The Whispering House Read online

  Since then, Hannah had returned to the cathedral from time to time to see the reunited couple, partly with a sense of pride that it had been she and Sam who had made it possible, but mostly because there was something about the statues that drew her back. Something calming. Like visiting old friends.

  She had been sitting there for about ten minutes before she noticed a large figure approaching down the north aisle. He wore an open-necked cotton shirt, which he had wisely not attempted to tuck into the waistband of his light-colored summer trousers, in spite of the fact they were cut to a generous scale. If Hannah hadn’t known better, she might have thought he had just wandered in off the street in search of a cool place to sit. As it was, she gave him a happy smile of recognition, and the bishop eased himself into the pew next to her.

  “Thought I saw you up here,” he said, returning her smile. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He indicated the statues with a nod.

  “No,” replied Hannah. “I was just sitting.”

  “Ah.” The bishop seemed to accept this as a perfectly natural explanation, and for a while they sat together in companionable silence. For it had been through the theft of the statue that they had gotten to know each other, and its recovery had laid its own special seal on their friendship.

  Then she became aware that he was eyeing her thoughtfully. “You’re looking pale. Anything the matter?”

  “I just had a bad night. It gave me a headache.”

  “Bad luck.” He frowned. “Problems?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  “In my experience, that means yes,” he said briskly. “Why don’t we go outside? These pews are far too uncomfortable for someone of my size.”

  He led her out through a side door in the south wall to a secluded spot where there was a shaded bench. “Wait here a minute.”

  She watched him walk over to a little booth selling cold drinks and snacks. Five minutes later he was back, carrying two double-scoop ice-cream cones. He handed one to Hannah. “We’re a little more commercial since that business the Christmas before last,” he said, sighing regretfully. “But it would seem churlish not to take advantage of it once in a while.”

  “Thank you.” She took the ice cream, and he settled himself comfortably beside her.

  “Well?”

  She shook her head. “It would take too long to explain.”

  He looked at his watch. “In twenty-five minutes’ time, I have a meeting in the chapter house. Until then, I’m all yours. That is, if you want to tell me.”

  Again she hesitated. It had been one thing to tell the story to Miss Murdoch—Hannah already knew that she believed in a world where such things could happen. But the bishop was different. She had no idea how he might react. He had offered his time, however, and it seemed rude to refuse. So she took a deep breath and plunged in.

  “It started with this dream I had.”

  At first she tried to simplify the facts by leaving bits out, but soon she found it impossible to explain properly without including all the details—the nightmares, the book, the doll, the testimony of Mrs. Grocott and her daughter, the drawing of Maisie, the messages, and the rapidly deteriorating state of Cowleigh Lodge, with its accompanying electrical failures. The only thing she didn’t confess to was the delivery of the doll to Inspector Bean. She already felt embarrassed enough about that.

  But the bishop was a good listener, as she had discovered once before, and other than taking the occasional absentminded lick of his ice cream, he gave her his undivided attention. By the time she had finished talking, he was looking distinctly unhappy.

  “This house,” he began. “The move will have been stressful for you, especially during exams and so on. And it’s not unusual to find difficulties with sleeping in a strange environment. Do you think that perhaps . . . ?”

  “No,” said Hannah. “I’m sorry, but I’m not imagining all this. Really.”

  “Forgive me.” He shook his head apologetically. “I don’t mean to seem patronizing, but has anyone else witnessed these, um, phenomena?”

  “That depends on what you mean by phenomena. My mother’s noticed the damage to the house, the weird electrical stuff. And Sam saw the third message. The one in my notebook.”

  “Have you told anyone at school about this?” he asked sharply.

  She shook her head. “No. That message couldn’t have been written by anyone there, if that’s what you mean.”

  The bishop sighed. Then he sat up straight and seemed to change tack. “Let us suppose, for the sake of hypothesis, that the child really is seeking your help. What does she want from you? To discover how she died?”

  Hannah looked at him. Was he taking her seriously at last? She couldn’t tell, but this was very like the question Miss Murdoch had asked, and she gave him much the same reply. “Yes. I think that has to be what she wants. It fits with all the things we’ve discovered.”

  “And just supposing, again for the sake of hypothesis, that you were somehow able to obtain proof that this aunt deliberately set out to kill her little niece. How would you feel about that?”

  “How would I feel? I . . . I’m not sure. It’s Maisie who matters, isn’t it?”

  “Maisie is dead,” he said gently. “She has been dead for more than a hundred years. How can you help her now?”

  “But she’s asking me to. I can’t just ignore her.”

  “No? Perhaps not.” The bishop rubbed his chin. “I could pray with you, if you would like?”

  Hannah squirmed uncomfortably. “No. Thank you. I’m sorry. I . . . don’t think I could handle that.”

  “Oh, well. I daresay I shall have to handle it on my own, then.” The bishop didn’t look particularly disappointed. “Just now, I interrupted something private in there, didn’t I?” He indicated the cathedral behind them.

  “The statues? Not really. It’s just that I go and sit there sometimes. It feels kind of . . .”

  “Helpful?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure why, exactly.”

  “Then might I suggest that you return to them now?”

  She took this as a dismissal and stood up.

  “Incidentally, will you be going to the fair tomorrow?”

  “Fair? Oh! I’d forgotten. It’s Saturday tomorrow. Yes. I’m going with Sam.”

  “Good. It will be a chance for you to forget about all this business for a little while. Go and enjoy yourself! My wife and I are planning to put in an appearance, so maybe we will see you there, as long as the weather holds. I believe a storm is forecast later on. Oh, and by the way,” he added a bit sheepishly, “if you happen to speak to my wife, I wonder if you would mind not mentioning the ice cream?”

  “I won’t say a word,” she promised as she finished her cone.

  The bishop winked, briefly enclosed both her hands in his own, and left.

  Hannah went back inside the cathedral, partly to delay the moment when she would have to go home, but also to spend a few last moments beside the Virgin and Child. There was nobody else nearby, and she still had them to herself. As she sat there quietly watching them, it struck her, not for the first time, that although the eyes of each were so firmly fixed on the other’s, their gaze seemed at the same time to radiate outward. As though what they shared was so plentiful that it spilled over, casting lingering rays over all it touched, like the soft, honeyed light of a summer’s evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Unexpected Evidence

  THE INTENSE, MUGGY HEAT outside came as a shock after the cool interior of the cathedral, and Hannah trudged home slowly. To delay the moment of getting there a little further, she took the long way back to Cowleigh Lodge, the route that passed the church, and, on an impulse, pushed open the gate to the graveyard and walked in. The grass was newly mowed, its scent lying heavy on the still air, and a bumblebee moved placidly among the flowering shrubs that lined the path between the graves.

  Hannah left the path and walked the short dist
ance to the plain gray stone with its light covering of yellow lichen, and stared once more at the stark message.

  MAISIE HOLT

  BORN MARCH 4, 1866

  DIED JUNE 23, 1877

  But as before, it gave nothing back. She felt no shiver of apprehension, no sense of brooding presence. Maisie wasn’t here, any more than any of these other people whose remains lay beneath the sweet-smelling turf. Wherever the dead were, it wasn’t in this pleasant, well-kept garden.

  Yet, after leaving the churchyard, as she walked home, something nagged her. The feeling took a little while to identify, but at last she remembered. It was the last line of the inscription on that stone.

  DIED JUNE 23, 1877

  Now it wasn’t the year that struck her but the date. June 23. Tomorrow would be the anniversary of the day on which Maisie Holt had died.

  When Hannah got back to Cowleigh Lodge, her mother was standing at the sink, running water over a tray of ice cubes. “Good day?” she inquired brightly. “How was math?”

  “Horrible.”

  “You always say that!”

  “That’s because it’s always horrible.”

  “D’you think you’ve passed?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Oh, well,” said Mom philosophically. “Math isn’t everything. Water?” She held out a glass.

  “Thanks.” Hannah gulped down a mouthful and took the glass into the living room. She sank down into a chair and despondently switched on her cell phone with the idea of calling Sam. There was one new voicemail. She pressed the button and listened. It was a man’s voice—controlled and official sounding.

  “This is Inspector Bean, hoping to speak to Miss Hannah Price. Would you call me back, please? Thank you.”

  Hannah’s heart sank. That was all she needed after a bad day. The inspector was clearly calling to give her a good telling off for wasting his time. Why couldn’t he just have ignored her stupid request? Oh, well, she thought miserably. Better get it over with. She pressed the keys and waited for the ringing tone.

  “Hello?”

  “Inspector Bean? It’s Hannah. Hannah Price.”

  “Ah, yes. Thanks for returning my call.”

  Hannah immediately launched into a confused apology, not only for marching unannounced into the police station, but also for handing in an unsolicited parcel and generally wasting the inspector’s valuable time by asking for two ridiculous tests that she knew couldn’t possibly be any use, even if he’d had them carried out, which of course he hadn’t, had he? She would have gone on even longer if he hadn’t stopped her in midsentence.

  “Calm down, Miss Price. No need to get so worked up. I’ve done what you asked.”

  “You have?” She almost dropped the phone in astonishment.

  “That’s right. It just so happened that your parcel arriving on my desk coincided with a visit from a mate of mine in forensics. He owed me a favor, and when I told him it was for a friend, he said he’d have a look at your little request when he had time.” The inspector chuckled. “Couple of old family heirlooms, are they?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “No? Well, anyway. To be honest, once I’d handed over the parcel, I forgot all about it. I never thought I’d get the results landing on my desk within forty-eight hours. We’re lucky to get a response like that in a murder inquiry!”

  “You mean he did the tests?”

  “He did. And it’s as you thought. The two samples are almost certainly from the same head, though the hair in the locket is finer. Probably taken when the subject was about two or three years old.”

  “I see. Well, thanks,” she said awkwardly. “Listen, I’m really sorry to have put you both to so much trouble for nothing. It was a stupid idea, I know that now, and I should never have bothered you with it.”

  “But don’t you want to know the results of the second test?” The inspector sounded puzzled. “You must have had some reason for suspecting something, shall we say . . . unusual, in the sample?”

  “Oh, not really.” She felt herself growing hot with embarrassment. “Like I said, it was just a stupid hunch.”

  “In that case,” said the inspector drily, “it’s an odd coincidence that your hunch turned out to be one hundred percent correct.”

  “Meaning . . . what?” Suddenly the heat left Hannah’s face, and she clutched the phone hard, afraid she might drop it.

  “Meaning that the hair shafts showed an unusually high concentration of arsenic, probably the result of prolonged exposure.”

  It was just as well that Hannah was already sitting down, because she suddenly felt decidedly wobbly.

  “Was there . . . enough to kill someone?”

  “More than likely, I should think.”

  “So the person this hair came from could have been . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “Murdered?”

  “Maybe. What’s this all about, anyway? Some skeleton in the family cupboard?”

  Hannah didn’t reply. She was still in shock.

  “Ah, well. It’s water under the bridge now, isn’t it? That doll’s well over a hundred years old, I should say. By the way, there was one other thing. Those yellowish-brown marks. Apparently they’re iodine. When I was a child, it used to be put on cuts and scrapes. Can’t imagine why anyone would have wanted to paint it on a doll, but there you are. Kids do funny things to their toys, don’t they? Anyhow.” Inspector Bean cleared his throat. “To get back to the present, you specifically requested that, after analysis, the—ah—evidence should be destroyed.”

  “And?” Hannah held her breath.

  “Oh, it’s been destroyed all right.” The inspector chuckled. “In fact, I’ve a feeling that’s why you got your results so promptly. Nasty old thing, my colleague said. Apparently he couldn’t wait to get rid of it!”

  Hannah shivered. “Did he say how he’d . . . disposed of it?”

  “Incinerated, I should imagine. With all the other trash.”

  Cremation, thought Hannah grimly. That should do it. She managed to pull herself together enough to thank him for going to so much trouble on her account, said good-bye, and put the phone down. After a few seconds she picked it up again and pressed Sam’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Café Talk

  AN HOUR AND A half later, they were sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a little café near the cathedral square, enjoying a glass of Sprite to celebrate the end of exams. At least, that was what they’d told their mothers. In reality, Sam was just recovering from the shock of hearing what Inspector Bean had had to say.

  “So Millie was right! It was arsenic that killed her, after all!”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down!” hissed Hannah as half a dozen interested faces turned toward them from the surrounding tables.

  “But that’s incredible,” he muttered. “You know, I never thought . . .”

  “Neither did I. Not really. Like you said, it was just too fantastic to actually work in real life.”

  “But it did.” He grinned. “Well, congratulations, Sherlock Price!”

  “Thanks.” Hannah smiled modestly.

  “I suppose that’s it, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve done it. Solved the problem. With luck, there won’t be any more weird green dreams or magnetic messages, and all the radiators will stay attached to the walls.” He took a swig from the glass in front of him and glared at the woman opposite, who had apparently been attempting to follow this bizarre conversation. She blushed and looked away.

  “I hope you’re right.” Hannah sipped her own drink thoughtfully. “It’s a pity we’ll never know why she did it, though.”

  “Who? The aunt?” He shrugged. “Maybe she wanted their money. Maisie was an only child, wasn’t she? With her out of the way, there was only Mrs. Holt left. For all we know, she was going to be the next victim.”

  Hannah nodded. “Maybe.”

  “What’s the matter? If I’d solved some
thing like this, I’d be dancing on the table!”

  “Just as well you didn’t, then,” she said, glancing around at the other customers, who were now chatting quietly and enjoying the evening sunshine.

  “You must be relieved, though?” he persisted.

  “Yes. Yes, of course I am.” She swirled the Sprite, watching the tiny bubbles cluster against the side of the glass.

  “By the way,” said Sam. “Nearly forgot. You missed a bit of drama after school this afternoon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Henry Knight. Apparently when he got to school today, he had a black eye.”

  She groaned. “Oh, no. Not again! That must be why he was with Mrs. Jennings when I got there. So someone must have persuaded him to go and get some help at last?”

  “As soon as his teacher saw the eye, she frog- marched him straight to the nurse’s office.”

  “Good. About time too. Only . . . I’m sure Henry didn’t have a black eye when I saw him.” Hannah was puzzled.

  “Exactly. Mrs. Jennings spotted the problem straightaway and cured it.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “Eye makeup remover.”

  “What? You mean . . . it wasn’t a real black eye?”

  He shook his head. “It was a fake. The same as all those other bruises.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “All this time, nobody suspected him?”

  “Seems not.”

  “But wait a minute!” She frowned. “How do you know all this?”

  “One of his friends overheard the principal talking to Mrs. Jennings in her office. It turns out that Henry was just trying to get his parents’ attention by making it look like he was being bullied, only they were both too busy to notice. Apparently they never come to any school functions, and Henry gets looked after by a babysitter a lot of the time. I guess he was hoping that one of the teachers would call home and tell them there was a problem, without necessarily getting him checked out by the nurse first.”

  “Because he knew that she’d see through him straight off,” muttered Hannah. “But Henry must have known that people assumed he was being beaten up by Bruce.”