Whispers in the Dark (29 page)

“No, you don’t understand. He’s not safe. He’s in terrible danger.”

“But surely there’s no one there. . .”

I think he saw it in my eyes, as though the things I had just seen were imprinted on my pupils. The next moment he turned to the constable and told him to follow him.

"Which way?” he asked.

"I’ll come with you.”

He shook his head.

“No, you stay here with the sergeant. Does she know?” He pointed at Mrs. Johnson.

“Yes,” I said.

They forced her to lead them to the folly, much against her will. I stayed behind with the sergeant, who was slowly recovering his breath, sitting with him on a stone pedestal far back from the house. Hepple remained standing, staring transfixed at the flames. The house burned and burned. There were no other sounds, only those of the flames, the cracking timbers, the explosions of breaking windows. We sat and watched and waited.

A long time later John Parker and the constable returned alone. They were visibly shaken, but neither would say a word about what they had seen. I asked about Arthur, but John would only say that they had found no one. The bed had still been there, and the chain, but Arthur was gone.

“It would be a waste of time to look for him tonight,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. We’ll come back at first light with more men and conduct a proper search. And now I think we should get you back to town.”

They went back to Barras Hall the next morning as promised, half a dozen of them, all bound by the strongest of oaths to absolute secrecy. For John had guessed that what they might discover would not be fit for public knowledge, and the others agreed.

They found Arthur, not that day, but some time later, following a suggestion of mine. His body had been left in James Ayrton’s tomb. They identified him by parts of his clothing and the lead soldier they found in one of his pockets. I still have it. It is on the desk in front of me even now, as I write. John never told me what had been done to him. But I was not allowed to see the body, and whenever I spoke of it, John would tell me it was better I did not know.

I never saw Antonia or Anthony again. By the time the flames died down, there was no trace left of them. Their remains were never recovered. I was gone by then, taken back to Morpeth by John Parker. By the time he went back to search in James Ayrton’s tomb, nothing was left of Barras Hall but blackened walls. I was not sorry, not even for its lost beauty. I had no intention of going back again.

No one ever learned what became of Mrs. Johnson, Hutton, or Hepple. They must all have vanished on the night of the fire, slipping into the darkness, bearing their memories with them. Such memories.

Years later, when all the legalities had finally been completed, I became the heir to Barras Hall and all its lands. John was my husband by then; he married me when I was eighteen, and we lived together happily until his death in 1945. He is the only one to have known any of this before you, Doctor.

I never returned to that place, though I took pains to see it cleansed. I met the Reverend Watkins at last and told him all I knew, and it was he who did what had to be done at Barras Hall. The folly and the graves are still there, the woods have grown wild, it has become a wilderness. You may go there if you wish, but you will find nothing.

I have seen Arthur twice since then. He appeared once on the birth of my first daughter, once on that of my grandson. They are the scions of the Ayrton line, though I have told them nothing of their inheritance. They are happy enough. It is best they do not know.

Sometimes over the years I have caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye, something there and then not there, a shadow possibly, no more. And once or twice I think I have seen James Ayrton. On a street corner or ahead of me on a path or watching from a window. Tricks of the light, perhaps. But I saw him last week. That was not a trick of the light. He was waiting. They are all waiting. Still waiting for me, after all these years.

The Vicarage

Kirkharle

near Kirkwhelpington

Northumberland

10 October 1992

Dr. John Simpkins

St. Botolph’s College

Elvet Place

University of Durham

Durham City

Dear John,

Thank you. Well, perhaps not that exactly. I haven’t slept for nights, thanks to your Mrs. Parker. Or should I say, Charlotte Metcalf? But you were quite right, it did interest me. Very much indeed.

You must be wondering why I haven’t replied until now. Well, I wanted to check a few things. Her story fits in very well with some rumors I’ve heard from time to time from older parishioners. Most of that generation have gone now, of course, but in my first days in the parish I met quite a few of them. And buried them before long.

I managed to dig up some papers belonging to the Reverend Watkins—the one young Charlotte tried to write to and later met. He ended up a prebendary at Durham Cathedral and died in 1942 at the age of eighty. The cathedral archives still have his letters and things, and they let me hunt through them a few weeks ago. I didn’t visit you while I was there, I knew you’d only want to talk if I did, and I preferred to go through some of this stuff first.

There’s one letter in particular which would interest you. I don’t think it should have been in the file where I found it—it seems to have got in by accident. He wrote it to the bishop back in 1905. I’ve made a note of the important parts. This is a sample:

My Lord Bishop,

I remain for the time being in Kirkwhelpington, where Michael Collins has received me most hospitably. He is most assiduous to his duties, and the parish is flourishing in his care. We talked with great seriousness on my first evening, after which we spent above two hours in the church, asking divine assistance for the task ahead of us. Mrs.

Parker had been most specific in her communications, and my own experiences with the child Caroline Ayrton had prepared me somewhat. Nevertheless I will not conceal my apprehension during that night or the following morning.

Collins and I set off early for Barras Hall. The house is no longer standing, as you know, and in the three years since the Are the grounds have been much overgrown. We had some difficulty finding our way to the old folly, which was our first objective. I had only seen it once before, and this time found it much deteriorated. Weeds have grown on the roof, part of which has fallen in. There is thick moss on the walls, outside and inside. And yet it was not only standing, but unchanged in that other sense of which you and I have spoken.

I noticed it the moment I came in sight of the building: a sense of wickedness so overpowering I could scarcely breathe. My Lord, I am at a loss to say what can have happened in that place to have left such a foul impression. Collins felt it, too.

We performed the ceremony as instructed. I will tell you more of it when we are face-to-face. There are certain things it would not be proper to commit to writing. I feel greatly shaken in spirit and in need of your counsel. I need you for my friend as much as for my bishop.

The graves we consecrated, but I am not easy in my mind about them. Mr. Parker tells me that they found the bones of several children there, when they dug here two years ago. I think it might be best to consider having the remains moved to properly consecrated ground.

The exorcism of Ayrton’s tomb was harder than that of the folly, and I am not confident of success. It may need a further visit, possibly by yourself. But even then. . . My Lord, lam no longer certain that the power of the church is unconquerable. Even speaking in His name, I felt vulnerable. There is a darkness there that not even the light of the Gospel may dispel. I know this verges on heresy, and I am troubled by it; but if you had seen what I have seen . . .

Collins is in bed. He has a fever and is badly depressed. I am afraid for him, and heartily sorry for ever taking him to that place. I cannot leave for the present, but once he is on the road to recovery, I ask your permission to return to Durham. We must talk. I hear things at night. I hear voices, my lord. I pray God they do not follow me when I leave here.

I think that’s enough, John, don’t you? I was able to get hold of the diocesan records about the Reverend Michael Collins. He was aged thirty-four when Watkins wrote that letter. It seems he stayed on at Kirkwhelpington for a few years longer, then left the church and went into teaching. There’s a note in his file that says he committed suicide when he was thirty-nine. He was found—believe me, John, I’m not making any of this up—at the gate to Barras Hall. He’d blown his brains out with a shotgun.

John, I visited the graveyard myself yesterday. It’s badly overgrown, but it fit Charlotte Metcalfs description. The mounds she wrote about are all still there, and I have a feeling no one ever did get around to moving the bones that had been buried in them. Ayrton’s tomb is still standing. It still has the hole in the side: I stayed well clear.

I have something to tell you when we meet. About the sounds I heard near the folly. It was only for a moment, I could have been mistaken. But I will swear before my God that I heard something.

I think it was children’s voices. They were singing.

I could not make out the words.

John, there’s something you should know. Your woman had a grandson: she mentions him at the end of her account. A boy called Roger. He was born in 1936, so he’s—what?—fifty-six now. Anyhow, it turns out that Roger Parker inherited the Ayrton estate when his mother died, a couple of years ago. Roger is a builder, quite a big name around Newcastle. Maybe you’ve seen his lorries with
Parker Construction
on the side.

It seems that Roger thinks the Barras Hall estate will make an ideal building site. He wants to raze what’s left of the old hall and put up a replica. The plan is to turn it into a country-house hotel. He’ll have golf and shooting and fishing in the grounds. Little chalets somewhere. I saw him a few days ago. He showed me the drawings he’s had made. The folly is going to be a “feature.” Even the old graveyard. He’s thinking of having the old Ayrton family motto carved over the gates: They shall inherit it forever. I tried to tell him what I knew, but he only laughed at me. I’d like you to come down and have a word with him. To make him understand the real nature of what he has inherited. But

I don’t think he will listen.

I’ll see you in a few days, John. In the meantime please do something for me. Keep your bedroom door locked at night. Tightly.

Yours,

Norman