Page 14 of Murder Most Haunted

‘You’re here,’ pointed out Harold.

‘Only to support my wife,’ said the doctor, which was a peculiar thing to say.

‘Perhaps we can have a look at the attic rooms that the servants lived in?’ Noah turned to Rendell. ‘Later on, after the séance. I like to build up some historical and architectural context for my podcasts.’

Rendell shifted in his seat. ‘I’m afraid the current owners had the side access boarded up some time ago,’ he said, instantly wiping off Noah’s smile. ‘And I wasn’t provided with a key for the internal stairs.’

‘Poor things,’ said Gloria. ‘Imagine being sent away from home at fourteen.’

It took Midge a second or so to realize that she was talking about the servants.

‘Not everyone is sad to leave home,’ muttered Noah, which made Midge recall the label on his luggage: ‘C/O THE CAMBERS’.

‘I could fill you in on a few bits if you want to interview me tonight for your podcast,’ said Rendell.

While the others continued to make small talk, Midge steadfastly worked her way through a chilli which she found very acceptable albeit bothersome to eat in company.

The others left much of the food untouched.

Although Gloria had given the appearance of eating, she had, in fact, merely pushed items around her plate.

Rendell had nursed his whisky, choosing instead to suck and crunch on the ice cubes rather than eat.

The only one who had joined her with any enthusiasm was Harold, who had devoured his chilli with as much gusto as he had attacked the service station curry.

So much so that Midge was beginning to wonder how much food he had been getting at home.

When they finally moved into the other room for the séance, the grandfather clock on the hallway landing was chiming 9 p.m., a time that Midge, who was firmly of the opinion that nothing good happened during the hours after eight, considered recklessly late.

Despite the hour, the guns from the range could still be heard. It sounded like artillery now.

According to Noah’s narration, the drawing room was ‘a perfect example of Jacobean oak panelling and architecture, encapsulating the mystery and skulduggery of the era . . .’

This was far too many unnecessary words, but Midge, who thought it smelled of nursing homes, had never been to a séance before and so concluded she was not best placed to judge. Besides, she was feeling very sleepy; all the travelling and forced communication of the day had taken its toll on her.

Despite its age and size, the room was warm due to a roaring fire, the flames throwing shadows on to portraits of Atherton ancestry. Rendell extinguished all but two of the oil lamps as they arranged themselves around the large teak card table in the middle of the floor.

‘So exciting!’ Rona’s nerves added a shrillness to her voice.

Dr Mortimer had taken a seat next to his wife, who was anxiously fiddling with her earrings.

‘With the aid of this antique spirit catcher, I will channel the ghosts of the house,’ announced Rendell grandly, pointing to a crystal glass upended on top of a wooden board. It was identical to the one by the washbasin in Midge’s shower room.

‘Are we hoping to talk to the White Lady of the Moor tonight?’ asked Rona.

‘It very much depends on the will of the spirits.’ Rendell twirled the stem. ‘If she wants to talk then she will, but if there is anyone else there with a message, we may hear them.’

Midge heard a sharp intake of breath from Gloria, next to her. Her husband had also noticed and frowned as he leaned across to whisper something in her ear.

There were eight chairs, two on each side of the table, all made from the same mottled teak. Taking a seat, Midge realized that the mottling was, in fact, tiny woodworm holes. She rested her cane beside her feet on the flagstones.

‘All hands on the table, please!’ instructed Rendell, placing the glass in the centre of the board, directly under the letters. ‘We don’t want any accusations of trickery. He . . . What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Detecting infrasound,’ said Noah, sulkily, holding out a small black object with a microphone on it. ‘Low-frequency sound waves that are believed to cause feelings of fear or unease, often associated with ghostly activity.’

‘I imagine feelings of unease follow you around,’ said the doctor.

‘It’s picking something up already,’ said Noah, excitedly. ‘And my EMF is definitely detecting some kind of interference.’

‘Put it away,’ said Rona. ‘Immerse yourself in the experience.’ She laid both of her hands out flat in front of her. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last year, it’s to stop living through the lens.’

‘I meant hear them metaphorically, anyway. They don’t talk out loud,’ said Rendell. ‘They spell it out through the board.’ He tapped on the wood.

‘I thought you were going to be inviting the spirits to speak through you,’ said Noah. ‘Aren’t you using a spirit box or something?’

Rendell shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I can only go with the spirits’ preferred medium, and that happens to be this glass.’

‘That’s a bit disappointing,’ said Noah. ‘But I suppose, if I had to choose between being inside a geriatric alcoholic or a crystal glass, I know which I’d prefer.’

The description, despite its accuracy, appeared to annoy their host. ‘Well, aren’t we all lucky that you are still very much alive?’ said Rendell, which Midge didn’t think he meant.

‘Actually,’ Noah cleared his throat, ‘I was wondering if I could record this for the podcast, or at least some of it?’

Rendell stared at him for a moment before nodding in acquiescence.

‘I think I could be a psychic.’ This was from Rona. ‘I’m definitely an empath. My therapist calls me an empty vessel.’

At this point, Midge overheard Dr Mortimer muttering to his wife that ‘they got that right’ before he caught her staring at him. ‘How do you know it can spell?’ he asked Rendell. ‘I mean, it would’ve been fairly uncommon for a lot of people of that time to have gone to school.’

‘Clearly, they’ve had enough time to learn since,’ said Rendell, smoothly. He tapped the glass with the same gold letter opener from earlier. The sound made Midge’s ears ring.

‘Ahem,’ he cleared his throat. ‘If you could just concentrate on . . .’

But he didn’t finish his sentence, as suddenly there was an icy blast from the French window.

One of the panes had been flung open, throwing back the curtains in a violent flourish.

The howling wind from outside encircled the guests as Harold got up and struggled to latch the window shut.

Rendell suddenly jumped up from his seat.

A small sound escaped his mouth and he pointed out into the garden, all of the colour draining from his face.

‘What’s wrong?’ cried Rona. ‘Is he having some kind of stroke?’

Midge followed the direction of Rendell’s finger but could only see the flames of the fire and Harold’s bemused face reflected in the now closed window.

‘What is it?’ asked Rona. ‘What’s out there? Is it the White Lady?!’

‘I thought . . . No, it’s impossible.’ Rendell shook his head and sagged backwards into his seat.

‘What?!’ asked Noah. ‘Is it a transfiguration? Hold on, I haven’t pressed record yet. Bollocks.’

Rendell took a long swallow from his whisky before replying. ‘I must have been mistaken. For a second, I thought I saw something white, looking in at us.’

‘Poppycock!’ snorted Dr Mortimer.

‘Andrew!’ protested his wife.

‘He’s just trying to put the heebie-jeebies up us before the séance,’ said the doctor. ‘Any fool can see that.’

Harold peered out through the glass. ‘There’s no one there.’

Rendell composed himself before finally nodding towards Harold. ‘Curtains, please.’

Harold obliged, pulling the curtains shut, the draught of which caused another temporary flickering of firelight. He returned to his seat but not before making a gesture of drinking behind Rendell’s back, indicating that he thought the host had enjoyed too much of the whisky.

‘Now if you could all place the index finger of your right hand on to the top of this glass,’ said Rendell, waiting until Harold had re-seated himself.

Midge obediently placed her finger as instructed.

It was sandwiched between Gloria’s and Noah’s and Midge couldn’t help staring at the tiny signet ring on Gloria’s finger that, judging by the swelling around it, didn’t belong on her hand.

‘Do we close our eyes?’ whispered Rona.

‘I can’t see anything in this room anyway,’ complained Harold. ‘Couldn’t we put a few more lamps on?’

‘No,’ said Rendell, shortly. ‘Rona, keep your eyes open, otherwise you won’t be able to see the glass. Now. I must have absolute silence.’

Midge could hear the breath whistling through Gloria’s nose.

‘Spirits!’ called Rendell. ‘Can you hear me? Will you show yourselves?’