by Neil Spring
‘And who is Marianne, please?’
‘I have told you already; do keep up! Marianne is his wife,’ said Miss Bull, ‘though I’m sorry to admit it. She’s a beastly woman and mad as a hatter. But that doesn’t change the facts of the matter.’ From her handbag she produced a sheaf of papers covered with scrawled black handwriting. ‘I believe he has more than one hundred and eighty typed sheets of notes now, perhaps more. Here are a few of them.’2
Price reached out his hand for the papers and placed them on the desk. ‘Appalling handwriting, practically as illegible as my own.’
‘My cousin suffers with chronic arthritis. His hands are so swollen now he’s practically crippled.’ She produced a small black-and-white photograph of the frail rector, then reached across the desk and took back the papers she had shown us. ‘Here, I shall read you some.’
Price nodded and leaned back in his chair, never once taking his eyes off Miss Bull and the papers she held in her hands.
These are the passages she read to us:
‘Since I have been asked by members of our family to tell what I know of the so-called Borley ghost, and since I think it is desirable that a record of our experiences should be preserved, I am writing this before the details have gone out of my mind. I should like to say, first of all, that had I been told by anyone what I am about to relate, I should not have believed it, unless I had the very highest regard for their general strict adherence to the truth. In fact I have, during these last few weeks or so, wondered more than once whether I should presently wake up and find it all a dream; I regret to say that I have not done so yet. As far as imagination goes, one can imagine one has seen things, or felt things, but one cannot imagine stones, bricks, books and pictures lying on the floor, things flying about the room and a broken window, when these things are still in evidence the next day and the next week.
‘To begin then. We had, before we came here, heard about my predecessor’s experience, and were rather inclined to attribute it to his imagination or to practical jokes played on him. When we came to Borley first of all we looked at the Rectory and another possible house, and decided to live in the former, neither of us feeling that there was an atmosphere about it.
‘We came into residence on 16 October 1930. Our first experience of anything at all out of the ordinary occurred one evening a few weeks later. I was lying down upstairs when Marianne, who was sitting in a room downstairs, came to ask what was the matter as she had distinctly heard me call “Marianne dear” more than once. I had not called at all.
‘A few days after this I went up to bed one night, and while I was upstairs I heard someone, whom of course I took for Marianne, walking about the hall. When I came down I found she had not left the room she was sitting in. I thereupon took a light and went around the drawing room, study and dining room, but could see no sign of anyone.
‘Now I come to definite dates and the most extraordinary part of our experience. On Wednesday 25 February I mentioned to Marianne that I had missed the milk jug belonging to our breakfast set and some other jugs recently. She said she had looked for them, and a teapot, everywhere and could not find them, and added, “I wish they would bring them back.”
‘That afternoon I was away and she was alone in the house, except for our young daughter, so she locked the back door and sat in the drawing room, from where she could hear anyone coming in by other doors. Presently she went into the kitchen and found, on the table there, the jugs all together on a little plate that had also disappeared, on a table. She said, “I wish you would bring me back my teapot.” That evening that also appeared.
‘Thursday 26 started with our finding that two books had been placed under our bed during the night. Then the bells started ringing. First the front doorbell rang with no one there, and then two or three other bells. During the afternoon a whole lot of books were deposited on the rack for warming plates over the kitchen range; these included a number of Durham Mission hymn books that we use at the Lent weekday services (of which we were rather short, so they were a welcome addition) and two other large books.
‘So far, it was just amusing; but what followed was not. That night, just as we were going to bed, I was in the bathroom and Marianne was on the landing outside our room with a candle in her hand when suddenly she was hit by a terrific blow to the eye. When she got to me in the bathroom her brow was bleeding, and she had a black eye for some days to follow.
‘The following night we had just gone to bed when things started flying round the room. First something hit the wall and fell on the bed (it turned out to be a large cotton reel from the mantelpiece), and then something whizzed past fairly close to Marianne’s head and fell to the ground with a great clatter. I lit a lamp and discovered the head of a hammer with the broken handle lying on the floor.’
There was a brief interruption as Miss Bull paused to ensure we were giving her our fullest attention. When she saw that we were, she nodded, turned a page and said with some excitement, ‘Now then, we come to the apparitions.’
‘I cannot remember the exact date, but we had not been in the house very long before Marianne began seeing Harry Bull. Twice she was with me when she saw him, but I saw nothing…. The last time she saw him was some time before Christmas. He seemed to be carrying something, so possibly he wanted to communicate about his will, about which he might well be uneasy since it is said that he talked about making another and possibly did so, and if so, it has been mislaid. Anyhow, I must not wander into conjecture.’3
When Miss Bull had finished reading aloud this curious narrative she closed the diary and stared across at Price. He raised his eyebrows expectantly before saying quietly, ‘One question, Miss Bull. What sort of man is Lionel Foyster?’
‘Why, he is a good man, an honest man. Intelligent and wise. Cambridge educated.’
‘Would you say he is impressionable?’
‘I know what you’re implying, and I will have none of it, Mr Price. Lionel knows his own mind as well as the next man.’
‘But does he know your mind?’
Her mouth fell open. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I will speak candidly,’ said Price. ‘The account you have just read to us, while undeniably sensational and striking in its content, sounds very much to me as though it has been coloured by your own biased opinions.’
‘What opinions?’ she asked, but the acerbic tone of her question suggested she had no desire to hear the answer.
‘The extract you have read us implies that Mr Foyster might share your personal conviction, Miss Ethel, that this whole matter is in come way connected to the suppression of a will in your favour made by your late brother, Harry Bull.’
‘Indeed, Lionel does think exactly that.’
‘Except that Sarah and I have heard this tale already, from the Reverend Smith and his wife. I did not believe the tale then, and I do not believe it now.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it is nonsense. Mabel Smith was even adopting it as her own literary project. It is the product of an overactive female imagination.’
‘Harry!’ I interjected.
Miss Bull looked very much affronted. ‘How on earth can you know such a thing?’
‘Because I have checked, Miss Bull, and double-checked.’
This was news to me. ‘Harry, what do you mean?’
As Miss Ethel began another violent spate of coughing Price stood up and crossed the room to gaze out of the window. ‘I did not want to bring this matter up in conversation as I consider it unseemly. But given that you have pressed the matter, I can see nothing else for it. You see, Miss Bull, after our first investigation at Borley, and at Mrs Smith’s insistence that you believed some wrongdoing to have befallen your late brother, I took the liberty of checking the status of his death certificate with the local coroner and the status of his will. There was nothing suspicious about either of these documents. Harry Bull was not murdered. Nor was his marriage to Ivy Brackenbury bigamous, as yo
u implied to Mrs Smith when she first occupied the house and discovered the sugar of lead in the cellars. The only people who truly benefited from your brother’s demise were you and your sisters. That’s right, isn’t it?’
For a moment no one said anything. Miss Bull became still, and stared into the blazing fire.
‘You’re awfully quiet, Miss Bull,’ commented Price.
Her eyes flicked up. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, then her gaze settled once again on the dancing flames.
Price continued: ‘The story you have willingly put about is slanderous, some would say cruel. That is why I prevented Wall from writing it in the Daily Mirror. He would have caused a scandal for your sister-in-law. However objectionable you may find Miss Ivy Brackenbury, she does not deserve that.’
Price sat down again behind his desk and eyed the papers still held tightly in Miss Bull’s grasp.
‘Now then, to return to the rest of your cousin’s account, I think—’
‘Just a moment, Mr Price.’ Miss Bull was glaring at him. ‘You said earlier that you received a communication concerning my brother’s death during a seance.’
‘That is correct. An article chronicling the event was written up in the Mirror by Mr Wall.’
‘But that article was inaccurate,’ our visitor said slowly, understanding gradually dawning on her face.
‘Yes, out of necessity, as I have explained.’
‘Then what else was communicated?’
‘That information is private.’
‘But I insist that you tell me. I grew up in that house. I was one of the first to see the figure of the nun. I have a right to know!’
He considered for a moment and then said, ‘Snippets of information were relayed by an intelligence purporting to be the spirit of your dead brother. When we attempted to confirm his identity he told us, rightly, that nineteen people occupied the Rectory during his lifetime, and—’
‘Nineteen?’ Miss Bull was shaking her head and already counting on her fingers. ‘No, that’s not right for a start.’
Price caught my eye. It was a detail I should have checked.
‘There were seventeen people in our household. Nineteen would have certainly been too many. What else was communicated during this seance?’
‘Your brother’s pet name when he was alive. Carlos.’
‘Absolutely not.’ She shook her head. ‘I have never heard that name before.’
Price hesitated. ‘There was as I recall some mention of a curse, and some letters were spelled out to us: D-E-C-E. Does any of that mean anything to you?’
Again she shook her head adamantly. ‘I have to say, Mr Price, this all sounds rather vague and meaningless. My brother was many things – an eccentric who shot at rabbits from bedrooms upstairs and lounged for whole afternoons in the summerhouse, watching for spirits. But he was not the sort of man you are describing. Pet names indeed!’ she grunted. ‘You have been tricked, sir – misled.’
A thought struck Price and me simultaneously and our eyes met. What if the Reverend Smith had been right after all? What if we had not communicated, as we believed we had, with the spirit of the late rector but with someone – or something –altogether different, which had tricked us into believing we were communicating with old Bull? I felt very much alarmed by the idea, but it seemed to be stirring renewed curiosity within Price.
‘This diary,’ he said, ‘you say there is more of it?’
‘Oh yes, a great deal more. If you write to my cousin and ask to see the entire diary then I am sure he would share it with you. Only …’
‘What is it?’
Her reply was carefully worded. ‘Only you will need to convince him that your intentions are honourable.’
‘Whatever is that supposed to mean?’
‘I advised Lionel it would be sensible to call upon your expertise, but I have to say he was reluctant.’
‘And why should that be?’
‘You are, I assume, familiar with a Mr W. H. Salter?’
Price nodded. ‘Why, certainly. He is the new honorary secretary of the Society for Psychical Research. What of him?’
She hesitated. ‘Mr Salter visited the Rectory recently, and advised Lionel against your involvement in the affair.’4
The news made Price scowl and slam his fist on the desk. ‘How dare he say such a thing!’
‘My own views are rather different. I believe you could be useful. The occurrences at the house are worsening.’ Giving another hacking cough, she placed the rector’s handwritten notes back on Price’s desk and pushed them towards him. ‘There is still a story waiting for you in Borley, Mr Price, if you are willing to come.’
Whether Price was willing or not, our visitor’s increased passion made me adamant that this matter would be resolved, and soon. I gave her my assurance that we would stay at the house for as long as was necessary to resolve its mysteries, and I felt entirely confident in making the promise. After all I had been through with Price, after all I had lost and had not yet divulged to him, I needed to know.
‘Sarah?’ Price looked shocked.
I could argue with you, I thought. I could challenge you, embarrass you, exactly as you did with me in front of Vernon Wall at Borley Rectory.
‘Please excuse us for a moment, Miss Ethel.’ I stood up and crossed to the door, nodding at Price to follow me. When we were alone in the corridor and the door was closed, I told him I thought we should deal with the matter. ‘If you abandon something like this, trust me, it’s never going to disappear. It’s like a debt, Harry. It’s going to come back.’
‘A debt?’ His eyebrows arched.
‘We have to return to Borley,’ I insisted. ‘We’re obliged to. The place haunts me still. And anyway, we’re a good deal quieter now that Mr Schneider has gone home.’
He looked away from me for a long moment and I wasn’t sure if he still trusted me – or if I still trusted him. ‘You didn’t have to send him away when you did – the experiments were showing promise. And yet once he’d given you your headlines, you sent him away as though you had something more important to do.’
He faltered, couldn’t look at me. And suddenly I was filled with questions about who this man really was – where he disappeared to, sometimes for days on end; and why he wasn’t consistent in his search for truth. When he looked at me again he seemed to see the doubt that was spreading through me, for he blinked and dropped his eyes.
‘Would you like to know what I think, Harry?’
‘From your tone? Not really.’
‘I think Conan Doyle was right. Perhaps you don’t want to find any ghosts.’
His flicked his head back to me and his eyes widened. ‘And why would you think that? After all the progress we’ve made.’
‘Because if you did prove that spirits are real you’d need to explain them, categorise them, break them down into little quantifiable pieces. Even you couldn’t do that. You’d be lost, floundering for explanations. So you keep yourself at a safe distance.’ I felt the heat of my frustration. ‘We both know how much you cherish being in control.’
‘That’s enough, Sarah.’
‘I’m not finished yet.’
‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘I don’t like yours!’
He stood back, assessing me shrewdly, and by the way the corners of his mouth twitched I could tell I had rattled him.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘I know how badly, how bitterly, disappointed you were all those years ago, when you exposed William Hope as a fraud.’ I took one of his hands and said quietly but firmly, ‘But you must finish this case. Challenge yourself. Challenge us both.’
His gaze pierced me. To my relief, he nodded and smiled suddenly. ‘There she is,’ he breathed. ‘My delicate, daring Sarah.’
I pushed down the warm sensation that was threatening to rise in my chest and stepped away.
‘It’s settled,’ I said, leading Price bac
k into the study. Miss Ethel turned in her chair to look at me. ‘We will write to your cousin at once, telling him to expect us in a week or so.’
Our visitor nodded her relief and stood to leave. But as she did so, I caught the quick, secretive movement of her hand as she tucked her handkerchief into her handbag. Her face tightened with embarrassment. ‘Just one thing, Miss Grey …’
‘Yes?’
‘Take good care in that house, particularly around Marianne. She is a … spirited woman. And the misery in that Rectory … it stays with you.’
We watched her go, and the dreadful sound of her hacking cough carried up the stairs.
‘Did you see it?’ asked Price.
I nodded, hearing the alarm in his voice and feeling it too. But neither of us mentioned what we had seen: the finely embroidered cotton in Miss Ethel’s hand spotted with blood.
3 October 1931
Dear Mr Price,
Thank you for your letter of the 2nd. I am enclosing my account of occurrences. I would explain that these were written chiefly to send to members of my family and therefore no explanation is given to matters that might be unclear to strangers …
My last account takes the story up to 24 June. Since then we have been quieter on the whole, but we have had some outbreaks similar to those recorded. One evening in August I was in the church when my wife came rushing over and said that there was a tremendous noise emanating from my study. We hurried back and when we went into the room we found that the furniture had been thrown about. Then, one night last week, I was woken up at around 3.30 a.m. when I was hit on the head by something which proved to be a large water jug from another bedroom. We put it on the floor (it was not broken), and presently it was thrown at my wife.
Our chief trouble lately has been things disappearing, often from right under our noses; they are sometimes returned later. Doors have also been locked. Once there was no one in the house and my wife was locked in from outside; another time we were locked out of our room one night and had to sleep elsewhere; and one day our little girl was locked in her room, for which we had no key. These doors opened the next day after a ‘relic’ had been applied to them.5 I should be very much obliged if you would kindly not mention at Long Melford what your business down here is, since we do not want reports to get around the parish. We have one indoor servant at present, but I think, with care, we can keep her from hearing anything. She is quite young – not fifteen yet – and has only been here ten days and as yet has not come up against any ‘demonstration’. She has of course heard the gossip of the neighbourhood, but does not, I think, believe it. We should like to keep her as long as possible as she is a help to my wife, who is not well.