The Whispering House (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Café Talk

A
N HOUR AND A
half later, they were sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a little café near the cathedral square, enjoying a glass of Sprite to celebrate the end of exams. At least, that was what they'd told their mothers. In reality, Sam was just recovering from the shock of hearing what Inspector Bean had had to say.

“So Millie was right! It was arsenic that killed her, after all!”

“Shh! Keep your voice down!” hissed Hannah as half a dozen interested faces turned toward them from the surrounding tables.

“But that's incredible,” he muttered. “You know, I never thought . . .”

“Neither did I. Not really. Like you said, it was just too fantastic to actually work in real life.”

“But it did.” He grinned. “Well, congratulations, Sherlock Price!”

“Thanks.” Hannah smiled modestly.

“I suppose that's it, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've done it. Solved the problem. With luck, there won't be any more weird green dreams or magnetic messages, and all the radiators will stay attached to the walls.” He took a swig from the glass in front of him and glared at the woman opposite, who had apparently been attempting to follow this bizarre conversation. She blushed and looked away.

“I hope you're right.” Hannah sipped her own drink thoughtfully. “It's a pity we'll never know why she did it, though.”

“Who? The aunt?” He shrugged. “Maybe she wanted their money. Maisie was an only child, wasn't she? With her out of the way, there was only Mrs. Holt left. For all we know, she was going to be the next victim.”

Hannah nodded. “Maybe.”

“What's the matter? If I'd solved something like this, I'd be dancing on the table!”

“Just as well you didn't, then,” she said, glancing around at the other customers, who were now chatting quietly and enjoying the evening sunshine.

“You must be relieved, though?” he persisted.

“Yes. Yes, of course I am.” She swirled the Sprite, watching the tiny bubbles cluster against the side of the glass.

“By the way,” said Sam. “Nearly forgot. You missed a bit of drama after school this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“Henry Knight. Apparently when he got to school today, he had a black eye.”

She groaned. “Oh, no. Not again! That must be why he was with Mrs. Jennings when I got there. So someone must have persuaded him to go and get some help at last?”

“As soon as his teacher saw the eye, she frog- marched him straight to the nurse's office.”

“Good. About time too. Only . . . I'm sure Henry didn't have a black eye when I saw him.” Hannah was puzzled.

“Exactly. Mrs. Jennings spotted the problem straightaway and cured it.”

“How did she do that?”

“Eye makeup remover.”

“
What?
You mean . . . it wasn't a real black eye?”

He shook his head. “It was a fake. The same as all those other bruises.”

Hannah's eyes widened. “All this time, nobody suspected him?”

“Seems not.”

“But wait a minute!” She frowned. “How do you know all this?”

“One of his friends overheard the principal talking to Mrs. Jennings in her office. It turns out that Henry was just trying to get his parents' attention by making it look like he was being bullied, only they were both too busy to notice. Apparently they never come to any school functions, and Henry gets looked after by a babysitter a lot of the time. I guess he was hoping that one of the teachers would call home and tell them there was a problem, without necessarily getting him checked out by the nurse first.”

“Because he knew that she'd see through him straight off,” muttered Hannah. “But Henry must have known that people assumed he was being beaten up by Bruce.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe he didn't care. It wasn't exactly his fault, after all. He never accused him. Anyway, this will be all over the school by Monday morning, so Bruce won't be under suspicion anymore. He glanced at his watch. “We'd better get back. What time d'you want to meet at the fair tomorrow?”

“Don't care. How about eleven?”

“Okay. See you by the main tent.” He swallowed the last of his drink, got up, and went off hurriedly, leaving Hannah to make her own way, more slowly, back to Cowleigh Lodge.

Every night for the past three weeks, Hannah had drawn another line through the date on the calendar. It looked very different now from the blank page that had fluttered to the ground then, free at last from its long imprisonment. Now, after crossing off June 22, she opened the window wide, got into bed, and lay down. The heat in her bedroom was, if anything, even more oppressive than last night; the air heavier.

Sam had been right—for some reason she didn't feel quite so triumphant about her discovery as she'd have expected. Was it just the lack of sleep and hot, sticky atmosphere . . . or was it a nagging memory of something the bishop had said?

“Just supposing that you were somehow able to obtain proof that this aunt deliberately set out to kill her little niece. How would you feel about that?”

At the time, his words had puzzled her. Now she began to understand why he had asked that particular question.

Because however cleverly she might have traced the crime, just at that moment she couldn't shake off the feeling that it was simply a nasty little story that would have been better left buried. . . .

But within minutes, she was asleep and dreaming, not of Maisie, but of Henry Knight. He was being chased around the school playground by a witch. Only it wasn't a witch; it was Mrs. Jennings, the school nurse, and she had a big stick. “Come here, child!” she was shrieking. “I'm going to beat you until you're black and blue! Black and blue all over!”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Fair

T
HE MIDSUMMER FAIR WAS
held, as it had been for as long as anyone could remember, on an area of open ground known as John's Field, about half a mile from the city center. The fair was as old as the cathedral itself—some said even older, for though it had been granted a royal charter in 1215, it had probably been in existence long before then. At first it had simply been a market for horses and cattle, an annual event lasting three days in the third week of June, where bargains were made and scores settled, and fights broke out as ale flowed freely and tempers ran high. Thieves, peddlers, and traveling entertainers, attracted by the edgy, risk-taking mood of the crowd, flocked to the city in large numbers, knowing that in those three days, when the daylight lasted well into late evening, rich pickings were to be had that might keep a family in food over the long, harsh winter.

Little changed for seven hundred years or so. Then, around the middle of the twentieth century, the number of horses and cattle began to dwindle, the peddlers and entertainers increased, and now the ancient tradition had morphed into something more like a huge carnival, with roller coasters, Ferris wheels, bumper cars, and theme rides. But the jugglers, clowns, and acrobats still remained; the music of sedate merry-go-rounds and organ grinders jangled softly but discordantly with the blare of rock music from the loudspeaker system, and people in old-fashioned dress demonstrated weaving and chair mending alongside rifle ranges and carnival games with their displays of cheap jewelry, plastic dolls, and enormous overstuffed teddy bears.

It was all a bit of a mess, thought Hannah, picking her way through the crowds to the main tent, where she'd arranged to meet Sam. But quite a nice mess. As if the city's history, usually perceived as a three-dimensional image stretching back into a distant and indistinct blur, had suddenly been flattened out and allowed to splurge chaotically on the dry, sun-bleached grass of John's Field.

Sam was waiting for her. “You're late,” he said. “We've just missed the sky skimmer.”

“Oh? Well, we can go on it next time around, can't we?” She had no idea what a sky skimmer might be but didn't much like the sound of it. “How about the helter-skelter?”

“That's for little kids,” he said scornfully. “I wouldn't be seen dead on it. Come on, the waltzer's just finished. We'll go on that first.”

Hannah spent the next hour and a half with her eyes tight shut, clinging desperately to an iron bar while she hurtled around a succession of rides in a variety of different directions, most of them unexpected and all highly unsettling. Then she sent Sam off to do exactly the same thing all over again for another hour and a half while she let her stomach return to its correct position and observed the crowd. Before leaving home, she had put her sketch pad in the light shoulder bag that held her wallet, and now she took it out.

The fair was always a good opportunity for drawing people, as they were far too engrossed in the noise and spectacle to notice her, so she wandered over to a spot between a merry-go-round, a hoop-throwing game, and a Punch and Judy tent and settled down on the grass. The midday heat was sweltering, though now the sun was hidden behind a thick haze. Hannah wiped her sticky hands on a tissue, took out a pencil, and began to draw.

She drew anxious mothers watching nervous toddlers, anxious toddlers watching nervous mothers, grinning fathers watching laughing children, a gaggle of teenage girls pretending not to watch a group of teenage boys, a bored fairground attendant handing out hoops in threes and watching nobody in particular.

At last she stopped drawing and sat up straight, wiping the sweat from her forehead and stretching her limbs, which were stiff from being so long in one position.

“Can I see?” asked a voice from behind her.

Startled, she turned around. “Oh! Hi, Emily. How long have you been there?”

Emily chuckled. “About ten minutes. You were so busy, you didn't even hear me say hello.” She bent down and took the sketchbook from Hannah's hands, slowly turning the pages. “Mmm. Nice,” she said appreciatively. “Very nice, in fact. It's weird, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“These faces. Mothers, fathers, young kids, older kids. People must have watched each other just like that for centuries, at this fair. The rides and the stalls may have changed, but the people haven't, have they? I bet if you'd been here, say, six hundred years ago, the expressions you'd have drawn wouldn't have been so very different.”

Hannah shrugged. “I guess people are still the same. Relationships can't have changed much, even if everything else has.”

“No. Obviously.” Emily shook her head. “I don't know why it just struck me then. It must have something to do with this place, at this time of year. You feel kind of . . .
connected
. Know what I mean?”

Hannah looked at her curiously. It was unlike the practical, efficient Emily to let her imagination get the better of her. “Actually, I do know what you mean.” She smiled and stood up. “I'm going to find Sam. D'you want to join us? We'll probably do the games and stuff this afternoon.”

“No thanks,” Emily said quickly. “You'll have a better time on your own. Anyway, I haven't got enough cash for that kind of thing. There are going to be displays and things later on, though. Maybe see you then.”

Hannah watched her walk away and was about to set off in search of Sam when his mother approached, a twin holding either hand.

“If you're looking for Sam, he's over there.” Eve jerked her head in the general direction of the fast rides. “Hurtling around like a lunatic on those bumper cars. I'm just trying to keep these two out of trouble till their big moment.”

Jack and Jessie were looking perfectly docile, as usual, though oddly dressed. Jack had long shorts, jaggedly cut off below the knee, with a little green vest and a hat with a feather in it, and Jessie was wearing a lacy white blouse beneath a flowered pinafore, a couple of sizes too large and roughly tacked up at the hem.

“Costume parade,” explained Eve.

“Ah! Hansel and Gretel?” hazarded Hannah.

“Peter Pan and Wendy.”

“Of course. Sorry. What time is the parade?”

“Six thirty in front of the main tent. Do me a favor and make sure Sam's there, will you? I don't want him flying around on some infernal machine when he's supposed to be watching his brother and sister.”

“If necessary I'll drag him there by his ankles,” promised Hannah.

“Good girl. See you later.” Eve marched off with the twins trotting by her side like a pair of obedient little dogs. “Good luck!” Hannah called after them.

When she reached the bumper cars, Sam was just climbing out of a car and searching his pocket for change, so Hannah hauled him off before he had a chance to pay for another ride. “Lunchtime,” she said firmly.

They bought hamburgers, fries, and two cans of Coke from a nearby stand and ate standing up, chatting with a little group of friends from school. Afterward, Sam and Hannah wandered among the amusement stands, proceeding to spend a lot of time, and a surprising amount of cash, lobbing coconuts, throwing hoops, attempting to get Ping-Pong balls into goldfish bowls, and testing their strength with a mallet. Three hours later, Sam was the proud owner of a china dog, a pencil case shaped like a fish, and a giant inflatable rabbit. Hannah had only one trophy, an ugly glass vase, and that only because she'd accidentally collared it with a hoop while aiming at a little green jug next to it.

“What are we going to do with all this junk?” Sam looked irritably at his armful of prizes as though it had landed on him uninvited.

Hannah giggled. He looked like one of Santa's elves unable to locate the right chimney. “We could go and find somewhere to sit down, maybe.” She glanced at her watch and gave a guilty start. “Hey! I just remembered I told your mom we'd be at the costume parade. We'd better go and get a seat on the grass.”

Sam groaned. “Do we have to? It'll be the same boring old thing we've seen every year. Anyway, Jack and Jessie won't know if we're there or not, with all those other kids around.”

“That's not the point. Your mother'll know, and I promised her.” Hannah led the way firmly through the crowded field toward the big striped tent where people went to report lost property and missing children. Just behind it was a bandstand, where men were seated in tight uniforms, mopping their brows and getting instruments into position.

Sam and Hannah piled their winnings in a heap and slumped down on the tired, flattened grass.

“Aha! I thought I recognized two familiar faces!”

A small, neat figure was approaching, carrying a plaid rug and a wicker basket that seemed to have sprouted leaves.

“Oh. Hello, Miss Murdoch.” Hannah smiled at her. “Would you like to join us?” She moved away from Sam, patting the ground between them, and Millie gratefully spread out her rug. “Well, if you don't mind . . .” She put the basket on the rug and sat down next to it. “I have just been buying one or two medicinal plants from a stand over there. They are particularly effective when gathered just now. In fact, there used to be a tradition of throwing certain herbs onto the great bonfires that used to be lit on Midsummer's Eve, as a protection against evil spirits. Afterward, the young men would take turns leaping over the flames. It was said that he who leaped highest would determine the height of the harvest that year!” Miss Murdoch's eyes lit up at the thought of what sounded to Hannah like a thoroughly dangerous game.

“Didn't people sometimes, um, misjudge it?”

“What? Oh, quite possibly, I should think.” Millie looked quite unconcerned. “Such a magical time of year, don't you think?” she continued, eyes still shining. “The great solstice! One can almost
feel
the earth holding its breath, pausing on its axis—just for a moment—as it waits for the sun to begin its slow decline into the dark night of winter!”

Hannah smiled politely and Sam stared, but Miss Murdoch continued undaunted, her tone dramatically lowered. “The longest night of the year—when we wake from our dreams to see the world through new eyes. Ah! Shakespeare knew a thing or two about Midsummer!”

“Though I believe the action of the play takes place in May, not June,” observed a mild voice from behind. All three of them turned to see the bishop, who had arrived unnoticed with his wife and a couple of folding garden chairs, which he began to set up on the grass.

Miss Murdoch looked slightly put out at being corrected on a technical point, but she knew a bishop when she saw one and gave him a rather frosty smile.

“And of course,” he went on, easing his large frame onto the flimsy wooden one, “today is also the Eve of the Feast of St. John the Baptist, for whom this field is named.”

“John's Field?” said Hannah, surprised. “I never knew that.”

“I did!” said a voice nearby.

“You would,” muttered Sam, instantly recognizing Emily's bright, confident tones.

Hannah dug him sharply in the ribs. “Hi, Emily, you found us! Come and sit down.”

“Thanks.” Emily settled herself on the ground next to the bishop's wife.

“And do you know how the field got its name?” The bishop smiled encouragingly, unaware that when it came to the imparting of historical information, or in fact any information at all, Emily never needed to be asked twice.

“Of course. There's a legend that once there was a holy well in this field, dedicated to St. John the Baptist. The Baptist's Well, it was called. People came here at Midsummer to drink the water and be healed, because it was at this time of the year that the power was said to be at its strongest.”

“Quite right, my dear.” The bishop nodded approvingly. “Though unfortunately, there is no trace of a well here now. The legend dates from the Middle Ages, when the land around here was much wilder than it is now. This field is thought to be all that is left of a much larger wooded area that gradually disappeared as the city expanded to the west. If there was ever a holy well here, I daresay it is buried now under a great deal of concrete.” He smiled sadly.

“But the magic will still be there,” said Miss Murdoch, unwilling to let the bishop have it all his own way. “You can't destroy a powerful force like that!”

“Magic?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I thought it was miracles that we were discussing.”

“Ah! What's in a name? The thing is that those healing properties were discovered long before any saint came along to claim them. The force is strongest at this time of year because the earth must obey the commands of its master, the sun. The pagans were here first, bishop. You can't deny that!”

“I'm not denying anything,” protested the bishop, wiping his brow with a large white handkerchief. “It's far too hot.” He turned to Sam and lowered his voice. “I noticed you on those bumper things earlier. Couldn't help thinking it looked like a lot of fun.”

“Fantastic,” agreed Sam. “You should try it sometime.”

“Really? D'you think so? But . . . aren't those cars rather small for someone like me?”

“They're built for two. You could take one on your own.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” The bishop's face brightened. “It would have to be at a time when there weren't many people about, of course, like at the end of the day, perhaps, or—”

“Don't be ridiculous, Michael,” said his wife, overhearing the conversation and rolling her eyes good-humoredly. “Whatever would people think if they saw you hurtling around a fairground attraction like some teenage hooligan? It would be all around the diocese in no time. And just imagine if the local paper got a picture!”

“I suppose you're right.” He sighed regretfully as the band struck up a military march.