House of Echoes

by Barbara Erskine

‘Then why,’ Joss cleared her throat. It was hard to speak. ‘Why then did she leave the house to me?’

  ‘I think it was the only way she could escape herself.’ He went back to his chair and sat down, running his hands through his thick white hair. ‘She found you, you know. I don’t know how, but she found who had adopted you and somehow she kept an eye on you. I remember her saying,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘“The girl is being brought up very solidly. They are good people and they have no imagination.” I was very cross with her. I said, “You mean you don’t want your daughter to have imagination, the most precious thing in the world?” and she said, “No, I don’t want her to have imagination. I want her to be down to earth. Solid. Happy. That way she will never look for her roots.”’

  Joss bit her lip. She couldn’t speak. It was Luke who turned to Paul. ‘You mean she never intended Joss to have the house?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘She was a very complicated woman. I think she was trying to fool herself. If she left the house to Jocelyn she would appease some spirit of the place which would then let her go. But when she made the will she made it sufficiently complicated, no?’ He glanced at Joss again. ‘So that it was unlikely that she would inherit. It had to be Jocelyn’s free choice. If she made that choice, then,’ he lifted his hands helplessly, ‘she would have brought whatever fate brought to her upon herself. She was if you like being deliberately self deluding.’

  ‘She said, in the letter she left me, that it was my father’s wish that I inherit the house,’ Joss said slowly.

  ‘Your father?’ Paul looked shocked. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Your father hated the house, I understand. He begged and begged her to sell it, she told me.’

  ‘How did you make her leave, in the end?’ Luke reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a second glass.

  ‘It was the will.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know who persuaded her to leave the house to you, but as soon as she had done that it was as if the locks had been unfastened and suddenly she was free.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but that thought leaves rather a nasty taste in my mouth,’ Luke said softly. He was watching Joss. ‘You know, the terms of her will forbid us to sell it for a set number of years.’

  Paul frowned. ‘But you don’t have to live there.’

  There was a silence. He sighed. ‘It is perhaps already too late. The trap has closed. That is, of course, why you are here.’

  Joss sat down at last. Her face was pale and strained as she looked at him.

  He found himself biting his lip. She was so like her mother – her mother as she had been when he first met her, before that last cruel illness had struck.

  ‘Did she tell you about the ghosts?’ she asked at last.

  Paul’s face grew wary. ‘The little boys upstairs? I did not believe her. It was the imaginings of a grieving woman.’

  ‘They weren’t imaginings,’ Joss’s voice was very quiet. ‘We’ve all heard them too.’ She looked at Luke, then back to Paul. ‘There is something else there. The devil himself.’

  Paul laughed, ‘Le bon diable? I don’t think so. She would have told me that.’

  ‘She never told you about the tin man?’

  ‘Tin man?’ Paul shook his head.

  ‘Or Katherine?’

  He looked suddenly wary again. ‘Katherine who is buried in the little church?’

  Joss nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes. She told me of the sorrow that still haunts the house. She told me that, like in a fairy story, there needs to be a deliverance. To break the spell.’

  Joss stared at him a sudden flash of hope in her eyes. ‘Did she tell you what that deliverance would have to be?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘She did not know, Jocelyn. Otherwise she would have done it. Once, when she came to Paris for the weekend we went to Montmartre where I have many friends. That day we went to the Sacré Coeur together. There she bought in the shop a cross. She asked the priest to bless it for her, and she wore it round her neck until she died. That day we lit a candle to bring peace to the children at Belheddon, and to Katrine,’ he pronounced it the French way. ‘She was very superstitious, your mother, though she was so intelligent a woman. We quarrelled about that.’ He gave a sudden mischievous smile. ‘We often quarrelled. But there was much love between us.’

  ‘I’m glad she was happy here.’ Joss’s eyes strayed back to the painting.

  Paul followed her gaze. ‘The pictures of her will be yours one day. To take back to Belheddon. And,’ he levered himself to his feet once more, ‘there are some things of hers here, which you should have. I will fetch them.’

  They watched as he climbed the stairs to the gallery and they heard the sound of drawers being pulled in and out, then he appeared once more, negotiating the ladderlike contraption without any difficulty in spite of his age. Under his arm he had wedged a small carved box. ‘Her pieces of jewellery. They should be yours.’ He pushed it at her.

  Joss took the box with shaking hands and lifted the lid. Inside was a tangle of beads and pearls, two or three brooches, some rings. She looked down into the box, shaken by the emotion which had suddenly swept over her.

  Paul was watching her. ‘Do not be sad, Jocelyn. She would not have wanted that.’

  ‘Is the cross here? The one she had specially blessed.’

  He shook his head. ‘She took that to her grave. With her wedding ring.’

  ‘You and she were married?’ It was Luke who asked.

  He nodded. ‘I could never persuade her at the beginning. We lived in sin for years.’ He grinned. ‘You are shocked?’

  Joss shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I think the people of Belheddon would have been. No matter. This is Paris. We lived une vie bohème. She liked that. It was part of the escape. We married in the end just before she died.’ He hesitated. ‘I can take you to see her grave if you wish? Tomorrow, perhaps? She is buried in a village outside Paris. Our real home, where I still go to paint in the summer. She loved it there. It was there that she died.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Joss smiled. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

  He bent to hug her. ‘I wish she could have known you, Jocelyn. It would have given her so much pleasure. A pleasure she denied herself to save you.’ He sighed. ‘I hope the fact that you have gone to Belheddon has not made that sacrifice a vain one. It seems the fate of your family is very strong. The tie to the house is like a binding chain.’

  Luke frowned. ‘It is a beautiful house.’

  ‘I think that is its tragedy. Katrine died for it. And so many others.’

  They both stared at him. ‘You know something you haven’t told us?’

  He shook his head. ‘I know so little. Your mother would not talk about it once she came to Paris. The curse of the house goes back a long way. Yet it can be broken. She was so sure of that.’ He put his hands on Joss’s shoulders. ‘You are like the daughter I never had. Ma fille. I like that. I want to help you. If you wish, perhaps you should go as she did to the Sacré Coeur. Buy a crucifix. Have the blessing of a priest. Believe. Believe that God and Our Lady will protect you. They protected her. She said it was the prayers of Rome which reached out across the years as the prayers of her English church could not. She wanted Our Lady’s blessing on Katrine.’

  ‘Codswallop!’ Luke’s muttered imprecation was clearly heard by both of them. Paul frowned at him. ‘You are not a believer. Nor am I. But for those who believe, the prayers work. Perhaps Katrine believes.’

  ‘Katherine has been dead for five hundred years,’ Joss said sharply.

  ‘Your mother told me that she was a sorcière; a witch. She cannot rest without prayers.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Luke rammed his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Is it not worth a try? Especially if one day you have children. Then perhaps you will understand why it is important – why they have to be protected.’

  ‘We have children!’ Joss interrupted. ‘We have two little boys.�
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  Paul stared at her. ‘Mon Dieu – forgive me. I had not realised.’ He sat down abruptly. ‘That is why you are here, of course. Where are they?’

  ‘In England. With their grandparents.’

  ‘Not at Belheddon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is good.’ He sighed. ‘Forgive me. I am tired. Tomorrow we will go out together. I will borrow a car. I will show you Laura’s grave. Take her things. Go through them carefully. There are more at the house that you should have.’

  The interior of the cathedral of the Sacré Coeur was very dark. Luke looked through the door and gave a shudder. ‘Not my scene, Joss. You go on in. I’ll wait here.’ He sat down on the steps, staring out across the panoramic view of Paris that was laid out in front of him. She glanced down at him and shrugged then she stepped inside the huge domed church. The shop was packed with devotional aids – pictures, crosses and crucifixes, rosaries, statues. They lined the walls, crowded the counter, hung from the ceiling. Staring round she wished she had asked Paul what kind of cross her mother had bought. It was silly. Silly to come here; superstitious, as he had said. And yet something in his words had struck a chord. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it needed the trappings and the blessings of the Church of Rome to reach out to England’s pre-Reformation past.

  She chose a small silver crucifix and the least kitsch most graceful little carved statue of the Virgin and carefully counted out her francs. Then she went in search of a priest. His blessing was perfunctory and in French, not Latin which bothered her. She wanted to call him back, but already he had turned to others and so clutching her purchases she wandered deeper into the church. For two francs she bought a candle and lit it from its neighbour, then she knelt before the blazing ranks of flame and gazed up at the statue of the Virgin and Child, strangely certain that this was the same spot where her mother had prayed.

  At Belheddon, in the ice cold darkness of the locked church, a new spray of white rose buds lay on the stone step before the memorial plaque to Katherine de Vere.

  34

  ‘Edgar?’ David pushed open the door into the passage.

  ‘Edgar?’

  He could hear someone laughing. It sounded like a woman. ‘Edgar? Where are you?’ He stood in the doorway looking round the great hall. The cross and candles on the table had been knocked over. A pool of blue wax had spread across the dark oak and spilled onto the stone floor. ‘Edgar?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Edgar, where are you? Are you all right?’ He stepped into the room, his mouth dry with fear and stared round. ‘Edgar?’ His voice rose. The room was very silent – too silent. It was as if someone was listening to him. He took a huge gulp of breath, feeling his shoulders rise and holding them there, somewhere around his ears. ‘Edgar!’ This time it wasn’t so loud. Slowly he turned on his heel, staring into the dark corners of the room, looking at the chairs, the chests, his eyes going almost involuntarily to the dark shadows behind the curtains where someone – anyone – could hide.

  There was no one there. He stepped closer to the hearth and his eye was caught suddenly by something lying amongst the ash. He stooped and picked it up. It was one of the small silver-lidded pots from Edgar’s briefcase.

  Spinning round he strode towards the stairs and stood at the bottom looking up. ‘Edgar? Are you there?’

  He put his hand on the newel post, clutching it tightly. ‘Edgar!’

  The silence was unnerving. He glanced round, searching for a light switch. The well of the staircase was dark and he could see nothing beyond the bend where it turned out of sight. ‘Edgar?’ Taking a deep breath he put his foot on the bottom step.

  The sound of laughter came from behind him this time. He spun round and ran back into the great hall. ‘Who’s there? Who is it? Edgar, where are you? Answer me, for God’s sake!’

  It was a melodious laugh, attractive, husky, the laugh of a woman who once had known herself to be beautiful. He swallowed, clenching his fists inside his pockets as he stared round, fighting his panic. ‘What have you done with him?’ he shouted suddenly. ‘What have you done with him, you bitch?’

  Silence. Intense; pregnant; listening.

  He whirled round. In two steps he was back in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. He threw open the study door and then the dining room. There was no one in either room. Then his eye was caught by the cellar door. He frowned. The key was in the lock and the door was an inch or two open. ‘Edgar!’ Pushing the door open he groped for the light switch.

  Edgar was lying crumpled at the bottom of the steps. ‘Oh Christ!’ David ran down two at a time. The old man was alive. He could hear his forced noisy breathing, see the livid colour of his face. ‘Edgar? What happened? Listen old chap, I’m going for help.’

  He scrambled back up the stairs and ran through towards the kitchen. It took only seconds to dial 999, then he threw open the door and ran out into the yard. ‘Jimbo?’ Please God let him still be here. ‘Jimbo? Quickly!’

  Jimbo appeared at the door of the coach house, wiping oil off his hands onto a filthy old towel. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Quickly. There’s been an accident. I’ve dialled 999. Come and help!’

  He didn’t wait to see if Jimbo was following. Turning back inside the house he ran into the kitchen.

  Jimbo was right behind him. ‘Did you ring the doctor? He’s much closer than an ambulance.’

  ‘Can you do it? I don’t know his number. Then come and help. In the cellar.’

  Grabbing a couple of coats from the rack as he passed he ran back through the house and down the stairs. ‘Edgar? Edgar, can you hear me?’ He didn’t like to touch the man’s head which lay at an awkward angle. Resisting the urge to put something comfortable under it, he spread the two coats over him and gently touched his hand. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way, and the doctor. Hang on in there. It’s going to be all right.’ He saw a flicker beneath the old man’s eyelids. He was trying to speak.

  ‘No fool –’ Edgar was gasping for breath, ‘ – like old fool. I thought I knew enough; thought I was strong enough. She’s too good for me.’ He gave a rasping painful cough and David saw him wince with pain. ‘Don’t stay here. Don’t let them come back. Not yet. I must –’ he took a deep harsh breath, ‘ – must talk to bishop – ’

  ‘This cellar should be walled up.’ The doctor’s voice above them made David jump. ‘Dear God, how many more people are going to fall down these stairs?’ Bag in hand he ran down lightly and knelt beside Edgar. ‘Well Mr Gower. I thought you had more sense! A man your age running up and down and playing hide and seek in the cellars!’ His hands were running gently over Edgar’s head and neck, then on down his body, checking his arms and legs. ‘The paramedics are not going to believe this, you know.’ He was frowning, but his voice was cheerful as he went on. ‘I suppose you were pushed by the ghost as well?’ He raised an eyebrow as he turned to his bag and opening it drew out his stethoscope. ‘Here, let’s make you a bit more comfortable. You haven’t broken your neck as far as I can see. Tough old codgers, you clergymen!’ He lifted Edgar’s head and gently pulled some of the jacket under it to cushion it then he glanced at David. ‘Do you want to run upstairs and keep a look out for the ambulance? It should be here about now.’

  Jimbo was waiting in the kitchen. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You didn’t think to come and look and perhaps help?’ David rounded on him.

  ‘You shouldn’t have meddled.’ Jimbo backed away from him. ‘I’m not going through there. No way. Is he dead?’

  ‘No, he’s not dead. What do you mean, we shouldn’t have meddled.’

  ‘You were trying to exorcise him, weren’t you. You were trying to chase him away from Belheddon. Well you can’t. There’s dozens have tried and they’ve all failed. They’ve died or they’ve gone mad. I told Joss. I told her not to meddle, but she wouldn’t listen. He won’t hurt her. He never hurts women.’

  ‘It was a woman we were trying to exorcise. A witch.’ David thrust his
hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. ‘She’s at the root of all this trouble.’

  Jimbo stared at him. ‘What do you mean, a witch? It’s Bael; the devil; old Nick. That’s who lives here.’

  ‘Maybe. But it was a witch who we were after. She’s at the root of all this trouble.’ David shuddered. ‘Did you hear a siren? That will be the ambulance. I’ll go and see.’

  In the silence broken only by the electronic bleeps in the ward Edgar opened his eyes suddenly. He clutched David’s sleeve. ‘You have to go back to the house. Collect all my stuff. Don’t leave it there. You must not leave it there, do you understand?’ Beside him Dot, white with fear, was clutching his other hand.

  David stared at him. ‘You want me to go back to Belheddon?’ He glanced involuntarily at the window. It was dark outside now.

  ‘You have to.’ Edgar was breathing with difficulty, his chest heaving. Beside him a battery of monitors measured every step of his battle for life. Only his extreme agitation had forced the doctors in the intensive care unit to allow David in to stand now, helplessly, at his bedside. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it weren’t important.’ His voice was very weak. ‘Don’t stay. Don’t do anything. Ignore everything else. Just collect the wine and the bread and the other things. They use them, you see. Use them for evil.’

  David nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

  ‘Please. You don’t have to come back here. Keep them in your car. Just as long as I know they’re not in the house.’ He was tiring. His face was draining of colour as his eyes closed.

  ‘Please.’ Dot took David’s hand and led him away from the bed. ‘You’ll be safe. Take this.’ She fumbled at her neck and produced a small gold cross. ‘Here. Let me put it on you.’ She reached up and fastened the chain round his neck, tucking the cross down out of sight under his shirt, then she smiled. ‘It’ll keep you safe. Ring me from London and tell me you’ve done it. He won’t rest till he knows.’ She turned back to the bed and David saw her lean over to plant a gentle kiss on the old man’s forehead. He opened his eyes and gave a faint smile. ‘She was too strong for me, Dot. My faith wasn’t strong enough.’ David could just hear the agonised whisper. ‘I’ve failed.’