05 - Mistletoe and Murder (10 page)

Clara had refused to participate
in séances after her unfortunate experience back in Brighton. She felt they
were a dangerous game that brought the worst out in people. However, her distrust
of Andrews and his colleagues meant that she at least felt she should observe
what they were up to in the library. Besides, Miss Sampford had been asked to
be present and she wanted Clara with her for moral support. Clara sat on a
chair in the corner of the room watching as Captain Adams and Simon Jones set
up a table in the middle of the room. They placed on it paper and a planchette
board. Bridget Harper was meditating by the fireplace, a constipated look on
her face that implied deep concentration. Clara was watching her most of all;
she
really
didn’t trust mediums.

“There has never been a ghost
in this house before.” Miss Sampford whispered to Clara.

“There isn’t one now.” Clara
replied reassuringly.

Andrews checked that the
curtains at the window were fully drawn, then he set to work lighting numerous
candles that he had perched all about the room.

“Have you ever wondered why
ghosts are so inordinately fond of the dark?” Clara mused, watching the ghost
hunter in action, “I mean, as living beings we spend all our time finding ways
to make the world brighter and to light up our homes. Why should our spirits be
quite the opposite?”

“I don’t know.” Miss Sampford
admitted, “I hadn’t considered that before.”

“It’s just one of those things
that doesn’t make any sense to me.” Clara shrugged, “But then ghosts don’t make
much sense to me at all.”

Andrews finished with his
candles and went over to Bridget. He touched her very lightly, but she still
emerged from her trance with a start. For a moment she looked scared and
confused, then she calmed herself and that air of detachment returned. She
accepted the hand Andrews offered her and walked over to the table.

“Miss Sampford would you
kindly join us?” Andrews pulled out a chair for his hostess and she reluctantly
went over and took it, “I take it Miss Fitzgerald that you will remain purely
as an observer.”

“That is quite correct.”

Bridget’s pearly gaze drifted
over Clara. She showed no sign of dislike or consternation over Clara’s refusal
to join them, she just watched the private detective in her unpleasant, distant
fashion.

“Captain if you sit here. Mr
Jones there. I will remain this side.”

Andrews arranged the people
around the table, soon all five were seated. Miss Sampford was almost opposite
Bridget, while on her right sat Andrews and her left Jones and Adams.

“Miss Fitzgerald, if you would
be so kind as to turn off the light?” Andrews said, with more than a glint of
displeasure in Clara’s direction.

She stood and turned off the
light. The brightness of the artificially lit room faded to the dim flickering
of candlelight.

“We should all place a finger
on the planchette.” Andrews continued.

“W… what?” Asked Miss
Sampford.

“This wooden board on the
table.” Andrews explained, “It has a pencil in it so it can write.”

“Oh.” Miss Sampford reached
out her hands, “Like this?”

“Just lightly, that’s it. Now
empty your mind of thoughts and Mrs Harper will conduct us safely through the
process.”

Bridget was by now breathing
very deeply. Her eyes were shut and her head lolled forward. She rested just
the very tips of her fingers on the planchette board and almost at once it
began to move. From her seat Clara could not see the movement, but she could
hear the faint rustle as the pencil ran over the paper. There was a 10 second
spasm of activity and then the planchette fell silent.

“What did it write?” Simon
Jones asked eagerly.

Carefully the planchette board
was lifted and the paper removed. Andrews held it perilously close to a candle.

“Could it be meant to read
‘help me’?” He postulated.

“Surely that is a ‘D’ rather
than an ‘H’.” Challenged Captain Adams, “I think it is a name, Delphne,
perhaps?”

“Daphne, maybe?” Simon Jones
offered.

Clara sat very quietly in her
corner finding the whole matter preposterous. She had begun that year at a
séance and here she was ending it in the same way; she was not terribly amused.
Andrews was now rambling that the message might be in Latin. Clara rested back
in her chair and let her eyes shut. For a haunted library the room seemed very
peaceful and she was very tired. She could almost drift off where she sat and
she doubted she would miss anything significant.

“Supposing that first letter
is an ‘M’? ‘Me lame’? Could it be an illiterate spirit?” Simon Jones suggested.

Clara wanted to say something
but held her tongue. Overhead there was a thump of footsteps. William Henry
Sampford and his wife heading for bed, she supposed. The thought of them sent a
shiver down her spine. What was William planning to do to his aunt? If he
intended for her to die of fright he was certainly managing a fair job. So far
Miss Sampford seemed scared out of her mind and only her dogged stubbornness
had prevented her from evacuating her home to somewhere less haunted.

“Perhaps we should ask the
spirit for clarification?” Andrews had finally tired of the indecipherable
script and placed a new sheet of paper under the planchette, “Let’s ask a
direct question. Is there a spirit in the room?”

As Andrews’ voice tailed off
the planchette began to move, making scratchy progress across the paper. After
a moment it stopped and the board was lifted.

“I do believe that is a ‘yes’,
what do you say captain?”

“Could be, could be.”

“Are you the spirit haunting
this house?” Andrews asked as he placed back the planchette.

Again there was the scratch of
pencil on paper.

“Another ‘yes’, we are on to
something!” Andrews hastily changed the paper for fresh, “Could you give us
your name?”

The planchette danced.

“What does that say? Is that a
‘V’? Violet maybe?” Andrews handed the paper to Simon Jones.

“Violet looks a good guess,
that long stroke is most definitely an ‘L’.” Jones confirmed, “Do you know of
any ‘Violets’, Miss Sampford?”

Miss Sampford was shaking a
little, the movement of the tiny board beneath her fingers had spooked her and
made her want to look over her shoulder. The thought of a spirit being in the
room alongside them was enough to unnerve her for good, only Clara’s silent
presence made the whole experience bearable.

“There were a few in the
suffragettes.” Miss Sampford said, her throat as dry as dust, “None ever lived
here as far as I am aware.”

Clara made a careful note in
the little book she carried. Bridget might not be in communication with actual
spirits, but she had gotten her information from somewhere. Perhaps she knew
something Clara didn’t?

“Could someone go upstairs and
tell them to quieten down?” Andrews said, his usual bad temper flaring, “I can
hardly hear myself think.”

The footsteps above had
certainly gone on for some time, it seemed as though William Henry was pacing
in his room.

“It is simply distracting,
someone has to speak with him.” Andrews’ eyes flashed to Clara and she knew
what was coming, “Miss Fitzgerald, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Clara gave a small sigh and stood
up.

“Will you mind me going Miss
Sampford?”

“I will be fine dear. Just
mind William’s temper.”

Clara lightly touched Miss
Sampford’s shoulder as she went past. She took the main stairs up to the third
floor wondering how she would broach the subject of silence to William Henry.
She doubted the volatile man would have much sympathy for the feelings of those
involved in the séance. She was a tad surprised to find the hall lights on the
third floor all off, but then perhaps William Henry had gone up with a candle.
She could still hear him pacing as she turned on the lights.

William Henry’s room was at
the far end of the corridor. Clara could see a light coming from beneath the
door. It reminded her how Annie had overheard the conversation in that room just
a few hours earlier. She really needed to speak with William Henry when the
opportunity emerged, but not tonight. Tonight she had her duty to Miss
Sampford. She strode to the bedroom door and knocked.

“Mr Sampford?”

The pacing continued unabated,
but she thought she heard someone mutter something gruffly.

“Mr Sampford, might I have a
word?”

Still no one opened the door.
Clara heard quite distinctly the words, ‘go away’.

“Mr Sampford, would you mind
not pacing so loudly? Mr Andrews has protested. He finds it distracting.” Clara
hated doing the ghost hunter’s dirty work, “If it was up to me I would quite
happily let you pace all day, but the silly man is playing with his
planchette.”

“Damn nuisance!” William Henry
yelled at her.

Then there was a loud bang –
like the shot from a pistol – and the light in the room went out. Clara took a
step back from the door, at first stunned, then she regained her composure and
ran to the door bursting it open. Fortunately it was not locked. She rushed
into the centre of the room, not entirely sure what to expect, but half
imagining there would be a body. She could see nothing in the darkness. She
went to the wall and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. The room was
faintly illuminated by the light from the corridor. Clara could see enough as
she tried to pick her way to the window without falling over anything and drew
back the curtains. The moon was bright outside and let enough light into the
room for her to see that there was no body lying on the floor or upon the bed.

On the mantelpiece was a
candle. Clara lit it and took a better look at the room. On her right, as she
faced the door was a fireplace, unlit, which caught her as odd since Flo had
been told to light all the fires around 8 o’clock so the rooms would be warm
for when people retired. Clara took a closer look and saw that the fire was
still smouldering, but had been raked over and damped down. The matter was only
getting more curious. On her left stood a tall, old-fashioned poster bed, the
curtains of which were drawn back. Between the bed and the fire there was no
space for a large man’s body to fall and be hidden. That left only a single
possibility; the bed was set in the middle of the room, there was a gap between
it and the wall on the far side large enough for someone to fall down in and be
hidden from view. It was not without considerable trepidation that Clara edged
her way around the bed, her stomach tightening as she anticipated discovering
the body of William Henry.

She peered down. The space on
the far side of the bed was as empty as that on the other. Clara ducked down
and stared at the bedside rug, the only thing on it was a pair of blue slippers.
Clara stood sharply. What had just happened? She had heard William Henry, or at
least
someone
in the room and she had heard what sounded like a shot.
Yet clearly there was no one here. As rational and sceptical as Clara was, she
had to admit the situation was rather disturbing, one might almost say spooky.
But Clara was not about to accept that she had just witnessed a ghost; there
had to be another solution.

Clara left the room still
holding the candle. She closed the door firmly behind her, before pausing in
the hall and considering her options. If William Henry was alive and well then
she must not cause alarm – that would only heighten Miss Sampford’s fears. On
the other hand she was certain she had heard a shot. Deciding she had to treat
the matter as if she had actually come across a body, she determined to secure
the scene so no one might tamper with things while she went downstairs. She
pulled a table away from the wall and wedged it in front of the back stairs
doorway. It was a tight fit and no one would be getting through the door in a
hurry. Then she turned and tested the handles of every other door in the
corridor. They were all locked. Satisfied that it was now only possible to
reach the room by coming up the main staircase (the attic rooms were only
accessible by the back stairs), she headed back to the landing and made her way
to the second floor. She paused to see who was about; there were muffled sounds
coming from the library. Apparently they had heard nothing. Clara continued
downstairs.

She headed straight to the
drawing room, hoping to find all the remaining family there. If she did, of
course, she would then have to reconsider what had just occurred upstairs, but
no doubt there was a rational explanation for everything. She opened the door
to the drawing room and found the majority of the house guests sitting in quiet
activity. Hilda Sampford was busy on a piece of needlework, her husband was
sound asleep on the sofa next to her, while Amelia Sampford was reading a
glossy magazine and smoking. Clara took a mental note of who was missing.

“Where are the others?” She
asked as lightly as she could.

“Went to play cards in the
snug.” Amelia lazily waved her cigarette at Clara.

Clara left the room as calmly
as she could and went to the snug. She spotted Humphry heading in the same
direction with a tray of sandwiches.

“Poor Mrs James, still at work
in the kitchen?” Clara asked carefully, there were still far too many people
unaccounted for.

“Mrs James will be there some time,
there are quite a few pots and pans to clean.” Humphry said with his usual
noncommittal tone.

“At least she has Flo and Jane
to help her.”

“Indeed.” Humphry nimbly
opened the door with his elbow.

Having ascertained that all
the servants were accounted for and had apparently been down in the kitchen for
some time, Clara followed him. She had almost convinced herself that her
imagination had been fooling her and William Henry would be sitting at the card
table looking very hale and hearty. Instead she only saw Elijah, Oliver and
Tommy.