The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(11)

More incomprehensible details, presumably about the music, followed this, together with a spattering of names of people who had attended, but it was the closing paragraph that made Michael blink and look along the shelves for a French–English dictionary. Surely there would be one here …? Yes, there it was, battered and dog-eared, but perfectly serviceable. He seized it gratefully and returned to the big desk.

The letter-writer talked about caché and l’écran and si triste. Caché was hidden, of course, and triste was sad. But what was écran? He turned over the dictionary’s pages. Here it was. écran was screen. Which meant the closing sentence said, more or less, So sad that the chorus must always be hidden behind screens. Michael frowned and traced the final few sentences with the help of the dictionary. However, there is an ancient and honourable tradition for their kind, dating back to Vivaldi, I believe. I am glad (or was that delighted again?) to have your assurance that your own girls continue to submit with docility to this …





Four


Michael stared at the letter. So the girls of the Palestrina Choir, in their remote convent, had been hidden behind screens when they sang. Why? To protect their innocence from lascivious masculine eyes? Had Leonora Gilmore been among them? But the concert had been in a church, for goodness’ sake, and the Choir had presumably been chaperoned as diligently as a clutch of Regency maidens. And the letter-writer referred to the girls as ‘always’ having to be hidden, which suggested the practice was part of the normal routine of their day. Had there been something wrong with them? Physically? Mentally? Luisa had said Leonora’s childhood had been unhappy – was there a clue there? Probably he was making much out of little. Still, he would look out that reference to Vivaldi; there might be a lead there he could follow.

He emptied another of the envelopes from the box. It seemed to contain mostly old letters and a few curling newspaper cuttings, and it looked as if some Gilmore boy had attended Charterhouse, because there were a number of smudgily-printed notices about various school events, and alumni newsletters. Michael flipped through these, not seeing anything relevant. He was about to close the file when a letter clipped to one notice caught his eye. It dated from the early 1920s and was addressed to ‘Dear old Boots’ and signed ‘Chuffy’. It referred to the two of them having been at Charterhouse in the years prior to the Great War and expressed a hope that Boots might toddle along to the next Old Carthusian bash on the grounds that it would do him, Boots, a great deal of good to get away from his books for a while. Chuffy wrote:

All work and no play. And I know your cousin, Stephen, was at the old place a few years ahead of us. What happened to him? I heard one or two odd tales about him, but I hope he came through the War all right. We lost a lot of good chaps, didn’t we? I’m sure I remember Stephen being a chum of Robert Graves. I’m afraid some of the chaps bullied Graves a bit – we all thought he was mad, and it was only later I heard he feigned all that mad stuff as a defence against the bullying. I think some of the others felt a bit rotten about that. For all his strangeness Graves came through the War all right though, and I know he wrote some cracking poetry, not that I’m much of a one for poetry; I can never understand the half of it. I think Stephen came in for some of the bullying, as well – didn’t he try to run away one term, saying later that the only place he felt safe was his home in the Fens? But then the beaks put him and Graves in the choir and that seemed to calm them both down.

There followed mentions of several pieces of music which the Charterhouse choir had sung, but about which Chuffy had only imperfect recollection, not being much of a one for music – ‘you know me, old boy’. The music in question was largely Handel and Vivaldi with, according to Chuffy, ‘stuff by some cove called Tallis that mixed all the different voices in together, but in a perfectly lovely way, like eating Neapolitan ice-cream or those layered pastries at Selfridges. Anyway, old bean, if Stephen is still around, perhaps he’d like to come along to the next bunfight with us’.

Michael liked Chuffy’s breezy bonhomie, and since Robert Graves had been a notable War poet, he listed the composers against Graves’ name as possible influences. It was sad to read about Graves having feigned insanity to beat off school bullying.

‘They said, years later, that it was from Robert I got the idea of pretending to be mad … But they didn’t understand that there were those of us for whom madness was a reality …’

The words lay like cobwebs on the air and Michael turned sharply to look at the room. He’s got in, he thought. He’s found a way in. Stephen, are you here? But there was no one in the room, and after a moment he went to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly, careful to stand back so he could not be seen. Was someone out there? He could not see any movements, but the rain was still falling and it was impossible to be sure.

The carriage clock over the fireplace chimed ten and somewhere in the house a door opened and closed. Luisa called out that she was just locking up and would bid him goodnight.

‘Goodnight,’ said Michael, wondering if he should offer to help with the locking up. But she probably had her own routine, so he closed the library door. There was the sound of the bolts being drawn across the main door. He can’t get in now, he thought.

It was twenty past ten and Michael thought he, too, would call it a night. Normally, he would not be thinking of going to bed for another hour at least, but it had been a long drive, and Fosse House had sprung a few surprises. It was remarkable that in all the wealth of fictional and factual or speculative literature about ghosts, no one mentioned how exhausting it was to encounter them – or, at least, to encounter something approximating to them. Even if Fosse House’s spooks turned out to be nothing more than creaking roof timbers, Michael felt as if he had run a ten-mile marathon. That being so, he would go up to bed now, then make an early start in the morning.