they are. Shall we not construct something a little more homely for them, Papa?’

  ‘They are used to the infirmary at Bodmin gaol, my dear. You will receive no complaints.’

  Louise remained doubtful, but said nothing. After the calumny Papa had suffered, it would be unforgivable to have his own child question him.

  Bending down, she picked up Pompey and held him close to her. He was a great deal more amenable to this treatment than her little brother Francis had ever been. Snuggling deep within her arms, he let out a sigh. Louise knew, in the instinctive way she knew many things about her dog, that he also regretted the move from Bristol.

  Papa began to ask about transportation, access routes for supplies, and the local men answered. She let the words recede from her ears until they joined the rush of the sea to become a remote, meaningless babble. She would let Papa deal with the intricacies of the plan. He needed the distraction. Grief burnt within him, as bright as the delirium that had consumed their family. Occupation – any occupation – would do.

  For herself, she appreciated a chance to gaze about and think. Peaceful time spent in solitude – or even better, with her dog – was always her most effectual balm. Once more her eyes were drawn to the stalactites. How spindly they were. Like wax that had melted and set. Louise had never considered ‘underground’ to mean anything but dirt and worms: the three narrow plots in the churchyard and the soil that had filled them. But here were secrets she would never have guessed. So much space. The walls were marbled grey, brown and a curious copper colour. A kind of bony structure, holding up the world she walked upon. It was good to know that something did. Of late, it had felt as if everything sure and supportive had crumbled to dust.