The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(32)

‘Of course not. And let’s remember that I’ve seen Stephen, too.’

‘Yes. Dr Flint – Michael – I think I shall always be deeply grateful to you for that.’ Then, as abruptly as if a curtain had been drawn, the cool, grande dame persona returned. ‘I came to tell you that I took a phone call a short time ago,’ she said. ‘The tree is still blocking the roads. I’m afraid it means you’ll have to spend another night inside Fosse House.’

Email from: Owen Bracegirdle

To: Nell West

Hi Nell –



Thanks for your message earlier.

Of course I’ll come with you to the Bodleian, and we’ll caper through the catalogues and disrupt the staff in quest of your privately-printed letters. I can’t imagine why you’re chasing letters from a POW officer from the Great War, but you can tell me the spicy details over coffee.

Light has been restored to College after Wilberforce’s foray into the bewilderment of Oriel’s electricity. That means I’ve been able to send a more seemly report to the Director of Music on my work for his opus, rather than a scrawl on a couple of spare sheets of A4. I hope he takes due note of the lateness of the hour I sent it, because it doesn’t hurt to let the ivory tower gang realize that lesser mortals work quite hard.

I’m sorry to report, though, that while everyone was searching for Homer’s lamp for illumination, or, at worst, a few candles or a cigarette lighter, Wilberforce appears to have padded through the Gothic darkness to Oriel’s kitchens. He reached them unerringly, of course – that cat could find a scullery in a stormy night without a compass – and made a quiet and efficient assault on the abandoned lamb casserole. To be fair, the casserole had already been designated as uneatable, due to being only half-cooked, and I suppose Wilberforce couldn’t be expected to understand about the dangers of imperfectly-cooked lamb.

It was a pity, though, that if he had to be sick afterwards, he must needs to so on the Dean’s hearthrug. It’s reputed to be a Persian rug which was presented to the Dean by some visiting Eastern potentate, and the Dean is currently being placated by promises of the best specialist dry-cleaning that can be found for the rug. To help out, I have placed my soul in pawn, Faustus-like, to stop him hauling Wilberforce to the nearest vet’s slaughterhouse, and it took a remarkably long time, which is why I didn’t get your phone message until now. I think the Dean is suitably placated, and even if he isn’t, I suspect Michael’s army of cherubic eight-and nine-year-old readers would form a protest march to stay Wilberforce’s execution, anyway. Your Beth would most likely carry the banner.

Let’s meet at half-past nine tomorrow outside the Bodleian. I’ll need to be back at College for twelve, but if we don’t find your letters, we can arrange a second trip, and if necessary take in the Radcliffe.

Owen

Nell read the email, shook her head over Wilberforce’s exploits, but was pleased that Owen would help with the quest for Hugbert’s letters.

As she went into the kitchen to put together some supper she was glad to think Michael would be returning to Oxford tomorrow. He would probably set off fairly early and be back in good time to have supper in Quire Court. With this in mind, Nell hunted out a favourite recipe book to find something really nice to cook. She might do rainbow trout – she had a recipe for stuffing it with smoked trout and horseradish, which was delicious. There was a bottle of Chablis in the fridge which a customer had given her for finding a beautiful set of needlepoint dining chairs, and she would buy fruit and cheese for dessert.

Michael would be all right in Fosse House, of course. But as Nell ate her supper, she kept glancing at Bodkin’s book, which she had left open at the page referring to the Holzminden sketch and the taint of madness that was supposed to cling to it. She wished she had not read that. She wished, even more, that Michael had not mentioned hearing whispering voices at Fosse House.





Eleven


Michael had no idea how he was going to cope with a second night in Fosse House, and he had no idea how he was going to face Luisa over supper this evening, and again tomorrow morning.

Should he pretend they had never had that unreal conversation on the landing and, instead, talk cheerfully about his work? He had a wild image of determinedly describing the breezy letters from the unknown Chuffy, and of Luisa industriously searching genealogies to find out who Chuffy had been and which Gilmore he might have been writing to, both of them studiously ignoring any sounds that might herald Stephen’s arrival. Or Luisa might not ignore it at all; she might make a light-hearted reference to it: ‘And don’t take any notice of my ancestor, Dr Flint, he usually takes a turn in the garden around this time …’

It was an image that defied credibility, particularly since Luisa would no doubt lead the conversation wherever she wanted it to go. It had been odd, though, to be afforded that glimpse behind the composed facade.

It was half past five, and when he went into the library it was wreathed in shadows. Michael switched on the desk lamp, grateful for the warm pool of light it cast over the leather-topped table which was still littered with notes and old letters.

He had thought work would be impossible, but when he opened the box file containing Chuffy’s letters, he found he was able to step back into Fosse House’s past easily, and even make some half-intelligent notes about Robert Graves and to draft a letter to the Old Carthusian Society about the setting of Rupert Brooke’s The Soldier to music. A recording from so long ago was too much to hope for, but there was a faint chance they might have kept the setting or the score. Even a programme of the event would be a find.