“I don’t think any of her generation will find it easy to change,” Helen responded, conscious that he watched her as she stirred the thick vegetable soup waiting for the steam to rise from it. “She’ll be even more shocked when I tell her that I’m going to send Alice to the village school. She needs to be with children her own age.”
“A Morrow? At the village school?” Paul’s voice held a fair imitation of Evelyn.
Helen’s lips twitched and she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. “You do that well.”
Paul shook his head. “I’ve lived with Evelyn for a long time.”
“When did you come here?” Helen enquired, knowing the answer but curious to find out more about Paul Morrow from the man himself.
“I was eight,” he said. “Same age as Alice. My father sent me back to England after my mother died.”
“Where did you live?”
“Malaya. Father had command of a regiment based in Ipoh. When my mother died he didn’t know what to do with an eight year old boy so he sent me home.”
Although Helen had her back to him, she could hear the anger in his voice, even after all these years.
“And your father?”
“I never saw him again. He died when I was ten.”
This time she turned to look at him. He met her gaze. “That’s the way these things go, Helen. It was a hard life in the Far East and I was fortunate that I had family and a home to go to in England. Even if my parents had lived, sooner or later I would have been sent to boarding school either in England or some other corner of the Empire.”
“Do you remember your mother?” she asked.
“My mother? Not well.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “She was Irish, the daughter of the regimental sergeant major. My father married beneath himself, for which Evelyn and Gerald never quite forgave him. She used to tell me stories of banshees, cluricauns and the lianhan shee and I can remember her dark hair and her Irish lilt. My only memory of her now is a photograph. How’s the soup?”
Helen turned back to the stove. “Just a few more minutes.”
They lapsed back into a companionable silence broken only by the tick of the old clock on the wall, the crackle of the coal in the oven and lashing rain on the windows and the water of the moat.
As the soup started to bubble, a sharp crack sounded from the furthest reaches of the house. Helen started, the wooden spoon falling into the pot. She spun on her heel to look at Paul. “What was that?”
He met her eyes and frowned. “What was what?”
“That noise. It sounded like a shot.” She stared at him. “You didn’t hear it?”
He shook his head.
“It was a shot. A pistol or something with a small caliber and it came from inside the house.” She moved toward the door. “Alice. Oh, my God, Alice…”
Paul jumped to his feet and caught her arm as she ran toward the door. “It’s just lightning, Helen.”
She turned to confront him. “That wasn’t lightning, Paul. I know a gunshot when I hear one.”
She shook off his hand and began running. At the door to Alice’s room, she slowed, panting from her sudden exertion, but the night-light revealed a peaceful, sleeping child under the pink and green quilt.
Relieved, Helen turned to go back to the kitchen. Paul waited for her in the gallery, looking down into the dark, rain-lashed courtyard.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Helen gave a small dismissive laugh, “You were right, just my own stupid imagination.”
As she spoke a high-pitched and terrified scream came from the far end of the gallery; a woman’s scream followed by the sound of breaking crockery.
Helen glanced at Paul. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that!” she said. “It came from the library.”
At the top of the library stairs, she hesitated, letting her breath steady. A soft yellow light spilled from under the ill-fitting door at the bottom of the stairs. Helen stopped for a moment before descending, her heart thudding in her chest.
Slowly she descended the stairs and put her hand to the half open door. It swung open at her touch and she took a step back. The light she had seen came not from the electric lights but from two candlesticks on the table and the fire burning in the hearth. In all other respects the library looked as it always did, but for a man sitting in one of the chairs at the table. Only he wasn’t sitting. He had fallen forward, sprawled across the table, a small pistol in his outstretched right hand, his head turned toward the door and his eyes wide and staring. Blood from the gaping wound at the side of his head ran in a steadily increasing pool across the papers on the desk and dripped on to the carpet beneath the table.
Helen’s foot crunched on something that snapped beneath her weight. She looked down at a wooden tray and a mess of broken crockery and glass. A scream caught in her throat but no sound came from her mouth.
“Come away, Helen,” Paul’s voice intruded into the nightmare and his hand was on her arm, dragging her back up the stairs. The door slammed shut.
“There’s... a...dead man in the library,” she stuttered, looking up into Paul’s face.
Paul grasped her by her upper arms, bringing his head down to her level. “There is no one in the library,” he said firmly.
“There’s a man. His head...there’s blood over the papers. I saw him.”
Still holding her by one arm, Paul opened the door revealing a room in darkness. No candles, no fire. Paul pulled the cord of the electric light, its incandescent glow flooding the room with startling clarity. No body lay sprawled across the table only the old Remington typewriter perched at the far end of a table littered with papers.
“I saw him,” she insisted.
“Helen, there is nothing here. It is just as I left it this evening.”
She looked up into his face, seeing the hard eyes and the rigid set of his mouth as if he willed her to believe him. Only a momentary flash of something uncertain behind the green eyes belied his words.
She shook off his hand and straightened.
“No,” she exclaimed. “You saw him too. You had to have seen him. I’m not going mad, Paul.”
When he didn’t answer, she looked around the room and then back at his implacable face. She rubbed at her arm where he had gripped her.
“What’s happening in this house?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
His face relaxed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Come back to the kitchen and let’s have supper.”
Back in the kitchen, Helen slumped into one of the kitchen chairs while Paul retrieved the saucepan from the stove and served the soup. He produced a half-full, opened bottle of wine from the pantry and poured them both a glass.
Helen drained her glass and set it down on the table, watching as Paul refilled it.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not a hysterical person, Paul,” she said. “I’m not imagining things.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“It’s just–” Helen began to shake again and hot shameful tears welled in her eyes. “It’s just that ever since I came to this house, things have been happening to me. Things that have no logical explanation.”
Paul sat back in the kitchen chair, holding the wine glass and staring beyond her at the rain lashed windows. “What sort of things?”
She told him about the photographs and personal belongings being moved in her room, the crying she had heard and the hand on her wrist.
Paul glanced at her wrist. “That mark I saw?”
She nodded and shivered. “It was terrifying, Paul, but when I say it all out loud, it sounds so senseless. You must think I’m such a fool.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that, Helen.”
“Sarah says the house is haunted. Is that true?”
He shrugged. “This is an old house. A great many people have died in it, not all of them peacefully in their beds. It’s no different from any old house in this country.”
“Have you ever seen them?” Helen persisted.
He remained quite still for a moment before he spoke, “I have more things in my life to haunt me than the Holdston ghosts.”
Helen set her glass down, and taking comfort in the routine of the meal, finished the soup he had set in front of her. As Paul sat at the table twisting the soup spoon in his fingers, she set the pot in the sink to soak and found the cheese. She sliced off enough for both of them, boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea and they finished their meal in silence.
Paul stood up, placing his plate in the sink. “If you’ll excuse me I have work to do.”
Helen rose to her feet as he headed for the door. “I...” she began. She wanted to say that she didn’t want to be left alone, that she craved company tonight, anyone’s company. Instead she said, “Goodnight, Paul.”
He turned to look at her. “I hope you’re not bothered by any more disturbances tonight.”
He closed the kitchen door behind him, leaving Helen alone in the silence, a dark, oppressive silence. She leaned her elbows on the table and thought about Paul Morrow. Just when she thought she could see glimpses of the real man beneath the reserved exterior he presented to the world he pulled away. She wondered if he had ever learned to trust anyone. His mother had died when he was eight, his drunken father had sent him away, his aunt and uncle treated him like a poor relation. Perhaps the only person in his whole life who had got past the wall Paul had built up around himself was Charlie and Charlie had died.
Helen washed the dishes and scoured the pan before climbing the stairs to her silent bedroom. When she opened the door she gasped in horror. Every book had been turned out of the little bookcase, the drawers to her dressing table opened, the contents strewn across the room, her hairbrushes were on her bed and the photographs turned face down on the dressing table.
Stepping over the mess, she checked on Alice, but the child slumbered peacefully just as she had last seen her, the dressing room undisturbed.
Helen turned back to her own room and she stood in the doorway contemplating the chaos. Despite the fire in the hearth, tentacles of cold wrapped around her body and her breath misted the air. She knew the signs now. She wrapped her arms around herself as her dread mounted. She considered running to Paul Morrow again, but then she recalled Sarah’s words. “They’re in their own place in time, love. If I know one of them is around I say good morning. They like to be acknowledged...”
“Who are you?” she addressed the cold, silent room. “What do you want of me?”
No answer came except the rattle of the rain on the windowpanes and a slight dimming of the electric light. The fire roared into life sending a warm blast of air through the room. Helen drew a deep breath. Tomorrow she would talk to Sarah about moving rooms. There had to be other bedrooms in the house that did not have a resident ghost.
She started picking up the books and replacing them on the shelf. To judge by the dust, the shelf had been undisturbed for a long time. A dusty leather bound volume lay apart from the others. Helen picked it up and sat back on her heels. “A Commentary on the Gospel of Saint Matthew.” It fell open to the title page and she carefully turned back the first two pages. To her surprise the rest of the book had been vandalized, the pages glued together and a large section cut from them to form a cavity. A green, leather bound book, smaller than the Commentary, had been tucked into the cavity.
As Helen stared at it, a frisson of cold air brushed the back of her neck. She shivered and looked around. She pried the little book from its hiding place and as she turned it over in her hand, the whispering started, just as it had in the library on her first day at Holdston.
The book fell to the floor as she jumped up, casting wildly around the room for the source of the sound. The voices were quite distinct–a man and a woman–but the words were indecipherable.
She swallowed, steadying herself with Sarah’s mantra–They’re in their own place in time. They are not here.
Picking up the book with shaking fingers, she turned the little green volume over in her hands, not daring to open it.
The whispering became more urgent.
Helen looked up and turned a slow circle, seeking out the source of the whispering. “I’m not afraid,” she said aloud and held up the book. “Is this what you wanted me to find?”
The whispering stopped and Helen sat heavily on the edge of her bed and opened the cover of the book.
To my dearest Suzanna. I hope that this small trifle may be of some use to you. Yr loving husband Robt. was neatly inscribed on the front page in immaculate copperplate.
Flicking through a couple of pages, she could see this was a journal written in a spidery, hasty scrawl. Apart from the first few entries, the remaining entries appeared to be written in ancient Greek.
She changed into her nightdress and climbed into bed, opening the book to the first page.
The first entry was dated December 26 1811:
Robert has sent me this little book as a token Christmas present. He tells me in his letter how hard it is to find food and shelter for his men, let alone to spend time in searching out trifles for his family. It is Christmas when I miss him the most and I am reminded more painfully than ever I can recall that in our four years of marriage we have spent so little time together. How fervently I prayed in church yesterday that this war would end and he will come home to us.
January 1, 1812: What a wonderful evening we enjoyed at Wellmore last night. I am quite exhausted. Adrian Scarvell, Robert’s dearest friend, was home on leave, recovering from a wound to his shoulder which he describes as an inconvenience. He says he saw Robert a few months ago and that he was fit and well and talked of me often. How tedious that must be for his audience!
To my surprise, Lady Morrow was most complimentary about my new green gown and has suggested that we send for an artist from London to paint my likeness as a birthday present for Robert. It will complement the delightful portrait I have of him, looking so dashing in his scarlet jacket.
Adrian had brought with him some friends, fellow officers of the 6th and they were the life of the party. They insisted on dancing every dance and would not rest until every lady had been obliged. I was conscious that it was not proper for me to dance when my husband was absent but Lady Morrow said she did not disapprove and that I was young and should be allowed to enjoy myself on such an occasion. Modesty aside as none will see these entries but myself, I was by far the most popular dance partner of the evening. Barbara Scarvell was not amused. She was wearing an unbecoming gown of yellow muslin which bared quite a sufficiency of her chest which was not a pretty sight, being somewhat pale and freckly.
“Really, Suzanna!” Helen said aloud.
One of Adrian’s friends was most attentive. He was different from others in ways I cannot find the words for. Although an officer, he is on the naval staff in London where he works on matters of great secrecy or so he told me. I have no reason to disbelieve him.
Tired by the strain of the evening and the difficulty of deciphering the irregular handwriting, Helen set the book down beside the bed and switched off the light. As she began to drift off to sleep, she thought she sensed the rustle of fabric and a faint smell of Lily of the Valley as a woman’s voice whispered in her ear.
“Take it to him. He’ll know.”
Chapter 8
Helen stood in her bedroom looking down at the little green book in her hand. She should show it to Paul but it meant braving the library and the gruesome tableau of the night before still burned fresh in her memory. The woman who haunted this room no longer scared her, and in the morning sun she dismissed her notion of changing rooms. She had a strong sense that a message had been sent to her and it was now her responsibility to resolve it. The answer lay in the diary and Paul Morrow with his background in classics was the person to decipher the code.
Thrusting the book into her cardigan pocket, Helen went down to the kitchen and made tea, setting a tray for two. She carrie
d the tray up through the house to the library, but pulled back before entering the library door seeing Paul standing by the table, apparently lost in thought. He ran his fingers along the uneven, burnished oak surface and looked at his fingertips as if he expected to see dust–or blood. Her heart skipped a beat. Paul had seen what she had experienced. He must have.
Shaking his head, he crossed to the fireplace, crouched down and lit a match to the coals. The flame flickered and then died. He swore and turned his head to look at one of the wing chairs saying aloud, “You’ve had your fun. At least let me light this bloody fire.”
Making a show of rattling the tray in her hands, Helen pushed open the door and walked into the room.
“Who are you talking to?”
At the sound of her voice, Paul started and turned awkwardly. Grimacing in pain, he fell back into the wing chair, rubbing his leg. He glanced up at her and the wariness in his eyes dared her not to make some solicitous remark. She’d done some work with the Red Cross in Melbourne in the years after the war and knew the last thing he wanted or needed was her pity.
“You seem determined to damage that leg again,” she remarked, setting the tea tray down on the table.
He gave her a wry smile. “It’s just a reminder I’m not unbreakable. If Evelyn and the doctors had their way, I would be tucked up in a bath chair with a rug over my knees.”
Helen considered that picture. Charlie would have been thirty in July. Paul could only be thirty-two years old and he had overcome what could have been crippling injuries to another man. The Morrows were a stubborn lot, she thought.
“Where’s Alice this morning?” Paul asked.
“She’s gone to play with Lily at the vicarage. This weather is foul. I can’t believe how cold it is. People warned me about English summers.” Helen crouched to light the fire, which caught and burned at the first strike of the match.
She sat down at the table and studied the first page of Paul’s notes for a moment before beginning to type. Paul sat down across from her, pushed his sleeves up and contemplated one of the tablets that lay in several pieces in its box, before he started scribbling notes in a notebook.
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