The Whispering House (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Message Received

W
EDNESDAY BEGAN ORDINARILY ENOUGH.
The weather was still hot and dry and, according to the forecast, set to remain so until the weekend. Hannah had slept well. Walking to school, she felt well prepared for the day's exam.

The French exam was straightforward, and by the time she put down her pen at twelve thirty, she knew she'd done okay and could enjoy lunch with a clear conscience. There was no exam set for the afternoon—instead the class was expected to do some private study in the library, and at one thirty she and Sam sat down side by side to get ready for the following day. Hannah had made some notes in her English notebook the night before and now opened it.

For one puzzling moment she thought she'd made a mistake and picked up someone else's book. But there was her name on the front, and a brief glance over the notes showed her own work of the night before. There was no mistake.

Only, some way below her own writing, in a looped, spidery script, three words were penciled.

Let me go

Trying to control a rising sense of panic, she sought an explanation. Somebody at school had taken the notebook and played a trick on her. Or maybe someone had picked up her notebook by accident and written in it before realizing their mistake. But even as she tried to convince herself, she knew it wasn't possible. The book had been in her schoolbag ever since she'd put it there last night. And her schoolbag hadn't left her side all morning.

Hannah stared at the words as they swam before her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Roughly she pushed the notebook away from her, put her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands.

Sam dug her in the ribs. “What's the matter?” he whispered. “You okay?”

Instead of replying, Hannah raised her face and thrust the notebook toward him. She saw his eyes flicker over her own work, then open wider when he came to what was underneath.

“What is this?”

She opened her mouth but didn't trust herself to speak.

“Hey! What's the matter? Why are you upset?” he mouthed. “It's only . . .” He stopped. He peered closer at the old-fashioned lettering, then back to her stricken face, then, for longer this time, at the page. She heard him catch his breath. “Hannah?” he said softly. “Who wrote this?”

Sam hardly ever used her name when talking to her. The fact that he did so now was a sign that he knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Suddenly the image of those magnetic letters sprang before her eyes, and a horrible connection began to form in her brain. She stared at him in panic.

“Come on,” he muttered, getting up and grabbing her elbow with one hand and the notebook with the other. “Let's get out of here.”

He shepherded her out of the library, along the corridor, and into an empty classroom. Then he drew up two chairs, and they sat down facing each other.

“It was her, Sam. Maisie wrote it!” Hannah blurted, her voice overloud now that whispering was no longer necessary.

For once he didn't contradict her, but held the book in his lap and stared soberly at the page. “What does it mean?”

“I don't know, but there was something a bit like it last night, only I tried to tell myself it had nothing to do with Maisie.” She told him about the magnetic letters.

“Help me. Let me go,” he muttered. “Is that all?”

She nodded. Then she caught her breath. “No! I've just remembered! On Sunday night, when I went out to the kitchen, four of the letters were grouped together. H-A-N-A. Like someone had been trying to write my name but couldn't spell properly.”

“Mmm . . . guess that one could have been just coincidence?”

“That's what I thought then. But there's something else I haven't told you about. Like with those magnetic letters, I've been trying to explain it rationally, but I . . . I think, now, it's all connected.” Then she told him about the smashed pitcher and the jar, the odd electrical outages, and the rapidly deteriorating state of the upstairs part of the house.

“Are you saying it's Maisie doing all this? Pulling radiators off walls? Damaging tiles and wallpaper?”

“I don't know,” Hannah muttered. Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.

“Have the dreams stopped now?”

“They seem to have.”

“And these messages? When was the first one?”

“Sunday night.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why
then
? You've been living in that house over a month. Then suddenly you get three weird messages in the space of four days. There must be a reason.”

She stared at him. He seemed to be trying to apply logic to something that was essentially illogical.

“Think back,” he said sharply. “I left you on Saturday afternoon. What happened between then and Sunday evening?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing important. On Sunday morning I did some work, and then we went out for lunch. In the afternoon I did some more work. It was after that, when I went out to the kitchen to make tea, that I saw the letters on the refrigerator.”

“And that's all?”

“Yes, I think so. No . . . wait. There is something else. On Saturday evening, after you'd left, I did some drawing.”

“What did you draw?”

She looked at him curiously. “It wasn't a real drawing. I was just copying that photo of Maisie. Trying to see if I could catch her expression.”

“You
drew
her?”

“Well, yes.” She suddenly felt alarmed. Why was Sam looking at her like that? “It wasn't anything special. Just a pencil sketch.”

“I seem to remember it was just a pencil sketch that caused all the trouble last time.” His voice was quiet, but he was looking at her intently, and she knew he was referring back to two Christmases ago, when she'd drawn the statues in the cathedral.

“That was different! Then I had no idea what I was doing. It was like something—or someone—took me over. Whatever it was was much bigger and more powerful than me. I was just kind of a . . . a channel. You know that.”

“Maybe. But
you
were the one who was chosen to be the channel, remember. And it made something happen, didn't it? All the weird stuff that came later was triggered by
your drawing
.”

“But this was nothing like that! I just chose Maisie as a subject. I was bored and looking for something to do!”

Sam stared at the floor for a few moments. Then he looked up. “Well, whatever the reason, it looks as though last Saturday night, you may have just accidentally drawn that girl into your life.”

Hannah couldn't speak. She wanted to deny it, but then her eye fell once more on the notebook with the letters standing out in horrible clarity.

Suddenly he sat up straight. “Listen. Unless you get her exorcised, which has always seemed to me a pretty stupid kind of thing to do, you've got only one choice.”

“What?”

“You've got to try to help her, like she's asked.”

“But how? I don't even know what she wants me to do. All I've got is a lot of unconnected clues. And anyway, we don't even know if they really are all clues. Dad said he was paying far less for that house than he'd have expected. Maybe it was always in a bad state, and the real estate agency just did a quick cover-up job before renting it.”

“Maybe. Or it's all part of a pattern.” He frowned. “It could be that we just don't have all the right parts yet. There could be more to come.”

Hannah shuddered, fervently hoping he was wrong. “You don't have to live there!”

He looked at her. “You think all this has something to do with that doll? If and when the aunt stuck the pins in that image, do you suppose she put a curse on Maisie, and somehow that curse is still there, a hundred and forty years later? Do you think she's asking you to help her to get rid of it?”

Hannah leaned her elbows on the desk and put her head in her hands. “It seems crazy. Unbelievable. But yes. I suppose that is what I think.”

“Well, who do we know who can tell us something about curses and spells and stuff like that?”

“You mean—Mad Millie Murdoch?”

“Exactly! She helped us last time, didn't she?”

“But she retired more than a year ago. I don't even know if she's living at the same address. And for all we know, she might have given up all that kind of thing now.”

“Then we'll find out. As soon as school's finished. Okay? And now, if you don't mind, we'll go back to the library.”

He got up, and Hannah followed him to the door. She had no idea if Miss Murdoch would be any use, but even if she wasn't, there was something very comforting about having Sam on the case.

Chapter Sixteen

At Home with the Fallons

D
ESPITE MISS MURDOCH HAVING
retired from teaching math at Manningham, the school still had her telephone number, and when Hannah called it at three thirty that afternoon, she answered at once, sounding surprised but pleased to hear from her former student and inviting both Hannah and Sam over to her house at five o'clock.

“Good,” said Sam. “That gives us an hour and a half. We'll go back to my place first.”

The Fallons lived near the station, in a run-down development in a part of the city well known to the police for being a trouble spot. Once, Mr. Fallon's activities had made a lively contribution to this reputation, but for the past eighteen months he had lived a blameless life working as a mechanic at a nearby garage—which was why, when Sam and Hannah reached the apartment, only his mother and the twins were at home.

“Hannah, my love! What a treat!” exclaimed Mrs. Fallon. “You've come for tea? Why didn't you tell me, Sam? I'd've got something special in!”

Hannah started to say that she really hadn't come for tea and please not to go to any trouble on her account, but Eve Fallon was already in the tiny kitchen, clattering busily.

“Leave her alone.” Sam grinned. “You know she loves it when you come.”

Since she also knew from experience that Eve would refuse all offers of help, Hannah sat down on a sofa, noticing her own portrait of Sam, proudly displayed where a large gilt mirror had once hung. She smiled at seven-year-old Jack and Jessie, who were playing a computer game on the TV. “Hi! What's the game?”

They didn't reply, only smiling back shyly before scuttling off to their own room and leaving Hannah to wonder, not for the first time, how two such self-effacing children could possibly have been born into the same family as Sam Fallon.

He now picked up the remote control, switched to a TV program, and settled down beside her.

For the first time since that afternoon's chilling discovery, Hannah felt herself relax. She knew that if Mom were here, she would probably raise her eyebrows at the bright yellow wallpaper with its cheerful border of sunflowers, and she'd certainly consider the coordinating sunflower-strewn curtains way over the top, but as usual there was something reassuring about the warm, overfurnished room, whose sparkling cleanliness even Steph couldn't have found fault with. And today, thought Hannah, watching Sam idly flicking through the TV channels, it had something still more welcome. The little apartment was exactly what it appeared to be. It held no lurking surprises. Above all, it had no history. For an hour or so, she could push the image of that spidery writing to the back of her mind and retreat into the secure, furniture-spray-scented Fallon world.

Tea consisted, as usual, of all the deliciously unhealthy stuff Hannah was never allowed at home, and Hannah was soon contentedly munching peanut butter sandwiches and chocolate brownies, washed down with plenty of lemonade.

“We're going out later,” said Sam with his mouth full.

“Oh. Where to?”

“Millie Murdoch's.”

Eve looked suspicious. “I thought she'd retired.”

“She has.” Sam swallowed and licked his lips. “That's why we're going to see her. She's lonely, see. Doesn't get many visitors. We thought we'd go see her and cheer her up.”

Hannah made an effort not to choke on her cake. The idea of Sam cheering up Miss Murdoch was entertaining. Driving her up a wall had been more like it.

His mother also looked unconvinced. “Why do you want to go bothering the poor old girl just when she's enjoying some peace at last? I'd have thought she'd had enough of you to last her a lifetime, Sam Fallon!”

Hannah thought so too, but it seemed unfair to leave him to do all the explaining. “I called her this afternoon, and she invited us to go there at five. She's expecting us.” This at least was true, if misleading.

“Oh, well, if
you
spoke to her, I daresay it's fine.” Eve nodded approvingly. “Just make sure he behaves himself.” She followed this with a warning look at Sam and got up to clear the plates away.

Sam glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall. “Four thirty. We'd better go. We might have to wait for a bus.”

Chapter Seventeen

A Witch Advises

E
IGHTY-TWO MARTINDALE ROAD WAS
just as Hannah remembered it. The front path divided a well-kept lawn, and the dark-blue paint on the front door matched velvet curtains neatly tied back to frame a ground-floor bay window, with only the flowers in the window boxes different from last time—where then there had been winter pansies, now there were scarlet geraniums. Everything about the house suggested quiet good taste. It was hard to believe that as well as being an ex–math teacher, Millicent Murdoch was also a witch.

Or, to be more precise, a Wiccan witch. Miss Murdoch had been anxious to make this distinction clear to Hannah on her previous visit, but as far Hannah had been able to tell, it just meant that Mad Millie didn't ride around the countryside on a broomstick, laying curses on people's cattle. She had, however, bravely come to their rescue eighteen months ago, and despite her nickname, beneath the witchery lay an unexpected store of old-fashioned common sense.

Miss Murdoch opened the door and beamed out at them. The long, pink-tipped nose and receding chin still lent her a slightly mouselike appearance, but her gray hair, which before had been drawn back and fastened insecurely, was now cut short and framed her narrow face as tidily as the dark-blue curtains framed her windows.

“Come in, come in! How very good to see you both!”

She led them into a gleaming, modern kitchen and told them to sit down at the table, which held a bottle and three glasses.

“I hope you will try some of my homemade elderflower cordial,” she said brightly. “I always find it so refreshing on a hot day, and really, the weather has been very good lately, hasn't it? Or are you finding it too warm for your examinations? They are this week, aren't they? And you must tell me all about your studies. How are you getting on in mathematics, Hannah?”

“Not too badly, thanks, Miss Murdoch.” In fact, Hannah had been getting on slightly better since Miss Murdoch had stopped teaching her, but it would, of course, have been tactless to mention it.

“And you, Sam? I seem to remember that you were always one of my brightest students.”

Sam gave her a sickly smile, and Hannah decided it was time to change the subject. It didn't seem right to launch straight into what they'd really come to talk about, so she tried out a little polite conversation first. “Are you enjoying your retirement, Miss Murdoch?”

“Yes, thank you, my dear. I have joined one or two clubs, which keep me busy in the evenings, and last year I started to grow my own vegetables. My cauliflowers have been much admired. Some have even won prizes at the local gardening club!”

“Well . . . that's nice.” Hannah smiled.

“Indeed, and it has put me in touch with some very interesting people. I have spent many a pleasant evening discussing the merits of various methods of planting and propagation, usually over a cup of herbal tea, or, occasionally”—here Millie looked mischievously daring—“enlivened by a glass of something more intoxicating!”

Hannah did her best to return a conspiratorial smile but was prevented by a sharp kick on the shin from Sam, who seemed to think it was time to cut out the chat and get to the point. She retaliated by kicking him back, then coughed nervously.

“Actually, Miss Murdoch, we're here . . . that is, Sam and I have come to ask your advice about something.”

“Of course,” replied their hostess, smiling graciously. “What can I do for you? Don't tell me you have taken up gardening!”

“We've taken up witch hunting,” said Sam.

The smile left Miss Murdoch's face abruptly.

“Well, ghost hunting, really,” said Hannah.

“I see.” She sighed. “I had a suspicion that this might not be a purely social call. You had better tell me what is going on.”

So Hannah took a deep breath and told Miss Murdoch about moving temporarily into Cowleigh Lodge. She told her about the dreams, and the book of fairy tales, and the doll they had found. She recounted, as accurately as she could, the relevant bits of what Mrs. Grocott and her daughter had said. Lastly, she told her about the drawing of Maisie, and the subsequent odd happenings, including the messages, the last of which had appeared that afternoon.

“Mmm,” said Miss Murdoch when Hannah seemed to have finished. She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “It sounds remarkably like attention seeking to me.”

“Maisie, you mean?”

“Yes. Breakages, electrical interference, minor damage. All are known signs of spirit activity.”

“But why? What does she want us to do?”

“Help her. Let her go. Isn't that what the messages said?” Millie sat back in her chair and rested her hands on the kitchen table, lightly drumming her fingers. Then she looked up. When she spoke again, her voice was brisk, businesslike.

“As I understand it, the two of you suspect this aunt of doing away with her niece by means of witchcraft.”

“All the evidence points that way,” said Sam.

“Evidence?” Miss Murdoch's voice was sharp. “A few dreams, a child's book, and a little half-remembered servants' gossip? Hardly evidence, I should have thought!”

“There's the doll as well,” Hannah reminded her.

“Ah, yes. The doll,” mused Millie. “The doll that has been altered so that it looks like Maisie and that appears to have been stuck with pins.” She frowned and shook her head slowly. “It all seems rather . . .
amateurish.
” She might have been passing judgment on an inferior cauliflower.

“But it worked, didn't it?” insisted Hannah. “Maisie died!”

“So did a great many other Victorian children, unfortunately. The fact that you have no strictly rational explanation for her death doesn't necessarily mean that there wasn't one.”

“So why is she asking for help, if she died naturally?”

“I said that there might be a rational explanation. That would not preclude the possibility of an unnatural death.”

Hannah looked mystified, but Sam's eyes glittered. “You mean she could have been poisoned?”

“Think about it. If this woman really had sole charge of her little niece while she was confined to her bed, she would hardly have needed to resort to witchcraft in order to do her harm. In those days, many poisons were readily available over a pharmacist's counter to those who could prove a legitimate reason for needing them. Arsenic, for example, was commonly used to fatten pigs and poultry. It can be added in small quantities to a patient's food or drink over a long period of time without too much risk of discovery. To begin with, it causes headaches, drowsiness, some confusion, perhaps—not so very different from a feverish illness, and the symptoms can be easily explained as such. But then, little by little, the effects accumulate, you see. Eventually, of course, it will be fatal. Yes . . .” Miss Murdoch nodded thoughtfully. “In her position, I think I should probably have chosen arsenic.”

Hannah began to think that this had gone far enough. “But
why
would she do it? What motive did she have for killing Maisie?”

Millie looked offended. “How on earth should I know? I was merely attempting a hypothesis.”

“It doesn't help us anyway,” said Sam flatly. “We can't prove anything after all this time.”

“And that means we can't help Maisie,” muttered Hannah.

“Do you think that is what she wants? For you to discover how she died?” asked Miss Murdoch.

“It would be a start, I suppose,” Hannah said dejectedly.

Millie didn't reply.

After a moment or so, Hannah looked at her watch. “We should go.” She stood up. “Thanks, Miss Murdoch. I'm sorry we bothered you with all this.”

“Not at all. You asked for my advice. Just at the moment, my advice is to get rid of that doll.”

“What?” Hannah stared at her. “But . . . you said you didn't think that was what caused Maisie's death!”

“Frankly, I don't. Nevertheless, it is an unpleasant object to have in one's home, and I cannot believe it is helping the situation.” Millie stood up and walked with them to the front door.

But as Sam went out, Miss Murdoch drew Hannah back. “I am glad that you have Sam with you in this,” she said quietly. “You need him. However, don't forget: It is
your
attention that this child seems to want. It is
your
help she has asked for. Perhaps you should begin by asking yourself what only
you
can do for her.”