The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(5)
He was distantly aware of his hostess saying something about the contents of the room having been sketchily catalogued some years ago – something about someone writing a thesis which had never been completed – but he scarcely heard, because a sheet of paper, half folded inside an old envelope, had partly slid out from the clipped papers. It was a letter, handwritten but in writing so erratic that Michael received the impression that urgency or despair had driven the pen. The stamp on the envelope was foreign, and did not convey anything particular to him, but the letter was on thin, age-spotted paper, and the date at the top was November 1917.
He could not, out of courtesy to his hostess, sit down and read the entire thing there and then, but he had caught sight of the first few sentences and the words had instantly looped a snare around his imagination. The direction at the top was simply to ‘my dearest family’.
They’re allowing me to write this farewell letter to you, and I should be displaying bravery and dignity in it, so that you all remember me in that way. Only I can’t do so, for I am facing a deeply dishonourable death – and an agonizing death – and I’m filled with such terror that I’m afraid for my sanity …
For my sanity’s sake I mustn’t be caught, the young man in the shadowy garden had said. There could be no connection with this letter, though. This was one of the heart-rending farewell missives that soldiers wrote before going into battle – the letter that was sent to their families in the event of their death. The reference the writer made about facing a dishonourable death was slightly odd, though. Had he been an army deserter, facing a firing squad? But in that situation would he have been allowed to write to his family?
It took all of Michael’s resolve to put the folder back on the table, but he did so, and then realized that a phone was ringing somewhere nearby, and that his hostess had gone out of the room to answer it. He remained where he was, looking longingly at the folder. Who were you? he thought, and he was just thinking he might have time to read more when Luisa returned.
‘It seems there is a problem on the road to the village,’ she said, and Michael heard the note of strain in her voice. ‘A short while ago the storm brought down a tree, and it’s lying across the road just outside the house.’ A brief shrug. ‘It happens here at times. But it means the road is impassable and likely to be so until tomorrow when they can clear the tree. I’m sorry, Dr Flint, but it will be impossible for you to reach the village tonight.’
‘Can I drive round it?’ asked Michael, after a moment. ‘Or go in the other direction? There’s surely a pub or something where I can get a room.’
‘I’m afraid not. The tree is almost immediately outside the gates. Even if you could drive in the other direction, that’s more or less a straight run until you come to the coast road. There’re a few odd houses, but no pubs or inns.’ With an obvious effort, she said, ‘So of course you will stay here.’
She did not manage to completely conceal her reluctance, but Michael thought it was because she had suddenly been faced with the practicalities of an unexpected guest. He said, ‘All right. Thank you. But you don’t have to go to any trouble. I can make up a temporary bed for myself somewhere.’ Banishing recollections of his many culinary disasters, he said, ‘I can even sort out a meal this evening.’
‘That won’t be necessary. The girl who comes in the mornings prepared a casserole today. It only needs heating and there will be more than enough for two.’ With a return to her previous imperious air, she said, ‘We will dine at seven.’
It will be all right, thought Michael, standing in the large bedroom on the first floor. This is simply an old house, a bit creaky and whispery, a bit gloomy. But it’s in the depths of the Fens, for goodness’ sake, so it’s entitled to be gloomy and whispery. As for the boy I saw earlier, he was most likely a local, caught where he shouldn’t have been. He remembered he still had not mentioned it to Luisa, and thought he had better do so over dinner.
And, looked at in a positive light, staying here might mean he could get to know Luisa a bit better – they would be eating together this evening, and she might open up about her family, which could be interesting and also useful.
On closer investigation, the house was not as bad as its exterior suggested. It was a bit dingy, and there was an overlying dimness in most of the rooms which might be due to the damp, or simply to some thrifty person having put low-watt light bulbs in all the fittings. Most of the rooms looked as if they were closed up, and Michael thought Luisa probably only used two or three of them. It was rather sad; a house like this ought to be filled with people. He wanted to believe that Luisa had a large family who frequently came to stay, but when he remembered how definite she had been about not being able to offer a couple of nights’ hospitality, he doubted it.
His bedroom opened off an L-shaped, partly galleried landing and had dark, old-fashioned furniture and a deep bed. There was a slightly battered radiator which, when Michael tried the dial, clanked into a reasonable degree of heat, and sheets and blankets were to be found in a linen cupboard. By the time he set out his washing things in an outdated but adequate bathroom, he was able to inform his reflection that it would be quite safe to stay here for one night. He did not examine his use of the word ‘safe’.
It was not quite six o’clock, and the folder with the sad, desperate letter was calling to him with a siren’s lure. If nothing else, he could at least read the whole thing before tracking down the dining room for dinner with Madeline Usher. Presumably, Fosse House was not so far into Gothic or baronial tradition that somebody bashed a bronze gong for dinner, and Michael supposed his hostess would find him when the promised casserole was ready.