Ghost Hunter: (2) The Cleansing

After leaving the drawing room, Alan showered and tried to get some sleep.  What sleep he did manage was fitful and disturbed.  By the time he gave up the struggle, it was almost midday.  He dressed and went in search of Steven.  It was Saturday, and Alan had planned to return to London later that day; now he needed to speak with his friend.  He‘d come to an important decision—he would have to return to the room!

He found Steven wandering in the gardens alone, picking and plucking absent-mindedly at dead or dying plants.  Even from a distance, Alan could tell his friend was troubled.  No discussion or debate had occurred before they’d parted earlier that morning; Steven only offering sympathy and regret he’d allowed the thing to take place at all.  It was obvious to Alan all of them had been suffering from shock.

Steven’s only utterances on the room were less than revealing.  “The things you report have never happened before.  The most ever documented is blankets being removed from the bed, doors being discovered open and slamming when people vacated the room in a hurry.”

Moreover, Alan hadn’t pressed him; at the time, he was still stunned and dazed, and Steven’s words held little interest for him.  Now, he needed to know more.

He was less than twenty metres from Steven before his friend turned and saw him approaching.  Alan could see his first impression was correct; Steven was indeed troubled.  He looked tired; dark patches sat beneath those penetrating ice-blue eyes.  His stance and posture looked older, damaged.  Alan’s heart lurched: he had brought about this change, him and his childish ‘want’ to please Sophie, to impress her.

Nevertheless, he himself had changed—fundamentally; changed from atheist to believer.  He no longer felt like a little boy trying to impress his girlfriend.  He felt … no, he knew, he had a mission to complete.

“Hello Steven, can I speak with you?  There are things to be said, things to be asked and favours to be granted.”

Steven nodded slowly in agreement.  “I understand Alan.  You require some kind of explanation about last night.”  He gave a heavy sigh before continuing.  “Have you eaten?  You missed breakfast this morning, didn’t you?”  He put both hands into the pockets of his open Parka, pulling it closer around his body and giving a mock-shiver.  He looked up at the clear November sky.  “I swear it’s dropped ten degrees since yesterday.  Come on, let’s go in-doors, we can discuss the matter over a cup of tea and a bite to eat.”

They walked back to the house in silence.  Alan used the time to clear his mind and formulate the request he would make to Steven.  Reaching the house, they removed their overcoats, and Steven led the way to the same drawing room they used that morning; Alan sat in the same armchair.  Pressing an inter-com button near the fireplace, Steven said, “Hello, is that you, Mrs. Barton?”

Alan heard the almost metallic answer: “Yes, my Lord.  Can I be of service?”

“Yes, Mrs. Barton,” he looked at Alan and mouthed, ‘Tea or coffee?’

“Coffee, please,” Alan replied.

“Can I have sandwiches for two and a pot of coffee in the West drawing-room pl—" But, before he could finish, Sophie came in the room.  He looked at her, and she nodded.  “Please make that for three, Mrs. Barton,” he corrected himself.

“Yes, my Lord.”

He turned and waited for Sophie to join him and they both sat on the Regency sofa opposite Alan.  Sophie gave her guest a warm smile, asking, “How are you, Alan?  Did you manage to get much sleep?”

Alan gave a wry smile back.  “Not a lot, I’m afraid.”

Sophie looked concerned.

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t feel particularly tired—the opposite in fact.  I almost feel invigorated.”

Both his hosts looked puzzled.  He continued.

“I spent most of my time in bed mulling-over what occurred last night, and I have a great favour to ask of you.”  Before he could continue, a maid arrived with their food.  Alan waited until she had left the room and until Sophie had poured them each a coffee.

Looking at Steven, he continued, trying to sound positive.  “I want to spend another night in that room.”

Sophie gasped; a look of horror crossed her face.  Steven stared at him stunned—his head shaking with vigour in the negative.

“No!  No!  No!” he finally managed to announce.  “I was a fool to allow it the first time, and I’m bloody sure I’m not going to make the same mistake twice!”

Alan had expected the response.  Allowing time for those opposite to gather themselves together, he picked up a sandwich and began to nibble at it, throwing them an occasional smile.

“It’s no use you trying your little tricks, Alan.  We can sit here for a fortnight, and my answer will still be the same,” Steven snapped.  “The time for games is over.  I will not risk your health by agreeing to such an inane request.”

Alan put down his sandwich, picked up his coffee and sipped it.  Neither of his hosts had touched any of their food or drink.  Sophie took a deep breath, picked up her cup of coffee, and asked, “Why?”

Steven shouted, “I don’t want to know why.  It’s over, ended—finished!  I have half-a-mind to remove that whole top section of the house.”

Sophie looked at him in astonishment.  Steven looked back, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

“Yes, yes, I’ve … I’ve … been contemplating it all morning.  I …”

Alan interrupted him.  “Steven, I have given the matter a lot of thought.  By entering the room again, I don’t think for one minute I would be in any kind of danger, either physical or mental.  Whatever it was I saw last night, threatened me no bodily harm.  And, as you well know, I am nothing, if not a pragmatist; these things are explainable, solvable if one is strong enough to seek answers.”

Steven opened his mouth to rebut, but Alan quickly added, “Either scientifically, or as I now believe, spiritually.”

Steven looked at him in amazement.  Alan smiled at him.

“What I said this morning about being an ex-atheist was no whimsical remark.  I am now - and will be until my dying day - a believer in an existence after death.”

“You!  You … explained ghosts away a million times to me at university.  Echoes of the past, hallucinations, auto-suggestion, you always had an answer,” Steven countered.

“Ah!  That was before last might.  Last night, a tormented soul begged for my assistance.  And I, like a weak-minded coward—ran-away.”  Alan’s last words sounded like self-disgust.

Steven stared at him; Alan stared back.  After a prolonged silence, Alan spoke with all the sincerity he could muster.

“You Steven, sit there with a life-time of belief bolstering your soul.  I on the other hand, a recent convert—sit here with a stain on mine.  I beg you; let me redeem myself.”  Sophie sobbed.  Both men turned to her; her body shook as she tried to conceal her anguish; she was silently weeping.

***********

“Well,” Steven declared.  “If twenty years ago, anyone had proposed to me what has just taken place, I would have called them a liar.”

He, Sophie and Alan, stood outside of St Mary’s Chapel, in the village of Clayton-St Mary, which was just over four miles from Monsaratte.  Alan had asked to join them for the Sunday service.

“Atheist to Angel, in one fair swoop,” Steven joked.

Sophie gave Alan a warm hug.  “It didn’t hurt that much did it Alan?”

Alan returned her smile.  “I’m still not sure about the ceremony and paraphernalia surrounding being a believer, but I’ve got to start somewhere.”

Steven became serious.  “Alan, there is something I want to show you.”  Touching Alan’s shoulder, he guided him around the side of the church.  Sophie held his hand.

They walked to a spot at the rear of the church graveyard; Steven pointed to a simple headstone—weatherworn, with spots of green and yellow algae.  The words on the headstone were just as simple: ‘Emily Castor 1848 – 1876, and underneath R.I.P.  They stood looking at the stone in silence for a minute.  Alan was the first to speak.

“So, that’s our girl is it?”  And, before the others could speak, he added poignantly.  “Well, she’ll not rest in peace until we solve this.”

This was no attempt to influence Steven’s decision on his request to re-enter the room.  Steven had already made that decision; Alan would enter the room again that night.

****

Alan and Sophie had persuaded Steven to acquiesce, before they’d finished their coffee in the West drawing room the day before.  After he’d comforted Sophie, she had pleaded with him to grant Alan’s request.
“I would rather we hadn’t started this thing,” she’d sobbed.  “But Alan is right, we involved him.  We knew from the outset what kind of man he was; if he says it needs to be solved—that his soul is now at stake, we can do no more than trust him.”

Steven tried to object.  She would not let him.  “No Steven!  He gives up a life-long belief, and begs our help.  We must support him!”

Steven’s shoulders slumped.  Alan could see the conflict in him, and knew one gentle nudge would settle the question.

“I would not ask this of you, Steven, if I thought there was any other solution.  But both my heart and soul tell me I must return to the room.”

The Marquess looked at his wife, her eyes were red from crying but she nodded, encouraging him to agree.  Alan thought Steven looked the epitome of misery.  After a while Steven stood and started pacing, with a voice hoarse with emotion he spoke to Alan.

“Every fibre of my being rejects the idea of you returning to that room.  If I thought I could convince you not to, I would.”  He glanced at Sophie, before returning to face Alan.  “But, both your arguments are compelling, and I can sympathise with your need to resolve the matter.  Against my better judgement, I will agree—with certain stipulations.”

Sophie rushed to him, wrapping her arms around his neck; tears now in full-flood.  Alan rose from his seat, walked to Steven and took his hand.  He didn’t shake it, just held it tight while saying “Thank you.”

******
Later that day, Steven produced a photocopy of a news article in the ‘The Bugle’, a now defunct newspaper, which was active at the time of Emily’s death.  He read the article to Alan.

“Inquest into the death of Miss Emily Castor.

“His Lordship, the Third Marquess of Cannonbury was called by the Court of Inquest to give evidence relating to the events concerning the death of Miss Emily Castor, at his Lordship’s home, Monsaratte, on the 18th of November hence.

“The Marquess informed the court Miss Castor had been in his employ, engaged as governess to his two children from April 1873 until her untimely death.  He informed the Inquest that for two months prior to her death, the deceased had been in poor health.  His Lordship related to the court how - concerned about her welfare - he had summoned Doctor Albert Gray, his family physician, to attend her.  The Marquess acknowledged he'd arranged Doctor Gray’s visit without Miss Castor’s knowledge, and against her wishes.

“His Lordship informed the court he was present when the physician arrived in the room occupied by the governess, and how at that time, she appeared delirious.  He explained to the court, on seeing Gray, Miss Castor seemingly became hysterical and bolted from the room in the direction of the rear stairs.  The Marquess further stated, fearful of her condition, he and Gray pursued her, only to witness her trip and fall down the rear stairwell, breaking her neck.  The court summoned Doctor Gray, and he confirmed the Marquess’ account of the tragedy.

“The inquest reached a verdict of Accidental Death.

“Miss Castor was the daughter of the Reverent David Castor, Minister of the Holy Trinity Church in Norton, East Anglia.

“The article is dated the 16th of December 1876,” Steven said, looking up from the document, “And is all we know of Emily Castor and her death.  A short time afterward, the room became ‘troubled’ and no servant would stay in any of the rooms on that floor.  Subsequently, they were sealed off.”  He took a sip of his drink and continued.  “Because of a fascination with all things ‘unearthly’ in late Victorian times, at one time or another, several people spent a night in the room—but only one.  The last person to spend a night in there prior to you was the author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who stayed in the room in 1908.  Like all before him, he experienced a disturbance—in his case, the removal of the coverings from his bed.  And he, like all others before him, vacated the room in a hurry with the doors slamming behind him.”

Alan sat through Steven’s narration stony-faced.  Only when Steven stopped talking and looked at him, did he speak.

“Why only me, then?”

“What do you mean, why you?”  Steven said.

“Why was my experience in the room so profound, while others witnessed so little?”

Steven sighed and gently shook his head.  “Because, dear Alan, all the others had enough sense to get out of there fast!  But you, disbelieving sod you are … were, just had to stay and look for an answer.”

Alan laughed out-loud, before remarking, “I got more than I bargained for—I got me religion!”

Steven just shook his head.  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” he muttered, and Alan laughed again.
When Alan entered the room that night, he wore the same trousers, the same woollen jumper he'd retrieved earlier in the day, and carried a new flashlight; he also wore a duffel coat; he intended no sleep.

Steven accompanied him to the foot of the front stairs.  He’d brought along a chair, and adamant he wouldn't move until Alan emerged, or called for his assistance.  Both were vehement in their insistence that Sophie not join them.

When Alan entered the room it was eleven forty-five, and two fifty-two when he emerged again; he carried two flashlights, and the door did not slam behind him.  As he approached Steven, he gave him a wry smile.

“We need a drink and a long chat,” he declared as he brushed past him.

They returned to the West drawing room.  Sophie lay on the sofa, but was not asleep.  She greeted them with a wide-eyed questioning look.  Alan went over to the drinks cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Brandy and three glasses; he placed them on the coffee table and sank down in his favourite armchair.

Steven took the Brandy and began to pour drinks.  Sophie put her hand over one glass and said, “Not for me, Steven.”

Alan leaned forward and took her hand, raising it off the glass.  “I think you should reconsider, Sophie,” he said, his eyes holding hers.

Sophie stared at him for a few seconds, turned her head to Steven and nodded ‘yes’.

When each held a drink in their hands, Alan started his report.

“I’m afraid, you are going to be disappointed in what I have to say—disappointed, but shocked.  I will relate nothing of what happened in the room tonight; I feel obliged to remain silent until other matters are discussed and decisions arrived at.”

There was a look of puzzlement … even a touch of disappointment on his host’s faces.  Silence lingered in the room for a minute or so.  Steven broke it.

“Come on, Alan, stop playing games with us,” his voice stern, impatient.

“I assure you Steven, playing games is the furthest thing from my mind.  I consider both my own position, AND yours, to be grave.  I suggested to you yesterday, I felt my soul was stained; if I reveal what I saw in the room tonight, that stain may taint yours.”

Sophie gasped, and looked at Steven in horror.  Steven looked aghast, all colour faded from his face and his mouth was slack open.

Alan pressed on; he felt the moment was right; Steven would never again be so vulnerable to his request.

“Steven, you must enter the room with me tomorrow night.”

This time Sophie uttered a little scream, which she smothered with her hands over her mouth.

Alan continued, staring intently at Steven.  “If I am right – and I believe from the depth of this soul I’ve acquired, I am, then I’m just an observer, whereas you Steven, would be a player.  If I reveal what I saw upstairs and you refrain from entering the room, I fear for your soul.  If I stay silent and you don’t enter the room, then I pray the only consequence will be the room remaining troubled.”

Sophie sobbed, her eyes held terror.  “Then say no more, Alan,” she pleaded, “Let’s just seal the room up, and forget it forever.  No-one else will go up there again—ever!”

Steven put his arms round his wife and gazed into her eyes.  “I don’t believe that’s a valid solution,” he said quietly to her.  Although there was still no colour in his face, it now held a look of control, a look of intent.

Sophie’s look of terror intensified.  “No, Steven, you can’t.  I won’t allow it!” she screamed.

He held her close, and she clung to him sobbing.

“I must.  If what Alan says is true, I have no alternative.  If I can end this abomination now, I can’t leave it for others to suffer.  I will not be called a coward before my God.”

Sophie pulled away from him and turned to Alan, her eyes flashing.  “Can you guarantee him no harm?” she snarled.

Alan looked into her demented eyes; he loved this woman, she was the main reason he’d never married.

“I can’t,” he said softly.  “There is anger, bordering on rage in that room, but I think it is born out of frustration—frustration that no-one will listen.  I believe the only solution is the one you so desperately wish to avoid.”

******

It was close to midnight, and both men had been in the room for little less than an hour.  The room was cold, but only late-November cold, nothing unnatural.  Alan was dressed as the night before; Steven wore his Parka closed up tight.  They stood where Alan suggested they stand - knowing the best vantage point, if what he’d witnessed previous, was repeated.

Alan felt it start; beginning as it had the night before.  The room became much colder, and a diffused light appeared outside the windows.  Just as on the previous night, the soft light slipped into, and across the room.  Like an opening of a play in a theatre, the light revealed the scene and the players.

Before them, with his back to the window, stood a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late thirties.  He was dressed in a frock coat with two rows of buttons and a short skirt.  His trousers were made of tweed like material; they were grey, with wide spaced stripes narrowing at the bottom.  His hair colouring was the same as Steven’s, whom he strongly resembled—except for the ‘mutton-chop’ sideburns he wore.  His eyes … his eyes were Steven’s!

Several feet from him stood a woman; a woman Alan now knew to be Emily Castor.  She was dressed, as Alan had first seen her, in a flounced Victorian dress. 
She’s beautiful, and does resemble Sophie, but not as much as my initial impression flashed through Alan’s mind.

Steven was staring at the man.  Alan touched his hand.
“It’s the third Marquess, I think,” he whispered.

“Have you been taking the potions Gray gave you?” the man said sternly, addressing Emily.

“Yes Charles … my Lord,” she replied.

“LIAR!” was his response.  “Look at you!  What are you—four, five months now?  Madam, you are beginning to show!” he barked at her.

“I … I … Please, Charles, I can’t!  It’s against everything I believe in.  You … you know my father is of the cloth.  I can’t!” she replied, tears starting.

“I don’t care a damn about your father, or your beliefs, madam.  I can’t and won’t have a scandal.  Your pregnancy must be terminated,” he demanded.

Emily remained silent for a while before again pleading with the man.  “Let me go away and have the baby.  No-one need know.”

Charles sneered.  “And have a bastard-child of a commoner waiting to make a claim against my estate?  No madam, never!  Termination is the only answer.”
The main door to the room opened, and a man of perhaps sixty years, carrying a large Gladstone bag, walked in.

“Ah, Gray!  Just in time,” Charles said greeting the man.

The old man did not reply; he looked sullen, resentful.

Emily looked shocked.  “What is he doing here?” she demanded.

The old man looked quickly at the Marquess.  “My Lord, is she not aware of the procedure we are to undertake?”

“I have informed her termination is necessary.  Now, she knows you are here to perform it,” the Marquess replied casually, turning his back to the room and looking out of the window.

“No!  NO!”  Emily screamed, and Charles turned back to her.

“Madam!  This is the only solu—”

However, she was not listening; she had turned, opened the inner door and fled.  Gray pursued her, Charles followed.  Steven moved as if to chase after them, but Alan grabbed him.

“Wait,” he cried; he been through this before.

The light in the room moved, following the fleeing figures.  As it did so, the inner walls melted away.  Steven and Alan could see the chase taking place; saw Emily reach the top of the inner stairs, trip and fall, coming to rest sprawled against the wall on the lower-landing.  Gray descended the stairs and examined her.

“I think her neck has broken my Lord, she is dying—but the child comes!

He bent to deliver the child, and gasped.  “My Lord, the child lives!  She hid her pregnancy well; this foetus is seven months through gestation.  I can save it!”

Gray looked at the third Marquess, who had followed him five steps down the stairs.  The physician held the child up for the aristocrat to see.  Standing erect and stony-faced, the Marquess stared at the offering for silent seconds, before raising his eyes to Gray.

“Do what I brought you here to do doctor,” he commanded.

“But, my Lord, the child lives.  It will be murder!”

“Damn you Gray!  Do—what—you—came to do!” the Marquess barked at him.

Without breaking eye contact with him, the old doctor clasped his hand over the child’s mouth and nose, held it there for over a minute before declaring, “It is done my Lord.”

Alan grasped Steven around his shoulders fearful he might collapse as his friend rocked back and forth.  “Hold tight,” he whispered.  “It’s nearly over.”

The Third Marquess, who now looked shaken, took a moment to gather himself, before declaring, “Hide the … the child’s body, Gray.  I will fetch help to move Miss Castor.  We must say she was ill, delirious; when we came to attend her, in her delirium she bolted, tripped and fell down the stairs.”

“Yes my Lord,” was the forlorn answer.

The Marquess turned and left.  Alan and Steven watched, as Gray opened the bag he’d brought for that very purpose, and placed the child’s body inside.  The doctor turned his head, and Alan could swear the old physician could see them.  The figures faded and the room returned to darkness.  Steven’s body was now still, rigid.

“Come Steven, we have yet to finish our ordeal,” Alan said, sounding strong and positive for his friend’s sake.  He took Steven’s hand and led him through the inner door.

“Please Alan, no more, please!” his companion pleaded.

“We must, if we are to end this,” he replied, grasping his hand tighter.

He gently guided Steven through to the top of the back stairwell.  There, he again had to physically support his friend, as the scene—the scene Alan witnessed on his first night in the room, was repeated.

Emily sat sprawled-out on the lower landing with the child in her arms.  She looked at them crying, pleading!  She again kissed the child, and held it towards them in out-stretched arms.  Steven gave a soft sob, as he released himself from Alan’s supporting arms. 

Slowly, Steven, the seventh Marquess of Cannonbury, made his way down the stairs towards Emily.  Alan felt his whole body tingle; his admiration for this exceptional man brought a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes.

'God should be reserving a seat in heaven for you right now, my friend,' he thought.

When Steven reached Emily, Alan heard him whisper, “I’m sorry; please forgive me my families’ sins.”  He then took the child from her; its eyes opened, meeting Steven’s and Emily smiled.  The stairwell returned to darkness, leaving Alan and Steven alone.

Alan switched on the flashlight and went to assist his friend who was slowly climbing the stairs.  When he reached him, he could see he was crying.

“I … I …” Steven started.

“I know, I know,” Alan said, comforting him.  “Wait until we have left this place before you speak of it.”

With his arm around Steven, Alan guided his friend through the rooms and down the front stairs—no doors slammed behind them.  Reaching the drawing room, they found Sophie waiting anxiously; she rushed to support Steven, sitting him on the sofa, resting his head on her breast.  She looked to Alan, imploring him to explain.

He smiled at her.  “Steven will be fine; he just needs a little time to come to terms with what occurred.  Tonight, he was magnificent.  I am honoured to call him my friend.”

*******
Alan replaced the telephone receiver and rubbed his hand across his chin, leaving it over his mouth.  He’d just phoned Steven and asked if he could spend the night at Monsaratte.  There were things he needed to tell his friend.

I hope what I have to say, is what they will want to hear!  he mused.

He’d spent the two weeks since his return from Monsaratte, going through every National Census since 1861—on ghost business!  He’d spent a further two days while still at Steven’s home - prior to his return to London - raking through the local church and Parish records, on the same subject.  Doing it all without the knowledge of his friends.

Now, he wished to reveal his findings.

****
The conversation at dinner was light, with no ghostly matters mentioned.  After their meal was over, Alan returned to his room before joining Steven and Sophie in the West drawing room.  He carried an old book with him.  When they settled down, Steven said, “Come on then Alan, you’ve been bursting to tell us why you wish to stay here all evening.  Out with it.”

Alan smiled at his friend, before saying, “I hope what I have to say … reveal, you will find at least informative.  And I hope it’s the final chapter in our little foray into the business of the room.”

He looked at the old book; it was a diary.  “I don’t know if you noticed Steven.  But when that old doctor put the child in his bag, he turned and looked straight at us.”

Sophie’s hand went to her mouth, but Steven just replied, “I did.”

“Well,” Alan said.  “I believe he, too, was asking for assistance—trying to reveal something to us.”

His hosts remained silent.  Alan slid the diary across the coffee table to Steven, and continued.  “This,” he announced, “is the last diary of Doctor Albert Gray.”

Steven picked up the diary from the coffee table.  Alan continued.  “If you turn to the page dated the 18th of November.”  He waited until Steven had found the page.  “You will see one single entry for that day.”

In a quiet voice, Steven read the words aloud.  “May the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

Alan continued.  “You will see there is but one more entry after that date, on the 26th of November 1876, the day they buried Emily Castors.”

Steven carefully turned the yellowing pages to that date, read and gasped.  Sophie was startled.  Alan said, “Read the entry for us, Steven, please.”

Steven stole a glance at Alan before starting.
“Today, I hope I have gone some way to redeeming my soul.  Before they laid Miss Castor to rest, and on the pretext I required to examine her body for inquest purposes, I placed the body of her child inside the coffin.  I replaced the coffin lid and asked it be secured forthwith, which was done.

“May the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

No other words were spoken, until Alan added, “I hope I have helped the old doctor’s soul find peace.”

******
It was a cold February day.  Steven, Alan and Sophie all held hands as they stood before a headstone at the rear of the graveyard of St Mary’s Chapel.  Sophie had phoned Alan the previous day requesting he join them for the weekend.

The headstone was made of white marble with black lettering, which read:


Emily Castor 1848 – 1876.

And Baby – Steven.

Child of the Heartstone Family.

R.I.P.