The Haunting of Maddy Clare (4 page)

“Yes,” I said.

“And what do you think?”

I bit my lip.

He turned back to the road, but he was smiling now. “Come, now, you can say it.”

“It’s just—” I shifted in my seat. “I can’t help but wonder—you said you’d never seen the portrait before. But you’d been in the house for a week. What if you had seen it, and didn’t remember? What if it was in your mind, the night you went to Freddy’s room?”

“Ah, now.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I hadn’t, but I can pretend along with you. Let’s say I had. I didn’t know who it was. That much was certain. Why would I see him in Freddy’s room?”

“Easily. You said it looked like Freddy. It would be simple to assume the portrait was a family member. And if it were modern, that would be another clue. And you admit you never saw the apparition’s face.”

“So my unconscious mind manufactured the entire thing?”

I suddenly realized what I was saying, and pressed my hand to my mouth. What had gotten into me? This was the first job I’d had in weeks, and Mr. Gellis was nothing but kind. How could I let my tongue run away and insult his experience? He could fire me on the spot and turn the car around anytime he wanted. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I am truly thoughtless. I know nothing about it, of course.”

But he laughed. “It’s perfectly all right. You’re doing just fine, Miss Piper. I find it useful to have someone challenge the appearance of things, especially on a sighting expedition. I’m used to Matthew filling the role.”

I recalled the assistant I was replacing, the man with the neat handwriting. “So he is a skeptic, then?”

Mr. Gellis laughed again. “I’m not sure exactly what Matthew is, but if I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

I didn’t know what to make of that, so I said, “Still, I should hold my tongue.”

“Your point is taken,” said Mr. Gellis. “But, Miss Piper, I must insist. I know what I saw. I simply know. If you ever see an apparition, a true one, you will know what I mean.”

We stopped at a pub in a small village at midday, where Mr. Gellis purchased us sandwiches and bottles of milk. We ate quickly, as we needed to get back on the road, Mr. Gellis said, to make Waringstoke by evening.

As we ate, I thought about what he had said, that pursuing ghosts was the only thing he wanted to do. He had the freedom to do anything he liked. If I could idly pursue anything I wished, what would it be? I couldn’t think of anything.

“You seem pensive,” he said as we finished. “Are you regretting our agreement?”

“No. I’m sorry,” I said, standing and brushing the crumbs from my skirt. How selfish of me, to sit moping. “I’m not much used to company.”

“Neither am I.” He smiled at me. In fact he was so much more at ease than I that he could have been lying; but I sensed an awkwardness in him, deep beneath the surface, and I knew he told the truth. “Female company, especially. Men tend to lose their polish when they know only other men for company.”

“You are doing perfectly,” I said with truth, as we walked back to the motorcar. “It is I who need to remember my manners. Tell me, does Mr. Ryder share your passion for ghosts?”

“No one quite shares my passion for ghosts, Miss Piper.” He handed me into the car and closed the door. He came around to the driver’s seat and got in. “But Matthew is a valuable assistant. It isn’t just the notebooks; he usually handles the logistics of trips like these. I’m hopeless with maps. He handles the technical equipment as well.”

I sat up straighter. “Technical equipment?”

“The camera. The film. We try to document each manifestation, though photographing a ghost is nearly impossible. Did you know that?”

“I can imagine, I suppose.”

“Still, we try. Matthew is good with a camera. He also runs the sound recorder.”

I stared at him. “Sound recorder?” I had never seen such a thing; I would have no idea how to use it. I felt the chill of true alarm. As it was, I would bumble the camera badly enough.

Mr. Gellis smiled. “It’s a massive contraption—cost me an arm and a leg. I had it specially made. I’ve no idea how it works, really. Matthew knows. He took it apart and put it back together again the first day I got it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited.”

“Mr. Gellis, I really—I don’t—”

“Please, don’t worry.” He took one hand from the wheel and waved it at me. “I’ve no expectation that you would know how to work it. Matthew taught me enough that I can make it function, at least rudimentarily for this one assignment. I can show you how to turn it on and off—since you will be the one trying to record the Falmouth House ghost, not me. Though the equipment hasn’t mattered very much so far.” He sighed. “As much as I would like to record an actual haunting, we have never yet succeeded. All I’ve ever recorded on that thing is static, the sound of wind, and my own voice.”

“Perhaps this will be the time,” I said.

He laughed at that. “Don’t let Matthew hear you say so. He did not want to miss this assignment at all—if you record a haunting your first week on the job, he may have to strangle you.”

“Have you known Mr. Ryder long?” I asked.

He cut me a look. “You are asking a lot of questions about him, you know.”

I smiled and shook my head. “It’s just that different pictures are going through my head. A young man, or an old man? Fat or skinny?”

“He is my age—nearly two years younger. Neither fat nor skinny, I suppose. And yes, he is very interested in ghosts. Though I think perhaps for different reasons than I.”

I had no time to ask him to explain this, as he began to tell me some of his experiences in hunting ghosts. He was an excellent storyteller; he had a talent for building his tale, giving just enough detail and leaving just enough suspense to keep his audience interested. I leaned back in my seat and listened, thinking that I must ask him, sometime, if he had copies of his books for me to read. He was probably a skilled writer.

The stories themselves were terribly sad. A child killed in a carriage accident; a young man disappeared in the marshes, whose body was never found; an old woman, haunting her last residence, enacting the same simple tasks she had performed when alive, over and over, as if unaware she was dead. Most ghost stories, it seemed as I listened, were tales not only of death but also of unfathomable misery and despair. Happy people did not leave ghosts; or perhaps they left quiet ghosts, who sat in their favorite corners or wandered the banks of their favorite streams, never bothering the living. It was deeply strange to listen to such chilling tales of hopelessness and pain as I sat in my comfortable
passenger seat, watching the perfect English day begin to recede into a warm, glowing English sunset.

“Are you never frightened?” I asked him, as the sun sank below the horizon and dusk began to envelop us.

“No,” he said, his expression honest. “Ghosts, Miss Piper, are frightening at first—they are, after all, our dead. But ghosts are helpless. They can touch physical things—slam doors, break crockery, turn taps on and off. There was even a ghost I visited who pulled the bedcovers from the beds during the night, while the living were sleeping—as terrifying an experience as you can imagine. But they are trapped, performing the same acts over and over, unable to think or communicate. Do they have true awareness? Did Freddy’s brother choose to be there, or was his spirit ruled by base, inescapable compulsion? Are they imprints left behind of those who have gone—like a shadow, or an echo? The answer to that question is what has driven me for five years. If a ghost exists that possesses awareness, I want to meet it.”

“And you think you will meet such a thing at Falmouth House,” I said.

He smiled. “I hope, Miss Piper—I always hope. But I do not make conclusions until I see the proof. And speak of the devil—we are approaching Waringstoke even now.”

I could see very little of Waringstoke through the twilight: a few small houses, a church and churchyard. The road we traveled now was rutted and narrow. I saw no evidence of other motorcars, or any other type of vehicle. The few houses were old, set well back from the main road on winding drives; they were small, wood and stone, well maintained, with warm yellow light in the windows. We were
in a very old part of England, though not a rich one. It was a great contrast to London, with its metal and glass. Beyond the small village I could see rolling fields, green hills, and dense woods.

At length Mr. Gellis stopped the car. He came around and opened my door for me. I stepped out, stifling a groan as my legs cramped from the long drive. I stood in the sudden fall of silence and looked about me.

We were in the courtyard of a small inn; I could see a swan on the sign over the door, though I could not read the scripted writing in the dark. The inn stood two stories, one lumped atop the other, with sloping gables and mullioned windows from which dim light winked. I felt gravel through the thin soles of my shoes. The silence was absolute; not a sound could be heard but the faint rush of a breeze in the treetops and the faraway cry of a bird. After the noise of London, then the rumble of the motorcar all day, my ears were ringing, and as the darkening gloom settled over the landscape and the wind hushed through the far-off trees, it seemed eerie to me, as if the world had ended and all humanity had disappeared.

I turned to see Mr. Gellis looking at me. There was an expression of good humor on his face, mixed with a keen observance that I was learning to find familiar. “Lovely spot, isn’t it?” he said.

The wind touched my hair, and I pushed a few stray locks from my forehead. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in the country.”

His eyebrows went up. “Never?”

I shook my head. “I was raised in Brixton. I live in the city now.”

“A city girl,” he said, opening the boot of the motorcar and removing our bags. “Never to the seaside on holiday? Never to a cousin’s house on school break?”

I shook my head again.

“Well, then, I suppose this will be good for you.” He closed
the boot, and I paid silent tribute to his tact in not mentioning my lack of family and friends. “Fresh air, and all that. What is it they say? It will put some color in your cheeks?”

“Mr. Gellis.” A man came toward us from the inn, tugging on an overcoat and a gray cloth cap.

“Yes,” said Mr. Gellis. “You must be Mr. Ahearn.”

The man nodded, but did not smile. “Yes, sir. You may leave the bags there. I have a boy who will bring them upstairs for you.”

Inside, we passed the wide entrance to the taproom, which was beginning to fill. I caught a glimpse of low, dark wooden beams on the ceiling, heard a few chortles of male laughter and the clink of a glass. But I had no desire to go farther, and at a nod from Mr. Gellis I followed a maid up the stairs and to a small room, where my bags had been laid, and I could at last rest and freshen myself.

There was not much I could do. My blouse was hopelessly wrinkled, as was my skirt. My stockings needed rinsing, but I was not ready for bed just yet. I went to the small basin and splashed water on my face. In the cloudy mirror I did my best. I had my dark hair cut in a bob, as was the fashion of the time; and though, like most girls, I wished I could put my hair in pretty curls, styled close to my head, the way the movie stars did, I could not afford the style, the marcel iron, or the tins of gloss and packets of pins needed to maintain it. I also, in my low state of mind lately, could not bring myself to spend an hour a day on my hair, no matter how stylish I wished to look.

And so I had a simple bob, cropped below my earlobes. My hair was a chocolate brown color, nondescript, I thought, and it sat straight without much fuss, except when the breeze blew it into my eyes. On such occasions it was just long enough that I could tuck wayward strands behind my ears, if the wind was not too strong.

I combed a little water through my hair, trying to make it look fresh again. I had but a few cosmetics, dearly bought and sparsely used, so I did not use any now. My face would simply have to be good enough.

I was tired, and I briefly considered staying in my tiny room; but, looking around its sparse furniture, lit dimly by one shaky electric light in the corner, I changed my mind. The exhaustion in me fought with another emotion, a thrill of excitement that was unfamiliar to me. I wanted to know what came next. I needed direction from Mr. Gellis, anyway, as to what he would expect of me in the morning.