The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(39)

A good many of us would like to know the truth about Stephen, Chuffy had written. And Stephen had been pronounced dead after seven years. That means they never found a body, thought Michael, still staring at the chest.

It was nonsense, of course. The chest, if he bothered to force it open, would turn out to contain nothing more sinister than old photos or old newspaper cuttings. But why would Luisa keep them down here, inside an oak chest, bound with a thick chain and padlock? Why would anyone?

The padlock looked fairly secure, but Michael grasped it to make sure. As he did so, something seemed to wrench at the shadows, as if tearing them aside, preparatory to stepping through them. Michael recoiled, his heart punching against his ribs. Hands, dreadful wounded hands, the nails splintered, the flesh raw, reached out from the darkness behind the chest, and he gasped and fell back on the stone floor, dropping the torch. It rolled into a corner, shattering the bulb, and darkness, thick and stifling, closed down.

Michael got to his feet, frantically trying to get his bearings. Was Stephen still here? He groped blindly for the walls, willing the stairs to be within reach. He was just starting to make out vague shapes in the darkness and realizing that he had been going towards the desk instead of the stairs, when cold, dead fingers reached out and tried to curl round his hand.

Michael’s nerve snapped, and he jerked back and scrambled across the room. By now he could make out the shape of the steps, and he was able to find his way up to the hall. He slammed the panelled door and leaned back against it, regaining his breath. Then he locked it, although his hands were shaking so badly he had to make two attempts, and at one level of his mind he was aware of the absurdity of trying to lock up a ghost. But he did it anyway, then he retreated to the library and slammed that door as well.

What now? The prospect of remaining in the house all night filled him with dismay. Mightn’t it be better to leave at once and hope he could get to the village – or any village – with a pub and a spare room? He reached for the phone on the desk, found the card the helpful paramedic had provided, and dialled the local police number.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said the voice at the other end, ‘but we haven’t shifted that tree at Fosse House yet. We’ve been too busy clearing the main road – it’s been a wild old storm. We should get it done first light tomorrow, though. If I were you, I’d stay put.’

‘How far along the road is the tree? From Fosse House, I mean?’

‘Smack across the road about ten yards from the gate,’ said the voice, lugubriously. ‘Blocking the road altogether.’

‘And how far is the village from the house? If I tried walking?’

‘Oh, you can’t do that,’ said the man at once. ‘It’s a good ten miles, and in this weather— Well, you’d be drenched to the skin inside of ten minutes, and likely suffer pneumonia. You stay put is my advice, sir. The men’ll be out there in the morning. But call us back if there are any problems. We’d get out to you if so. Motorbikes, you know. They can get round the tree all right.’ Michael briefly considered asking if he could be provided with a pillion ride to the village, but decided against it. He thanked the man and rang off, wondering if he could risk trying to reach the village on foot. But it would mean walking along the dark lonely drive, and then along the equally dark, lonely road beyond it. All ten miles of it.

Leaving Fosse House did not seem to be an option, so Michael stopped thinking about it and instead contemplated the best way to pass the night. Should he seal himself in the library with crucifixes and garlic wreaths and all the panoply of the ghost-repellants of fiction, and wait for dawn which traditionally sent spirits fleeing? He had told Luisa that Stephen would not harm him, and he still believed that. But then he remembered again those dreadful hands reaching out of the shadows, and he no longer felt as sure.

It was at this point in his thoughts that the phone rang, and Michael, his nerves still on edge, jumped all over again. He reached for it, hoping it might be the police station calling back to say the road was unexpectedly clear after all.

But it was not. It was the hospital to which Luisa Gilmore had been taken. The ward sister he had spoken to earlier said she was extremely sorry to be giving him this bad news, but Miss Gilmore had died half an hour ago.

‘I’m afraid the damage to her heart was too severe. She had a second heart attack shortly after she got here. We tried all the usual methods to revive her, but we weren’t able to.’

Michael had not expected to feel such an acute sense of loss. After a moment he said, ‘That’s so sad. I’m very sorry indeed. I didn’t know her very well, but—’

‘An unusual lady,’ said the sister.

‘Yes.’

‘We have to focus on practicalities, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘We really do need to find next of kin or someone who has authority to – well, to act for her. To make arrangements.’

‘I’ll see if I can find an address book,’ said Michael. ‘Failing that, there must be someone local who will know.’

‘If you could ring us back as soon as possible,’ she said.

‘Yes, of course.’

At first Michael thought he would phone Nell, and then he saw it was approaching midnight, and she would probably be in bed. And despite what she had said, it was a bit late to phone, especially with sad news. He would try to find the information the hospital needed instead. It might even focus his mind and drive back the spooks to make a search for an address book.