Whispers in the Dark

by Jonathan Aycliffe

“He might be an hour or more,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” I answered. “I can wait.”

  “Well, you can’t wait here. I’ve got strict orders.” At that moment someone appeared behind the little doorman. This was a young man of about thirty, dressed in what we would have called in those days a gentleman’s attire.

  "What is it, Fenwick?”

  “A woman, sir.”

  "I can see that.”

  The man pushed Fenwick out of the way and took his place in the doorway.

  “Can I be of any assistance, miss?”

  I repeated that I had come to see Mr. Melrose. “Yes, of course. But I’m sorry, he has gone to visit a client and may not be back until very late. In fact, it is highly probable that he will not return this afternoon. The client is a recent widow, and I fear her affairs are somewhat complicated.”

  My face fell. To have come so far . . .

  “May I be of any help? I am Mr. Melrose’s partner. John Parker.”

  I hesitated only momentarily, then nodded.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m sure you can. I'm sure either of you would do.”

  “Well, I happen to be free. You must be freezing. Come in.”

  He ushered me inside, waving the boy out of the way, and led me into a room just off the hall. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth. He took me across to it, helped me off with my cape, and brought a chair across. Once I was settled, he offered me tea. The boy was called and sent off to make some. I felt very relaxed. This was all going to be much easier than I had feared.

  “Now,” he said, seating himself in a chair next to me, “tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I . . . hardly know where to begin.”

  “Well, what is your name? Perhaps we can start there.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, I’m being very rude. It’s just that. . . My name is Charlotte Metcalf. My father was Douglas Metcalf. He owned an alkali works near Newcastle. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

  "Metcalf? I . . . yes, I do believe I know who you mean.” He hesitated. “But isn’t . . . ? Isn’t your father dead?”

  I nodded.

  “But you will have heard of me, surely.”

  “Heard of you? No, I don’t think I have.”

  “I’m a cousin of the Ayrtons. At Barras Hall. I believe they are clients of yours.”

  A look of total astonishment came into Parker’s face.

  “The Ayrtons? Why, I had no idea. . . . Of course, they are really Mr. Melrose’s clients, although I have often dealt with Sir Anthony’s more routine affairs. I’m the junior partner, you see. There are only two of us. But you do surprise me, Miss Metcalf. I had not the slightest idea that the Ayrtons had living relatives. I’m sure it will come as a great surprise to Mr. Melrose as well.”

  He paused.

  “But you must forgive me. I am supposed to be listening to your explanation of what has brought you here.”

  Haltingly I told him as much as I could. My father’s death, the workhouse, my mother’s passing, my separation from Arthur, my visit to my cousins and their reception of me. About conditions after that, I thought it best to keep my own counsel for the present.

  “I confess,” he said when I had come to an end, “that you leave me a trifle confused. You say you have been living with your cousins and that they have shown themselves solicitous of your welfare. And yet you come here alone, on a bitterly cold day, in order to see Mr. Melrose. Surely your cousins could deal with any legal matters on your behalf. You are not telling me that you have ridden here without their knowledge, are you?” “Sir, I do have reasons for wishing to absent myself from Barras Hall. Let us say there has been a disagreement between my cousins and myself and leave it at that. It is not a matter I wish to enter into.”

  I fancied I caught a glimmer of understanding in his eye. He could not, of course, have understood the substance of what I was hinting at, but I think he did grasp from my appearance and tone of voice a little of its spirit. “In that case, what brings you here?”

  I explained about Arthur.

  “I need to find Endicott as soon as possible,” I said. “I don’t want my brother taken to Barras Hall when they find him. I want him to be brought to me, I want him to live with me. I know Mr. Melrose engaged Endicott, and all I need to know is where I may find him now.”

  Parker looked at me strangely, as though I had said something out of place.

  “Miss Metcalf,” he said, “will you excuse me for a moment. I must make some inquiries. That is to say . . . I won’t be a moment.”

  He was, in fact, several moments. Twenty minutes or more must have passed before he returned. I sat, sipping my sweet tea and listening to the sound of the clock on the mantelpiece ticking softly. It almost sent me to sleep.

  Parker came back into the room and closed the door softly behind him. As he resumed his seat I noticed that he seemed worried about something.

  “Miss Metcalf, forgive me for asking, but would you please explain to me again the circumstances under which your cousin came to engage the services of this Mr. Endicott?”

  I repeated what Anthony had told me that second night over the dinner table.

  “And you are sure you have got the name right?”

  I nodded.

  “I saw it several times,” I said, “on the letters my cousin showed me.”

  “Miss Metcalf, I have to say that I think you must be mistaken. I have just checked Mr. Melrose’s files and several directories. There is no record of his having engaged anyone called Endicott for the job you speak of. Nor has he ever mentioned it to me. Nor”—he paused—“nor is there any listing of a firm of that name in London or anywhere else.”

  “But that can’t be,” I protested. “Anthony said they were the biggest bureau in London. They must be in the directory.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m afraid not. I really have looked carefully. I’m sorry.”

  I reached inside my bag and drew out the small bundle of letters I had taken from Anthony’s desk.

  “But look at these,” I said. “These are letters from Endicott himself. You can see for yourself.”

  He took them from me and glanced through them. I noticed him frown. He looked up at me, then started to read the letters more slowly. When he had finished, he laid them down on the arm of his chair and looked at me again.

  “My dear Miss Metcalf, I have to say that these letters trouble me greatly.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  I saw him hesitate, as though debating with himself whether to tell me or not.

  “Well? What can possibly be wrong with them? Mr. Endicott wrote them himself.”

  Slowly he shook his head.

  “I regret to say, Miss Metcalf, that you have been the victim of a cruel deception. These letters are not in the handwriting of anyone called Endicott.”

  "But. . . ? How can you say that if you tell me you do not know anyone by the name of Endicott?”

  "Because . . He paused thoughtfully. “Because they are all in the handwriting of your cousin Antonia Ayrton. Of that there cannot be the slightest doubt.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A long time passed. I remember very little of what was said. I think I cried a lot, for the revelation of how I had been duped took away any hope I might still have had that Arthur was alive. My brother was dead, and I began to harbor the most incredible fear that my cousins had killed him. I told Parker of the newspaper cuttings I had found in Anthony’s study. I told him about Caroline’s diary. And I gave him James Ayrton’s journal, which he placed in his desk, promising to read it later.

  “How long ago do you say she died?’’

  “Exactly ten years ago. On the eighteenth of this month. It was her birthday. And mine, too.”

  “Ten years. That’s well before my time. But I can check the facts.”

  “Then you believe me?”

  “Believe you? I don’t know what I should believ
e.”

  “I heard her.”

  “Heard her?”

  “More than once. Crying at night. There’s a room they usually keep closed up. The windows are barred. I think they kept her locked in there.”

  “I see."

  I so much wanted this man to believe me. It was not just that he was so sympathetic. I felt that I could trust him. And how much I needed someone to trust.

  “Can you help me?” I asked. “If they’ve killed Arthur, they must be stopped.”

  “We must have more evidence than this.”

  “Can you find it?”

  He hesitated.

  “I don’t know. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  At that moment the door opened and a second man entered the room. He was dressed in outdoor clothes and was shaking snow from a top hat. His face was round and florid, much reddened by the wind. I guessed him to be around sixty.

  “John? What is going on? Tom tells me you’ve got a visitor.”

  Parker introduced us. The newcomer, as I had guessed, was his partner, Stephen Melrose. He looked a little oddly at me when Parker mentioned my name.

  “Metcalf? Charlotte Metcalf? Not the Ayrton girl by any chance?”

  I nodded.

  “How very curious. Your cousin mentioned you once or twice. Yes, I see, there is a likeness. Rather a pretty thing, aren’t you? But he omitted to mention that.”

  He shuffled off his scarf and heavy overcoat, assisted by Parker, and at once advanced toward the fire, rubbing his hands together, then reaching for the poker.

  “Gracious, child, what brings you all this way on a day like this? Doesn’t Anthony Ayrton know how to look after his female relations?”

  “I think you’d better listen to her story, Stephen. There are some disturbing features about it. The young lady has been through rather a lot.”

  Melrose finished stirring the fire. He put the poker back in its rack and turned to face me.

  “I daresay.”

  I thought his eyes scrutinized me very closely, as though I were an unreliable witness on whose testimony he was being forced to depend.

  “It won’t take long, will it? I’m up to my eyes in probates for that woman.”

  “Not very long, sir,” Parker said, giving me a meaningful look.

  Melrose looked doubtful.

  “Well, well, let’s get on with it.” He looked at his watch, then at the clock. “But don’t make a meal of it.” So I went through my narration again, coming to the point as quickly as I could. Parker butted in to explain what he had discovered about the forged letters. Melrose asked to see them, glanced at one or two pages, and tossed them aside. By the end, his face looked grave.

  “Well, my dear,” he muttered, “you’ve given me a great deal to think about. A great deal. But”—he fiddled with his watch chain—“it is my opinion that you may be jumping to rash conclusions. I’ve known Anthony Ayrton and his sister since they were children. I was engaged by their father before them. Good people, all of them. Upright. They’re not churchgoers, I’ll grant you; but they’re as full of Christian virtue as many who are. I think you may be making a foolish mistake. And from what you’ve told me of your own circumstances, an expensive one.”

  I shook my head firmly.

  “No, sir, I don’t think I am mistaken.”

  “Well, suit yourself. All the same, wouldn’t it be best to have a word with Sir Anthony? Give him a chance to explain some of these . . . anomalies. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  “Sir, I’d rather you said nothing to my cousin. I’ve made up my mind to be done with him. There are things I have not mentioned to you. Things not fit to mention. Please don’t bring him here.”

  Parker came behind me and patted me reassuringly on the shoulder.

  "Stephen,” he said, “I think the girl is right. If nothing else, it’s evident she’s been frightened by something. Let’s not bring Ayrton in at the moment. At least not until we’ve had an opportunity to ask a few questions ourselves. And I think Miss Metcalf deserves a chance to get clear of this district if she wants. Ayrton has no legal hold over her, has he? He’s not her guardian or anything like that?”

  Melrose seemed on the point of saying something, but appeared to change his mind. He shook his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll do as you ask, miss.” He paused. “You’ll not be traveling on tonight, however, will you, Miss Metcalf?”

  I shook my head.

  “Have you got a place to stay?”

  I explained about the Queen’s Head and how Petrarch was stabled there.

  “But I have no ready money,” I went on. “I was meaning”—I thought quickly—“to sell some things of my mother’s.”

  My hand was poised to open the purse, in which the jewelry was kept, but Parker grasped it firmly.

  “There’s no need for that, I’m sure. Stephen, I’m sure your client would not begrudge a small sum to his niece? Even under these circumstances.”

  Melrose nodded.

  “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t. He must be quite distraught as it is, thinking what may become of her. Take what you can Find in petty cash, John. We’ll see about something more substantial when the bank opens tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility.”

  When I had been advanced the princely sum of three pounds sterling—and quite a lot it was in those days—Parker helped me on with my cape and offered to see me to my hotel. It was growing dark, and he was concerned lest I lose my way in the town. I said good-bye to Melrose, and we set off.

  As we entered the hotel Parker turned to me.

  “Come to us first thing tomorrow. We’ll see to the money old Melrose promised and then talk about getting you to Newcastle. If that’s still what you want.”

  “There’s no coach tonight, is there?”

  He shook his head violently.

  “No, and you shouldn’t even be thinking of it. You need to get some rest. I’ll see they give you the best room in the place. Be sure to go straight to bed as soon as you’ve taken supper.”

  He went over to the desk and, after a brief conversation with the clerk, assured me that he had arranged everything.

  He was on the point of leaving when he stepped up close to me.

  “Miss Metcalf, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about what you told me earlier. About . . . Caroline Ayrton. You said . . . you heard her crying in another room. Surely . . . Miss Metcalf, I don’t wish to seem impertinent, but surely you do not expect me to believe that.”

  I looked at him very calmly. I could see he was troubled.

  “Good night, Mr. Parker. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No, wait. I have to know.”

  “Would it destroy your faith in me if I said I did believe it?”

  He hesitated.

  “I might—” He halted.

  “You might doubt all the other things I’ve told you if you thought I’d been hearing voices. Well, you’re entitled to think what you will, Mr. Parker. But I heard Caroline Ayrton. And saw her. And heard and saw more than that, I know what there is at Barras Hall. If you don’t believe me, go and stay there yourself.”

  He looked at me for a long time, as though trying to make up his mind. I had come off the street into his office with a story too fantastic for words. He would not have been human if he had not had doubts.

  “Well, Miss Metcalf,” he said at last. “I don’t know what to make of you or your story. You’d best get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Wrapping his scarf around his face, he went back out into the cold.

  I was starving by now and asked if I could be served an early supper. One was brought to me in the dining room. It was still too early for the other guests to dine, so I ate alone. With warmth and food, I felt quite tired. I headed straight for my room, intending to go straight to bed, as I had been advised. The mere thought of s
leeping somewhere where I would not be disturbed by strange sights or sounds was like a sleeping draft.

  But when it came to it, I could not sleep. Thoughts of Arthur raced through my brain, giving me neither peace nor comfort. And I thought. . . Frankly I scarcely know what I thought. That Arthur was dead and buried in a grave behind James Ayrton’s tomb. That a man who had died over a hundred years ago was waiting for me if I should ever return to Barras Hall. A man in black and something else, something that Caroline Ayrton had seen at night in the garden, creeping nearer and nearer to the house, something I myself had seen moving in the shadows near the fountain. The more I lay there, the more terrified I became. Even here, beyond the boundaries of my cousins’ estate, the evil I had touched was reaching out for me again.

  I could no longer bear to lie there in the dark. Getting out of bed, I turned the light on full. It was only a few minutes past eight. I went to the window and looked out: the snow had stopped falling, but the street below was white and glistening in the soft glow of two gas lamps. Each lamp had its own tiny world. Beyond their circles of light, the cold and darkness gathered.

  For a little while now a name had been running through my head. Manners. Mrs. Manners. I racked my brain, but could not remember who she was or why her name kept nagging at me.

  As I watched, the lights in the street seemed to dim a little. There was a flickering behind me as my own lamp dipped and surged again. Fluctuations in gas pressure were perfectly normal. But I was nervous all the same.

  At that moment I realized who and what Mrs. Manners was. Her name had been mentioned by Caroline in her diary. The day she and Antonia went into Morpeth for the Fitting at Madame Doubtfire’s, Antonia had gone to visit her. She was a medium, and she lived in Copper Chase.

  I felt a strange excitement take hold of me. A medium. Someone who could communicate with the dead. I looked down at the quiet street, at the footprints on the snow. Would Mrs. Manners be able to find Arthur for me? Speak to him? Receive a message from him? I shivered at the thought. But I had reason to believe the dead could speak. Arthur could lead me to the evidence I sought.

  I put the thought out of my head and continued looking at the lamps and the pools of light they cast on the snow. I noticed that one set of footprints seemed strangely blurred, as though it was there and yet not there, a trick of shadows, a betrayal by my tired eyes. When I looked again, there was nothing there.