The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(8)
Remarkably, Wilberforce himself escaped unscathed. I can’t help feeling that a lesser animal would have been frizzled to a crisp, but according to eyewitnesses he walked away with nothing worse than singed whiskers and a trodden-on tail – the latter due to a second-year who was coming out of the buttery at the time. (I don’t know the details of why the second-year was in the buttery in the first place, and I’m not enquiring, and he isn’t one of my students, anyway.)
We’re promised that light will be restored soon, but the workings of electricity companies are as intricate as a Tudor Court, so no one has any huge expectation of it. I hear the kitchens have announced a moratorium on the planned lamb and ratatouille, and there’s a mass exodus arranged for the evening, either to the Turf or the Rose and Crown.
If your own part of College has been affected, and if you haven’t any engagement for this evening, you’re most welcome to join my group at the Turf. I’m dining early though, because I want to call on Nell West afterwards – you’ll remember that her shop adjoins that excellent antiquarian bookseller in Quire Court. She phoned earlier to say there are two or three useful-looking books on WWI presently in their stock, all by fairly reputable authors, and that one appears to include some letters from a POW officer who had some contact with Siegfried Sassoon. I haven’t any of the titles on my own shelves, and Nell has arranged to borrow the books for the evening so I can see if they’re worth buying. I should say I’m ever mindful of College budgets and of the Bursar’s blood pressure, and the books are actually from the second-hand rather than the antiquarian section (a nice distinction, I always think), so they aren’t likely to cost very much.
The fiscal arrangements you propose for my own involvement in all this are very acceptable. It’s a terrible world when academics have to consider the sordid subject of coinage, but so it is. I’m sorry if you’ve heard a rumour that I’m on my beam ends, but I can assure you that any such rumour stems merely from finding myself unaccountably without funds at the Rose and Crown one night, after I had ordered a round of drinks and a platter of sandwiches. Matters were settled honourably the very next day, and the report of my impending bankruptcy was an exaggeration.
Regards,
O.B.
Three
The casserole was very good and so was the wine served with it. Michael wondered if Luisa dined like this every night, alone and in semi-state, sipping a distinguished claret, the table laid with damask napkins and silver. It was difficult to imagine her eating off a tray in front of the television. He had not, in fact, seen a television at Fosse House yet.
Over the meal, Luisa made conventional enquiries about Michael’s room, then went on to ask about the proposed book.
Michael said, ‘I think the Director of Music is very keen to include a section about the Palestrina Choir. I’ve only read a little about it myself. My involvement is mostly to do with the poets of the Great War – of how music influenced their outlook and their work.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘It sounded as if the Choir had a troubled life.’
She had been picking at her food in a rather desultory fashion, and she now abandoned it altogether. ‘In its early years it achieved considerable success, but its eventual demise was tragic, Dr Flint.’
‘You had an ancestor who was part of it – have I got that right?’
‘Yes. Leonora. Her father was an English Gilmore several generations back. A several-times great uncle of mine, I think. He had married a Belgian girl and they lived in Liège.’
‘The home of the Choir?’
‘Yes, it was within the convent of Sacré-Coeur. Leonora entered the convent’s school in 1907 when she was nine.’ She glanced at Michael as if to assure herself he was genuinely interested, then went on. ‘By that time the Choir was well established. Wealthy people were wanting to place their daughters in the school because of the music tradition—’
‘And Leonora was in the midst of it,’ said Michael thoughtfully.
‘Yes. Her childhood had not been very happy, Dr Flint. Her parents had given her no sense of self-pride, and she grew up believing herself unworthy of the – the warmer emotions of life.’
‘How sad,’ said Michael, after a moment.
‘Life is often sad. But she enjoyed Sacré-Coeur – she loved the music and the companionship of the other girls. The music touched something in her she had barely known she possessed.’
A part of Michael’s mind was registering that Luisa was almost speaking as if she had first-hand knowledge of Leonora’s emotions, but he merely said, ‘She sounds an unusual girl.’
‘Oh, she was.’ There was definite eagerness in her voice now. ‘She was only sixteen when the Great War broke out, but she—’ She broke off, as if something had interrupted her, and turned her head towards the curtained windows as if she was listening to something. Or is she listening for something, thought Michael, slightly startled.
‘Is something wrong, Miss Gilmore?’
‘Did you hear that?’ Her face had paled and the bones stood out sharply. ‘Dr Flint, did you hear it?’
‘Only the storm,’ said Michael. ‘I did think I heard someone outside earlier, but—’
‘What did you hear? Dr Flint, what did you hear?’