The Whispering House (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Connecting

“I
JUST DON'T GET
it,” said Hannah at last. “No one who wanted to keep the stuff in that box could possibly have harmed the child it all belonged to. Mom was right. It's a
mother's
box.”

“Well, where does that leave us? Are you suggesting that Laetitia wasn't Maisie's aunt at all, but her
mother
?” He turned the photograph over, and silently they examined the faces of the pretty child, the ugly woman.

“No.” Hannah shook her head. “It's impossible. And not only because Maisie's face is nothing like Laetitia's—she's the image of Mrs. Holt. You can see that if she'd lived, she would have been just like her.”

“Only she didn't live,” said Sam, lightly tracing the outline of the little girl with his finger. “What did Sherlock Holmes say? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however
improbable
, must be the truth.'”

“Which is?”

“That if Laetitia Holt didn't poison Maisie, then somebody else did.” The stark sentence lay between them, flat and uncompromising as the photograph.

“But Inspector Bean said that the hair sample showed prolonged exposure to arsenic poisoning,” Hannah muttered. “That means that only someone with very close access to Maisie would have had the chance to do it without being detected.”

“Exactly.” His voice was grim.

“You mean . . . ?”

He nodded. “I think it has to be one of the people in this photograph.”

Again they examined the stern faces, the stiff poses. Sam shook his head. “They all look like murderers!”

“They just look scared. I don't suppose they'd ever been photographed before.”

“Scared of a man with a camera? Maybe,” he mused. “But if we're right, one of them had enough guts to slowly and deliberately poison a little kid. They must have known the risk they were taking. If anyone had found out, well . . .” He drew a finger swiftly underneath his chin to indicate a grisly death.

“Why, though? There'd have to be a motive. What would any of these people have had to gain from killing Maisie?”

“How about that old lady? Could you talk to her again?”

“And ask her if her grandmother might have been a poisoner? Are you crazy? Anyway, she was only a child herself when she heard about it, and it sounds as if she just swallowed the idea that Miss Holt was responsible, like everyone else seems to have done, including anyone who might have employed her later. According to Mrs. Wilson, she never found work anywhere else job and died soon after in the workhouse.”

“So whoever it was did a good job of framing her.” Sam's voice was somber.

“And we're not going to find out who, are we? Not now?” Hannah pushed the photograph away and ran her fingers through her hair. “I wish I'd never discovered all that about the arsenic! What good has it done? Just given us a mystery we've no hope of solving!”

Sam didn't reply. He glanced around the kitchen, so innocent now in its bland, modern efficiency. Yet less than an hour ago it had been a living nightmare. Again he had the sense that the house had been trying to tell them something. It was as if the absence of electrical power had stirred a memory within its walls, allowing the candlelight briefly to re-create a moment in time that, with the return of the harsh light, had now dissolved, perhaps never to return.

But he couldn't share any of this with Hannah because, unlike him, she had to go on living here. That was when he remembered the Scrabble board. He hadn't put it away after the game, so it must be still there. Thank goodness he'd thought of it before she saw it first!

“D'you mind if I leave you to clear the supper things away?” he said casually. “I should just call Mom and tell her I'm staying here tonight.”

“You don't need to. My mother said she'd let her know.”

“Oh? Well, I'll call her anyway, just so she doesn't worry.”

Fortunately, Hannah seemed too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice anything suspicious in Sam's sudden display of consideration for his mother's feelings, or his need for privacy. She simply nodded and began to gather up the plates and bowls.

The Scrabble board was just as they'd left it, the unfinished game with its random selection of words sprawled unevenly across the grid. He was about to pick it up and tip the tiles back into the box when he paused. He hadn't taken much notice at the time, but now it struck him as odd that so many of Hannah's words were short—two or three letters at most. And the word
THE
appeared twice. Then he noticed something else. Apart from one tiny exception, every single contribution from her had been set down horizontally.

There was a hot, prickling feeling in his forehead—half excitement, half fear—as he carefully removed his own words, leaving only hers. And what he saw was this.

THE

ANSWER       IN

                    S

THE

FLYING

BIRD

“Sam? Are you still on the phone?” Hannah was calling from the kitchen.

“Just saying good night to the twins!” he called back. “Won't be long.” He seized the board, slid the tiles back into the box, folded the square of cardboard over the top, and replaced the lid. Feverishly, his eyes scanned the room. A picture on the wall showed seagulls wheeling over a stormy sea, but they were lightly sketched and indistinct. In any case, there were several of them, not just one, and they all looked much the same. There was a china bird on the mantelpiece, but a quick examination showed nothing unusual. It was simply a china bird. What, then? Had he missed something? Was there still some relic from those minutes when the house had been without electricity—an object from the past, left behind, stranded out of time? But however hard he searched, there was nothing else in that room remotely like a flying bird.

An unpleasant thought struck him. Was it some kind of joke? He'd heard of mischievous spirits who hid possessions for weeks until their owners eventually found them in the place they'd looked a hundred times. Supposing Maisie had just been playing with them? She was only a kid, after all.

After a few moments he put the Scrabble box back on the shelf and walked slowly back to the kitchen.

“I've been thinking,” said Hannah, frowning as she put away cutlery in a drawer, “that it's odd we just accepted the fact that whatever bad thing happened to Maisie, her aunt must have been responsible. Why did we never question it?”

“Because, according to that old lady you talked to, the servants never questioned it. Laetitia'd done all the nursing, even tried to get Maisie moved to her own room, so it must have looked like she was trying to get total control over her. Anyway, they all thought she was a witch, didn't they? Let's face it, she looks like one! And didn't you say Maisie had those weird bruises that suddenly appeared overnight?”

Hannah nodded. What had Mrs. Wilson said? That Maisie had been, literally, black and blue. For some reason, the words bothered her. Why? She wandered slowly back and forth, putting things away, wiping down surfaces, only half concentrating on what she was doing.

“Though if we're right, and it was really one of these people trying to frame her—” Sam broke off, as Hannah had suddenly spun around and was agitatedly waving a dishcloth at him. “What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Listen!
Who else do we know with a load of un-explained bruises?
”

“Huh?” He stared at her. “Oh. Henry Knight, you mean? But those weren't real bruises; they were just fake. They were eye makeup, for heaven's sake!”

“And what color is eye makeup?”

“You're asking me?” He looked bewildered. “Well, black, I guess. And blue. Gray, maybe. Dark colors, anyway.”

“And what else did we find in the attic, besides the doll?”

He screwed up his eyes, trying to remember. “Oh! That paint box?”

“Exactly! And it was all the
dark
colors that were used up!”

For once Sam was silent, and an image seemed to rise before them, of a long-dead little girl, hiding herself away, secretly mixing her paints with water, artfully dabbing them onto her smooth, white skin.

Then Hannah shook her head. “It doesn't prove anything. For all we know, I was right and Maisie just liked painting gloomy pictures. And if we're also right about the nightmares being hers, then she would have had a good reason for being depressed.”

“A good enough reason to deliberately frame her aunt?”

“We don't know that she did.”

“No? Henry did, though, didn't he?” said Sam. “He knew perfectly well that Bruce would get the blame for his injuries because he was the obvious suspect. He
looks
like a bully, just like Laetitia
looked
like a witch. There was no need for either of them to do more than throw out odd hints. Natural prejudice would take care of the rest.”

“And in Laetitia's case, that prejudice led to her death in the workhouse,” muttered Hannah, shuddering. “But why? What could have made her hate her aunt so much?”

“Maybe she didn't,” said Sam.

“Huh?”

“Think about it. Did Henry fake those bruises because he hated Bruce? He hardly knows him.”

“Of course. But he had another motive. He was just trying to get his parents' attention,” said Hannah.

“Exactly!”

“What? Oh!” Her jaw dropped. “You think Maisie could have been . . . ?”

But Sam was thoughtfully drawing the photograph toward him. “I think it's time we had a look at the
other
person in the picture.”

Chapter Thirty

Mrs. Wilson

“T
HIS IS MAISIE'S MOTHER,
right?” Sam pointed to the dark-haired woman—one of the seated figures in the little group.

“Yes.” Hannah had drawn up a chair next to him, and together they looked closely at the pretty face, so like Maisie's own.

“What do we know about her?”

“Not a lot. Mrs. Wilson hardly mentioned her.” Now that she considered this, it seemed odd that such an important figure in Maisie's life had been left out of the picture. In fact, she thought, scrutinizing the slightly abstracted expression, it almost looked as though Mrs. Holt hadn't wanted to be in the picture at all.

“Do you know what happened to her after Maisie died?” asked Sam.

“She left and the house was sold. I suppose it had too many sad memories for her.”

“Where did she go?”

“I've no idea. You're not suggesting that Maisie's
mother
had anything to do with what happened to her, are you?” She looked at him in alarm.

“I'm not suggesting anything. I just think it's weird that we know so little about this woman.”

Hannah cast her mind back to the conversation with Pat Wilson. There had been something slightly strange about it. A sense that she was holding something back. Something that disturbed her. “You're right,” she said slowly. “I've a feeling Mrs. Wilson didn't want to talk about Maisie's mother.”

Sam looked at his watch. “It's ten forty-five. Too late to call her now. We'll have to wait till tomorrow morning.”

Hannah nodded dejectedly. The she suddenly sat up straight. “No, we won't! She told me her phone's always switched off when she's asleep and I could call her any time I liked.”

“Well, then.”

“D'you want me to do it? What shall I say?”

“Just ask her what she knows about Mrs. Holt.”

Hannah didn't argue with him, but she felt slightly ridiculous calling someone up at this time of night to ask about a woman who'd probably been dead for a century. Nevertheless, she fetched her cell phone, set it on speaker so that Sam could hear the conversation, and pressed the number.

“Pat Wilson.” The voice answered almost immediately.

“Hello, Mrs. Wilson. Sorry to call so late. It's Hannah Price here. I came to see you last weekend to ask about Cowleigh Lodge. Do you remember?”

“Of course. What can I do for you, dear? Nothing wrong, is there?”

“Not exactly. I just wondered if you or Mrs. Grocott could tell us anything about Maisie's mother.'

“What did you what to know?”

Was it Hannah's imagination, or had the tone changed, very slightly? “Um, anything, really. What kind of a person was she?”

“She was a beautiful woman. But you can see that from the photo, can't you?”

“Yes. Of course. Only she looks a bit, well,
distant,
really. Were she and Maisie close, do you know?”

“Close? They were mother and daughter, weren't they?”

Hannah looked helplessly at Sam. This wasn't getting them anywhere!

“Ask her how she coped with Maisie's illness!” he whispered urgently.

Hannah opened her mouth to speak into the phone, but Mrs. Wilson cut in first.

“It's all right. I heard that.”

There was a pause, long enough for them to look anxiously at each other, wondering if they'd been cut off, before Mrs. Wilson spoke again. Her voice sounded tight and unsteady, as if she was trying to suppress some strong emotion.

“Listen. I've no idea why you want to know all this, but since you do, I'll tell you. Only don't blame me if you wish you'd never asked!”

They waited, Sam's eyes wide with anticipation, Hannah feeling a mixture of excitement and dread. Then the voice began again.

“Two weeks before Maisie died, her mother ran off with a traveling salesman. It was a terrible scandal at the time—in all the newspapers, I believe. The story went that they'd been planning it for months but never told a soul. She left no note—nothing but a pile of debts and a houseful of servants with nothing to live on. But the thing no one could forgive her for was that she left behind her little daughter. She knew Maisie had only a few weeks to live, but she was so taken up with that worthless scoundrel that she left her without even saying good-bye! And in the end, there was scarcely money enough to bury the poor little mite. The servants had to make up the shortfall themselves, and it was hard enough for them as it was.” Mrs. Wilson's voice was shaking now. “The worst of it was that Maisie adored her mother. Worshipped the ground she walked on. She'd have done anything to please her, to make her love her in return, but it didn't make any difference. Caroline Holt took less notice of her than if she'd been a stray dog—hardly went near her all the time she was ill. She never cared tuppence for the child!”

There was silence for a few seconds after she'd finished. Then Hannah spoke. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I'm sorry if it's upset you, talking about all this.” It was a lame apology, but what else could she say?

“That's all right, dear.” The voice seemed calmer now. “It's silly, isn't it? Getting worked up about a tragedy that happened so long ago. But the thought of that little girl going through so much suffering without a word of comfort from the one person in the world she longed to hear it from . . . well, the story has always haunted me. There's something terrible about a mother who doesn't love her child!”

And then Hannah remembered how Mrs. Wilson had said that she and her husband had wanted children but hadn't been able to have any. No wonder she'd been so angry and upset about what had happened to Maisie.

Hannah thanked her again, said good night, and hung up. Sam was looking bleak, and neither of them spoke for a few moments.

“We should have listened to Millie Murdoch,” he said gloomily. “When we told her about all the things going on in the house, she said it sounded like attention seeking. That was the clue to it all, just like it was with Henry Knight.”

“And even before that, the doll should have warned us something was wrong,” muttered Hannah. “Remember how we found it? Just chucked there like a worthless piece of junk! What mother would leave her kid's precious possession to gather dust until some stranger discovered it a hundred and forty years later!”

They sat side by side, silently considering the sad little tale. Then Sam stood up.

“We're forgetting something,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and shaking his head impatiently. “Millie Murdoch said that the arsenic would have to have been added to a person's food or drink over a long time, didn't she?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that lady you spoke to said that Mrs. Holt never went near Maisie when she was ill. More than that, she doesn't seem to have taken any notice of her at all. In other words, she may have been a lousy mother, but there's no way she could have been our murderer!”