The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(30)
Oh, Chuffy, thought Michael in delight, whoever you were, you’re giving me gold nuggets, and if I can find out your real name, you shall have an acknowledgement in the Director’s book. He scribbled down the details of Chuffy’s letter, then looked for a date or an address, only to find that Chuffy had provided neither on any of his letters, presumably thinking that Boots knew the date and also knew where he, Chuffy, lived anyway.
What looked to be a slightly later letter referred to another concert – the organizer of the Old Carthusians during Chuffy’s era appeared to have a considerable affinity for music – at which there had been a specially-written piece set to the words of Rupert Brooke’s famous poem, The Soldier. This time Michael cursed Chuffy for not providing dates and supposed it must have been some kind of anniversary – perhaps it had been the ten year anniversary of the Armistice.
Chuffy, it appeared, had not gone much for the music written for The Soldier – ‘awfully modern stuff, I thought it’ – but had found himself moved by the words and did not mind admitting it. ‘All that stuff about some corner of a foreign field being forever England, and hearts at peace under an English heaven. Dashed affecting, when you remember how many of those chaps we knew who died over there.’
Michael assembled all of this on to the laptop, with particular attention to Chuffy’s account of the school reunions and a reminder to himself to write to the Old Carthusian Association in the hope that they kept records. Typing it all on to the laptop he again regretted the lack of an Internet connection here, but he would be able to let the Director have the notes in the next day or so.
It was half-past four. He took his coffee cup back to the kitchen. Rain beat against the windows and sluiced down gutters and drains, and Michael stood looking out, thinking that Fosse House seemed to lie at the centre of an incessant downpour. He was just rinsing the cup when he realized there were other patterns inside the sound of the rain. Footsteps. Was Stephen out there again? The footsteps faded, and Michael hesitated, then thought he would open the little garden door at the far end of the kitchen and reassure himself that no one was out there.
The door was locked but the key was in the lock, and he turned it and opened the door. Rain blew into his face, and he shivered, but took a few steps out. The gardens were grey-green in the dull light, and it was like peering through a bead curtain. For a moment he thought a blurred figure darted between the thin grey layers, then it was gone, and he could see the walled garden with the wrought-iron gate. The gate was closed. There’s no one there, he thought with relief, and went back inside, closing and locking the door. The rain had left faint marks across the kitchen floor. Michael looked for a cloth and not finding one hoped they would dry out by themselves.
He went back to the library, hoping for some sound that would indicate Luisa’s whereabouts so that he could talk to her about the Choir, annoyed to find himself hesitant to knock on doors. But there were no sounds anywhere. Perhaps his hostess had a brief sleep in the afternoons. Madeline Usher encoffined in the ancient keep, the lid screwed down, but the beating of her heart still discernible …? ‘For pity’s sake,’ said Michael angrily to himself, ‘if Luisa’s asleep, it’s because she’s nodded off over a good book!’
The library felt so chilly that he went upstairs to collect an extra sweater from his bedroom. The stairs and landing were wreathed in gloom, and he looked for a light switch, but could not see one. His room was only a few yards away, however, and he went towards it, glancing to the far corner where the Holzminden sketch hung.
The sketch was wreathed in shadows, but standing next to it was the figure of a man in an army greatcoat.
Stephen.
Ten
Stephen seemed to be staring into a distant and terrible horizon. He’s looking into a nightmare, thought Michael in horrified fascination. No, that’s wrong, he’s trying to stare beyond a nightmare, because the nightmare is too dreadful to look at. But he’s not real, I must remember that. He’s nothing more than an image from the past.
The collar of Stephen’s greatcoat was turned up as if against a cold wind, and the soft blond hair was tumbled. For the first time Michael saw that his hands were torn and bruised, the nails shredded, the fingertips bloodied. Stephen, he thought, your hands, your poor hands … What did that to you?
Stephen turned his head and looked directly at Michael, and a half-recognition seemed to show in his eyes.
‘Don’t let them find me …’
Michael had no idea if the words were actually spoken, or if he was hearing them with his mind, but Stephen was so young, so vulnerable, that he stopped being afraid and took a step forward, one hand held out. He thought Stephen had just made up his mind to accept his approach, but then light, uneven footsteps came up the stairs, and he turned sharply to see Luisa. She must have crossed the hall without him hearing and she was standing at the head of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister, her eyes on the shadowy figure. But when Michael looked back, Stephen had gone, and there was only a faint outline on the panelling, like a thin chalk mark.
In a dry, ragged voice, Luisa said, ‘You saw him, didn’t you.’
It was impossible to pretend not to understand. Choosing his words carefully, Michael said, ‘I thought there was something – someone – here. But it was probably just a shadow—’