The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(31)

‘It wasn’t a shadow,’ she said at once. ‘It was Stephen. That means you let him in.’

‘No—’

‘You must have done,’ she said. ‘He can’t come in unless someone opens a door or a window for him. His hands are so damaged you see – he can’t turn a handle or a window catch himself. It was a long time before I understood that.’

Michael stared at her, and his mind went back to how he had heard the rain tapping against the kitchen windows, and how the rhythms had formed into soft words. ‘Let-me-in …’ He had heard that, and he had opened the kitchen door to make sure no one was out there. There had not been anyone – but a shadow had seemed to slip between the veils of rain, and there had been faint wet marks like footprints across the kitchen floor … I did let him in, thought Michael, with an uneasy glance towards the corner with the Holzminden sketch.

Very gently, he said, ‘Miss Gilmore, supposing I did glimpse something or hear something or – or even open a door to look outside for a moment? It doesn’t matter so very much, does it? Old houses often have lingering memories, and occasionally the memories can even be visual. I’ve encountered it before. Not everyone accepts the premise, but—’

‘“All argument is against it, but all belief is for it”?’ she said. ‘Who was it who said that?’

‘Dr Johnson.’

She smiled slightly. ‘I thought you’d know.’ If there had been any fear in her eyes earlier it was no longer there.

Michael said, ‘I think that some people are more receptive to – to picking up traces of the past than others. Perhaps you’re one of the receptive kind.’

‘I wish it were that simple,’ she said, then looked at him with an odd, sideways glance. ‘Dr Flint, nearly a hundred years ago, towards the end of the Great War, my ancestor Stephen Gilmore was incarcerated in a German prisoner-of-war camp. A place called Holzminden.’

She did not seem to notice Michael’s start of surprise, so he said, ‘Were his hands damaged in Holzminden?’


‘I don’t know. But on some nights his hands still bleed.’ A deep sadness touched her face, then she said, ‘I think Holzminden damaged his mind, though. Perhaps he became a little mad because of it. I’ve sometimes felt—’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve sometimes felt that his madness became stamped on this house,’ she said. Her eyes narrowed, darting from side to side as if searching for something, and Michael felt a prickle of unease.

‘Whatever happened to Stephen can’t possibly affect you now, Miss Gilmore—’

‘Dr Flint, why do you think I live here like this!’ she said, angrily. ‘Solitary, secluded. Shut away from the world. Why do you think I couldn’t offer you the common courtesy of asking you to stay here for your research? Here, in a house with so many empty bedrooms. And why do you suppose I was so fearful when the storm forced my hand last night?’

There was an abrupt silence. Then Michael said, very softly, ‘Because Stephen comes here every night.’

‘Yes. Yes. He tries to get in, but his poor hands— And there are some nights—’

She broke off, and Michael said, very gently, ‘There are some nights when you let him in?’

‘Yes,’ she said, staring up at him. Her hands flexed in an odd gesture, as if she was clasping another, invisible, hand. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ she said. ‘I’ve never told anyone before. But you saw him. You heard him. So perhaps you understand, just a little.’

Do I tell her she seemed to have sleepwalked last night? thought Michael. That I saw her open the door? He said, carefully, ‘Do you see him every night?’

‘Almost every night. Since I was a young girl growing up here. When I was a little older – when I understood better – I realized that no one must ever be in this house once darkness falls, because no one must know about Stephen. If he’s real – if he’s still here, I have to protect him. I have to protect people who come to this house, as well.’

‘From whatever – or whoever – came for Stephen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if Stephen’s not real?’

‘Dr Flint, we both know what happens to people who see and hear things that aren’t there,’ she said impatiently.

Trying for a more normal note, Michael said, ‘But you haven’t been entirely alone all this time, surely?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Luisa. ‘My life hasn’t been completely solitary. It certainly hasn’t been without purpose or interest. There are people in the village – occasional social events. And there are people I correspond with – there are a great many of those. Researchers into the Choir in particular – that began many years ago, and it’s brought me a good deal of pleasure and interest. Your Director of Music is one of those researchers, of course.’

‘What about your family? Friends?’

‘I had no brothers or sisters,’ said Luisa. ‘As a child I was alone a good deal.’ A shadow of some strong emotion passed over her face, but it vanished before Michael could identify it. ‘In any case, I could never put into words what I heard and saw.’ She paused, then in a low voice said, ‘Sometimes, I think I am mad as well – that I’ve been infected with Stephen’s madness. Can you catch insanity?’