The Whispering House (6 page)

“Where's Maisie's father?” asked Hannah. “Do you know why he wasn't in the photo?”

“Captain Holt was a soldier. He was away a lot, fighting some war or other, and got himself killed soon after Maisie died. I rather doubt he even knew what had happened to her, which was just as well, considering.” Again Mrs. Wilson frowned, and Hannah sensed it was the right time to ask the question she'd tried to put to Mrs. Grocott.

“Your mother said that after Maisie died, there was talk among the servants. Do you know what she meant?”

Mrs. Wilson glanced at the old lady in the chair, whose eyes were closed once more. “You've got to remember,” she began slowly, “that feelings run high when a child dies. And everyone loved Maisie, I believe. The trouble was, so far as I can tell, that this Miss Holt took all the nursing on herself, and when the little girl died, everyone looked for someone to blame.”

“They thought she'd let her die unnecessarily?”

“Worse than that.”

Hannah stared at her. “You can't mean . . . ?”

Mrs. Wilson nodded. “It seems crazy, doesn't it? What did she have to gain from the child's death? All the same, the servants got it into their heads that she'd deliberately done away with that little girl.”

“But were they right?”

Mrs. Wilson simply spread her hands helplessly. “How can anyone be certain, after all this time? Nothing was ever proved, that's all I know.”

“So if she did”—Hannah swallowed—“deliberately kill Maisie, she got away with it?”

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. Miss Holt might not have been found guilty officially, but the result was much the same as if she had been. Word got around, you see, and after Maisie died, no one would employ her aunt. I believe eventually she ended up in the workhouse, and she died there shortly after.”

Hannah shivered. She had heard of conditions in Victorian workhouses. Then a thought struck her. “Did Maisie's mother think she was guilty too? Is that why she couldn't stay on at Cowleigh Lodge?”

Mrs. Wilson's face flushed. “No one stayed on after Maisie died. Mrs. Holt moved away and the house was sold.”

Hannah looked curiously at her, wondering why she seemed suddenly ill at ease. Was it the thought of Maisie's mother, living out the rest of her life with her only child dead and no husband to support her? Whatever the truth, it was a depressing story. But there was still something she needed to know.

“Did Maisie . . . did she ever say she had dreams? Nightmares?”

“Nightmares? Not that I know of. What kind of nightmares?”

“About being in a wood. Surrounded by leaves.”

“I daresay she might have been delirious toward the end. Is that what you mean?”

“No. I don't think so. It doesn't matter.” Hannah was about to get up and go, but then she hesitated. “Your mother must have talked to you a lot about all this—for you to know so much?”

Mrs. Wilson nodded slowly. “She has. But, funnily enough, not when I was younger. It's only been in the last ten years or so, as her short-term memory's worsened, that all this past stuff has come out. And I believe it was the same with
her
mother. Grandma never said a word about it till she was quite an old lady, apparently, but it must have been preying on her mind all those years. Oh, well.” She smiled sadly. “That'll be the end of it now, anyway. I've no children to tell the story to. My husband and I would dearly have liked some, but we were never blessed.”

There was a slightly awkward silence. Then Hannah got up to go. “Would you mind if I borrowed this for a while? I'll take care of it.” She pointed to the photograph.

“Of course you can. Hold on to it for as long as you want. And listen”—she looked anxious—“maybe I shouldn't have told you all that about Miss Holt, not when you're living in the house. It won't give
you
nightmares, will it?”

“Well, if it does, it's not your fault. I asked for information, and you gave it to me!”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Wilson still looked worried. “Tell you what—I'll give you my cell-phone number. I'm a poor sleeper—comes of living with Mother, I expect. She naps during the day and then wonders why she's awake half the night. If you need to talk, just call me. If I'm not asleep, the phone'll be switched on.”

Hannah thanked her. But while she was copying the number, she realized there was one obvious question she still hadn't asked. “Apart from Miss Holt being difficult, and taking over the nursing, what else made the servants suspicious of her?”

Pat Wilson frowned. Then she sighed. “Oh, well, I've told you so much already, I don't suppose one more thing will make much difference. It's just that from time to time, I believe Maisie was covered in bruises. Black and blue, she was. Only nobody could ever explain why.”

“And they thought Miss Holt had caused them?” Hannah was shocked. “Did she beat her?”

“I don't think so. That was the point, you see. The bruises just suddenly appeared overnight.”

“Angelina!”

They both turned to stare at Mrs. Grocott, who was wide awake now, a look of triumph on her face.

“No, no, Mother,” her daughter said patiently. “Miss Holt wasn't called Angelina. You know that.”

“Not
her
. Angelina was the name of the little girl's dolly! Knew I'd get there in the end.”

Mrs. Wilson chuckled. “So that's what you've been trying to remember, is it? We were wondering what it was all about.”

But Hannah refused to be distracted. “You were saying? About the bruises? And the servants?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed nervously. “I expect it was just a lot of nonsense, but for some reason the staff all got it into their heads that Miss Holt was a witch!”

Chapter Eleven

Drawing

“A
WITCH! ARE YOU
serious?” Sam had arrived after lunch, and as soon as her mother went out to the shops, Hannah had taken him straight up to her bedroom, where she had filled him in on what she had discovered about Cowleigh Lodge.

“That's what she said.”

“Just because of a few bruises? Why couldn't the kid have gotten them playing in the garden?”

“They appeared
overnight
, Sam. She wouldn't have been playing outside in the middle of the night!”

“Maybe they had some weird connection with her illness?”

“Or maybe the aunt had,” she said darkly.

Sam frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up in ginger tufts. Then he sighed. “Okay. I think I get the picture. You're saying that this is what those dreams are all about? That what really scared Maisie wasn't some character in a book, but her own aunt?”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? Maisie suspected her aunt all the time, but never let on. She suppressed it, which is why it could only come out in her dreams!”

“Didn't you say there was a photograph?” Sam said at last.

“It's downstairs. I'll fetch it.” When she returned, he took the photo from her and peered at it closely. He pointed to the little girl. “This is Maisie, right?”

“Yes. And that's the aunt, sitting next to her.”

Sam opened his eyes wide in mock horror. “Ugh! She's hideous! No wonder the kid was scared of her. She's enough to give anyone nightmares, just looking at her!”

“I suppose she couldn't exactly help the fact she was ugly.”

“It could give her a motive, though.” He grinned. “Maybe she was jealous. Maisie was quite a looker, wasn't she?”

Hannah nodded thoughtfully, and for the first time she looked at the photograph properly, in a way she hadn't had a chance to do with Mrs. Wilson there.

Apart from Maisie's mother, who hardly looked as though she was in the picture at all, the grown-ups had a stiff seriousness about them. Photographs at that time were clearly no laughing matter, and the servants all gave an impression that they were facing a firing squad. Only Maisie looked alive—vivacious. Hannah looked at the small face, shining with vitality even through the faded sepia: at the lustrous dark brown hair, the pretty white dress with its sash and deep hem. Then she caught her breath.

“What's the matter?” Sam looked up.

Without replying, Hannah ran out of the room and galloped down the stairs. A moment later she was back, holding the doll.

“Look at it!” She thrust it into Sam's hands and he stared in bewilderment.

“What am I meant to be looking at?”

“Her dress!

Sam obediently looked at the doll's dress, then back at Hannah, but his eyes were still baffled. “I don't get it. What's so special about this dress?”

“Now look at the photo.
What is Maisie wearing?
”

Still frowning, he did as he was told. Then, suddenly, light dawned. “It's . . . the same dress.”

“Exactly! You can't see from the photo that the sash is blue, like the ribbon, but I wouldn't mind betting it was. And that's not all. The doll used to be blond. This dark hair has been stuck over the top. And the eyes were blue once, only someone's painted them brown!”

The baffled expression was back on Sam's face. “Why would they do that?”

“Don't you see? This doll has been made to look exactly like Maisie!”

“Well, so what? It's the kind of thing girls do, isn't it?”

“And then stick pins in themselves?”
Hannah thrust the doll into his hands and at the same time pulled the dress up over the doll's head, revealing the odd yellowish-brown marks, each with its telltale puncture. “Angelina,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Mrs. Grocott said that Maisie called it Angelina.”

It. She'd said “it” again. Not “her.” The hard little word lay between them. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Suddenly Sam dropped the doll. It landed on the floor with a soft thud, and Hannah looked up at him.

“Hey! What's the matter? You okay?” His face had gone deathly white, but sweat beaded his forehead and his hands were shaking.

“Please tell me this isn't what I think it is.”

She didn't reply. Instead she stared at the doll where it had fallen, the dress rucked up to its waist, the painted smile no longer demure but shameless, immodest . . .
bad
.

The beginnings of realization came like a trickle of icy water. Quickly, the trickle became a flood. “Of course! It's an
image
, isn't it? Like a voodoo doll?”

“I don't see what else it can be.” Now that Sam was no longer holding the doll, he'd stopped shaking, but his face was still pale. “It's dressed like Maisie, its eyes are like hers, and so is its hair. It's even got her bruises. No wonder it feels evil. It's had a curse put on it!”

“But could this be what killed her?”

“I don't know, but one thing's for sure—it wasn't meant to do her any good!”

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Then Sam pulled himself together. “You need to get rid of it,” he said roughly.

“How?”

“Who cares? Burn it. Throw it in the garbage.”

“I . . . I can't do that.”

“Why not, for heaven's sake? The kid's
dead
, isn't she? You can't do her any more harm now!”

Hannah swallowed. “I . . . just can't do it, Sam,” she muttered.

“Okay, then. We put it back where we found it.” Without waiting for a response, he snatched up the limp creature and went out onto the landing. The board covering the entrance to the loft hadn't been screwed back but lay against the brown-painted door. Sam pushed it aside and walked quickly up the stairs. Hannah started to follow, but he turned around. “Go and get that toolbox.”

When she returned, he was already back on the landing, waiting for her. In silence, she watched him take the screwdriver and replace the screws, one by one. Then he straightened up again and breathed out, hard. She knew from his face that he was thinking the same as she was. It had felt unpleasantly like sealing up a tomb.

Sam didn't stay long that day. The discovery had shaken them both too much for normal conversation, and he left soon after four, telling her that she should call him if she needed to.

In the evening, her mother settled down in a chair with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. Hannah sat with her geography textbook, trying to memorize facts about population density, but she still felt jittery and fidgeted, unable to concentrate.

At last Mom looked up. “Why don't you do some drawing?” she suggested. “I haven't seen you take out your sketchbook for ages.”

It was true that the last time she had tried to draw had been the day she'd gone for a walk, the day she'd discovered Maisie's grave in the churchyard. Since then, she simply hadn't felt like sketching, which was unusual. Maybe this was a good time to start again. It might take her mind off things. But what to draw? She needed a subject.

Still wondering, she walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom and pulled the sketch pad out of her schoolbag. Then her eye fell on the photograph, lying just where she and Sam had left it, with the face of little Maisie Holt shining out like a bright candle from the somber darkness of the unsmiling figures surrounding her.

Of course! She had found her subject. Just for a second she hesitated, torn between memory of the awful thing in the loft and the immediate, urgent desire to do what she loved best. Then she picked up the photograph, seized her sketch pad, and ran back downstairs.

Mom looked up and smiled as Hannah entered the room.

Settling herself into the chair, she took a long, searching look at the face before her. Again she was struck by its intelligence and vitality. Could she get that onto the page?

But as soon as her pencil began to move, she felt the old, familiar wash of creativity surrounding her, deepening, like warm, sweet water. And then she was afloat.

She worked for perhaps twenty minutes, occasionally correcting a line here, a curve there. But for the most part, the likeness flowed surprisingly easily. Once the face was complete, Hannah added the rest of the figure. Then she sat back and observed what she had done.

It was good. Very good, in fact. She sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. She was used to the sudden release of tension after drawing something that had absorbed her thoroughly. But this was slightly different, though she couldn't quite analyze why.

She opened her eyes and looked again at the face she'd drawn. It looked back at her. Why did she find that gaze disconcerting, suddenly?