Associates of Sherlock Holmes

A DORMITORY HAUNTING Jaine Fenn

It is sometimes said – most often by men – that there is no more chaotic mental space than the mind of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. But whilst I have had to deal with my share of confusion, disruption and pigheadedness amongst my charges, the commotion that roused me that late October night was not of the usual kind.

The moon was half-full, hidden intermittently by racing clouds, and the first chill of winter had blown across the hockey fields during the afternoon’s match with St Hilda’s. We had lost, again: perhaps I should encourage Miss Simpson to take her well-earned retirement, but she is popular with the girls, and I pride myself that Rosewood Academy is a place that values pleasure in education above prowess in sport.

Lights had been out for a while, and I was dozing over some paperwork when a faint yet chilling shriek came from above. More cries followed, and I picked up the lamp and left my office, breathing a little hard. The dormitory is on the top floor and I was breathing harder still when I reached it. However, as the other teachers had all retired to bed, I was first upon the scene.

The occupants of the room were in a state of borderline hysteria. The lower school girls were shadowy shapes sitting up in their beds, some with covers drawn to chins; a couple were standing, but leapt back onto their beds when I entered. They had been looking down the length of the great attic room, towards the curtained alcoves where the fifteen senior boarders slept.

“Back to bed and back to sleep, girls. It appears you must set an example for your older schoolmates.” For indeed, the upper school boarders all appeared to be out of bed, congregating in the centre of their dorm in a storm of over-loud whispers and gasps. As I strode forward and raised my lamp, white faces turned to stare. “What is going on here?” I demanded.

No one rushed to answer. Behind me, I heard a step on the boards, and caught a whiff of lilac eau de toilette – our French mistress, if I was not mistaken. I glanced behind to check and, supposition confirmed, called back, “Miss Fournier, please ensure that the younger girls settle without further fuss.” I turned back to the seniors. “Well?”

“Please Miss Hunter,” Jenny Miller put her hand up, presumably in response to the unexpected invasion of the girls’ intimate space by the highest authority in the school; I tried not to be amused to see such a gesture from a girl in a nightshirt, “there’s a ghost.”

I raised my lamp higher. “An invisible ghost, presumably? How novel.”

“Not in here,” said Jenny, “out there.”

She pointed to the arched window at the far end. Through it I saw a faint glow, as of the cloud-covered moon. Girls were slinking back towards their beds, and silence had returned to the dormitory. If left to their own devices, after a stern warning, everyone would no doubt calm from this latest fancy. However, the shriek had been imbued with genuine terror. “Well, I had best see it off then.”

I admit that my steps as I approached the window might not have been as firm as those when I entered, but I believe the girls did not apprehend any hesitation on my part. I have no love of attic spaces, and kept my eyes upon the window, seeing only that faint, silvery glow. The girl in one of the two alcoves nearest the window had not been amongst the gossipy huddle that had greeted me. Rather, she sat on her bed, hunched over something in her lap. Mary Fraser. No doubt the scream had been hers. For a moment I considered asking her to put down her rosary and hold the lamp – to face the fear that, by her rocking motions and murmured prayers, patently gripped her – but I relented, and handed the lamp to Jenny, part of the cluster of girls one step behind me.

I eased open the catch on the window, drawing a gasp from the girls and a whimper from Mary. It loosened all at once, and I had to grab for the handle to stop the wind slamming the window back into the wall. I stuck my head out as the moon broke free of the clouds, flooding the world outside with silver. My heart, I admit, did beat a little fast, but I saw nothing more unsettling than the shadows of the trees upon the lawn. Certainly no ghost. I pulled the window to and fastened it shut then turned to my escort and held out my hand for the lamp. “Thank you Jenny. There is, you will be glad to hear, nothing untoward outside the window. Now, if you will all make your way back to your beds, no more will be said.”

I did not have to tell them twice.

Turning back to Mary I found her looking up at me. “There was no ghost,” I said gently.

“There was no ghost,” she parroted back. Since moving up to the seniors she had taken to agreeing with the words of her elders, regardless of her own opinion. Whilst it made her pliant in class, it was not a healthy trait. I sighed, tempted to leave it at that. But she was a troubled young lady, and trouble untended only increases. I sat down on the end of her bed. “Mary, what did you see?”

Mary stared at the beads in her hands. “Nothing.”

“All right. What do you think you saw?”

“A ghost.” She flicked her chin up in brief defiance before dropping her gaze again.

“Not… some other kind of apparition?” When she first came to my school two years ago Mary had claimed to see the face of the Madonna in a stain that appeared on the refectory wall after some particularly damp weather. She had been teased for it, and at assembly the next week I had delivered a lecture on respecting the religious views of others, whatever variation of the Christian faith they favoured.

Mary shook her head, then in a low voice said, “It was a ghost, one of the unquiet dead, and it was white like bone and it flapped and beckoned to me and I was sure it was going to come through the wall and take my soul.” She dropped her head, hugging her knees tighter.

I had an urge to touch the poor girl’s hand, to comfort her. But that would not have been appropriate.

I would have liked more details, if not from poor Mary then from the other girls, on what they thought had happened here, but asking questions would give credence to what was most likely no more than the moon emerging from the clouds, or some piece of pale debris blown past the window. Instead, I asked Mary, “Would you like to move?”

“Move, miss?”

“Yes, to another alcove.” When Mary became a senior at the start of term I had decided to put her in the end alcove because she was an asthmatic; being near the window would help her breathing when the weather allowed it to be open, and not being surrounded on all sides by other girls would make her unfortunate tendency to snore less disruptive.

“No, miss. I don’t want to be any trouble, miss.” Amongst her other challenging traits, young Mary Fraser can be very stubborn.

“I think Miss Hunter has a point.”

“Thank you Mr Connor.” I managed to hide my surprise at this unexpected support. The Walsall Historical Association can be somewhat resilient to change, and Chairman Stevens had devoted much of tonight’s presentation to lamenting the loss of “traditional craftsmanship” in the area. I felt that these new industrial techniques might themselves be of interest to historians in a few hundred years time, but had waited until after the meeting to put this radical idea to our chairman. His uncharacteristic silence indicated that he was not impressed.

My new ally continued, “I believe Miss Hunter’s own establishment was once a brewery?”

“A malt-house,” I corrected, then regretted speaking out. Mr Connor had done nothing to deserve my ire. Chairman Stevens, however, was beginning to annoy me. But I bit my tongue. Even so, the esteemed leader of the Association gave his characteristic harrumph, and excused himself with a curt, “Good evening, then”.

I turned to Mr Connor. “You came back.” He had arrived unannounced at last month’s meeting for the first time; late, greeted with frowns and stares and forced to claim the one empty seat next to mine. At the time I had ignored him save basic pleasantries, but I had noted his fine bearing, strong features and thick head of auburn hair, a shade not dissimilar to my own. This month he had arrived early and chosen to sit next to me, having asked permission and introduced himself first.

“I did.” His voice had a faint burr, perhaps Irish. “And you would probably consider it forward of me to say this, but I came back partly in the hope that you might be here.”

“I could consider that forward, yes. In fact I probably should.” I glanced at his hand and saw no ring, but whilst the estimable Mr Holmes would no doubt deduce the potential existence of a wife, any offspring and the family income at a glance, all I could say with certainty was that this charming gentlemen was well turned out.

“So to state that it would be a shame to wait a whole month to see you again would be downright scandalous?”

He was keeping his voice low, but over his shoulder I saw the looks we got from the knots of townsfolk making their leisurely way out of the hall. As a person of status in the community, I would be expected to disengage from such shamelessly open attention at the first socially acceptable opportunity. “It would,” I said curtly, but somehow failed to step away.

“But not so scandalous that you have discounted it.”

I do, of course, have my reputation to think of. And that of the school. Yet sometimes I find myself wishing to do what is not expected and required, within acceptable boundaries. “It appears I have not.”

“Then would the possibility of meeting me at The Singing Kettle this Saturday afternoon be one you would entertain?”

“I do believe I would, Mr Connor.” People would gossip anyway. I might as well give them something to talk about.

Four days after the panic in the dormitory, and three days after I accepted Mr Connor’s offer to meet for tea, there was another incident. The girls were at study in the library when, according to Miss Grainger the mathematics mistress, who was with them at the time, several textbooks “leapt off the shelf”. Miss Grainger is not prone to exaggeration, but without being present myself I cannot say whether the books leapt, fell or were simply pulled down when Miss Grainger’s back was turned. I can say that Mary Fraser was in the room at the time.

“A widower, you say?”

Mr Connor picked up the teapot. “As of six months ago. My dear Anna contracted a fever. She passed quickly, and in many ways she is still with me.”

“My sympathies. Yes please, I will have more tea. And was she also, ahem, Irish?”

“Irish? Oh, the accent. I left Ireland when I was a boy, as so many of my countrymen do. I lived most of my life in America, where I met Anna and made business connections in the mining industry which have, whatever else, left me in a favourable financial position.”

A man looking to turn a woman’s head might make such a statement. But would such a man, a few breaths earlier, also imply he has not fully accepted the death of his wife? Either way, Mr Connor was nothing if not direct, and I decided to follow suit. “Strange, then, that you should leave the United States and choose to settle in a quiet town in the Midlands. Assuming, that is, you plan to stay in Walsall?”

“I’ve taken rental of a modest house on Ablewell Street. As to why: half my family went to the United States, the other half to work on the railways here. Those who came to England did well, and some still live in the area. With no wife or children in this world, I thought to try and reconnect with them. How long I will stay, I am not yet sure.”

I took a sip of tea. “Ablewell Street is near St Matthews. I myself attend St Matthews for evensong most weeks, yet I have not seen you there.”

“I worship at a different church.”

I had thought as much. “Ah, your Irish roots perhaps?”

“I was raised a Catholic, but have drifted away from the faith of my fathers.”

He had not, I noted, admitted which church he attended – if any; I would not put it past this unusual man to be an atheist. But his upbringing could provide knowledge relevant to the other matter on my mind. “Your familiarity with Catholicism still outstrips mine. May I ask a question?”

“Related to the Catholic faith? If you wish.” He took a sip of tea.

“Where does Catholicism stand on the matter of ghosts? I had thought the Church of Rome’s view not dissimilar to the Protestant one, but would welcome contradiction in this matter.”

“Ghosts?” He put down his cup and cleared his throat. “In essence both branches of Christianity state the same view: ghosts are manifestations of the spirits of the dead.”

“A view which, as we enter the twentieth century since Christ’s birth, is hard to credit.”

“Many do, Miss Hunter.”

A suspicion was forming. “Including yourself, Mr Connor?”

He inclined his head.

“Then I am guessing,” I said, “that Sunday may find you on Caldmore Road.”

“You guess correctly. I am a Spiritualist.”

“Ah.”

“Does knowing this preclude our meeting again?” He sounded regretful.

My heart softened. “I think we may agree to differ on certain subjects.”

He smiled. “I will take that to mean that tea next week remains a possibility.”

“It does.” Something about Mr Connor’s company made me inclined to take risks.

Three days later the “ghost” made another appearance in the dormitory. Miss Langham dealt with the crisis this time, as I was sound asleep, having taken a draught to combat a minor chill. All the staff who live at the school had been made aware of the previous incident – and my judgement that the cause was youthful hysteria – so she did not wake me. But breakfast was a strained affair, and Miss Langham approached me for a private word. When I asked whether Mary had been the one to raise the alarm, she replied, “Why yes, Miss Hunter. The poor girl was terrified out of her wits.”

The tense atmosphere persisted into the morning, with pupils and teachers alike on edge. I summoned Mary to my office after supper and told her that I was moving her to the alcove at the far end of the dormitory, next to the lower-school girls. She responded with a curt, “Yes, miss.”

“Mary, is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean miss.”

“Were you asleep when you saw this apparition?” To confirm this was all in Mary’s imagination would calm the situation.

“It wasn’t a dream, miss! Jenny and Jane and Sarah saw it too.”

Mary herself would give no further detail beyond insisting again that she had seen “an unquiet spirit”. I spoke to the other three alleged witnesses. Whatever they saw had been directly outside the window, white in colour and had moved unnaturally. Only Sarah, the girl in the alcove next to Mary’s, had caught more than a glimpse, claiming to have seen the ghost “flying off, up and away”.

There was, of course, a potential expert close at hand. But whilst I found myself content, even perversely pleased, to endure a degree of gossip regarding my dealings with the town’s newest resident, the idea of inviting a Spiritualist to carry on investigations at my school was unthinkable.

There was, however, another place to go for advice in matters this far outside my experience.

My dear Mr Holmes,

I greatly enjoy reading of your exploits as recounted by Dr Watson and am writing to you now in the hopes of some assistance. You may recall our brief acquaintance, some years ago, as immortalised by the good doctor. I suspect you remember every detail but in case you do not it concerned my brief sojourn as a governess at the Copper Beeches, a somewhat unwholesome house in Hampshire, and the deception perpetrated there of which I was an unwitting part.

I have since found my place in the world as headmistress of a modest school for girls of the upper middle classes. Most of my pupils are local, but we do have some boarders, and one of these has, on two occasions now, claimed to see a ghost outside the dormitory window, an experience that has left her greatly disturbed. Whilst she is unwilling to speak freely, I do not doubt that she believes she has seen something out of the ordinary, and knowing the girl in question well, I do not think this is behaviour designed to draw attention: on the contrary, she endeavours not to attract notice to herself. Whatever the case, the incident is causing considerable unrest at the school.

I know you for a rational man, and like myself you will seek for an Earthly explanation for these incidents, yet the girl in question’s refusal to cooperate and the lack of reliable corroboration have brought me to an impasse.

Given your many commitments, and the unlikelihood of any criminal connection, I would not expect you to travel up to the Midlands, and my own position will not permit me to attend you in London. However, any advice or guidance you can give that might permit me to quietly resolve this mystery would be greatly appreciated.

Yours etc.,

Miss Violet Hunter

The letter was sent on Friday afternoon. On Saturday I again took tea with Mr Connor. I confess, I was looking forward to the meeting. This man caused feelings in me that I had thought myself long past.

We spoke of many things: of the seasonal changes in nature, of the differences between American and English culture, of the life of the town and of possible walks to be had in the vicinity, although Mr Connor joked these would be tame compared to those he had experienced in the Rocky Mountains, where a walk might soon become a scramble or climb. I found myself picturing this rugged man on a rugged slope, and had to take a mouthful of tea to bring myself back to the room. We did not mention our differing beliefs, and I said nothing of the trouble at the school, relishing the chance to talk about matters outside my everyday responsibilities.

I had no problem promising to meet him again the next week. From our discussion I suspected he might ask for a less public meeting soon, perhaps a walk along the canal, or even a meal taken tête-à-tête and, though this would set tongues wagging further, had he asked, I might have accepted.

Out of his presence, however, my sense returned. Even if, as my heart insisted, I should make room for this man in my life, what would that do to my world? Even if, as my heart hoped, his intentions were what they appeared to be, what would happen to the school if – and here my heart skipped foolishly – I were finally to be married?

A telegram from Mr Holmes arrived on Monday morning.

His first suggestion sent a pang through me, for a hidden past had been the key to my own small mystery, nearly a decade ago now. The second was, now he mentioned it, obvious, though care would have to be taken, given the private space in question.

I started by interviewing Mary again. This time I took a different tack, asking her who she thought the ghost might be of, given the school had only been converted to its current use thirty years ago and so lacked any folkloric tales. She paled and shook her head, which I took to mean she had a good idea. After some coaxing she murmured that she feared it was her little brother.

“Did he pass away recently?” I asked gently.

Again she shook her head. Normally such slovenly manners would earn a reprimand, but I could tell the girl was fighting inner turmoil.

“As a young boy then?”

She nodded.

“I am sorry to ask this, but was his death… particularly unfortunate?”

She looked at her hands.

“You have no other siblings, I believe?”

Mary shook her head.

As far as I knew, the poor girl’s only living relative was her mother, a thin flighty woman with an unsteady gaze whom I had met only a few times. Fees for Mary’s education came direct from a small trust fund, administered by a lawyer in Birmingham. If I recalled rightly, at the beginning of this term Mary had been accompanied to the school only by a household servant. “So, it is just your mother and you. Your father is dead?”

Mary started, as though burned, then said in a harsh whisper, “We do not speak of that.”

A sad ending, then. Yet not one that Mary believed had resulted in this “ghost”. But I had distressed the poor girl enough; I let her go.

Another matter I had not considered before Mr Holmes’s missive was the relative proximity of Mrs Fraser’s home to the school. She only lived in Blakenall Heath, close enough that she could have sent Mary to Rosewood Academy as a day girl.

This proximity provided my next avenue of investigation. Given Mary’s attitudes and behaviour I surmised she had been born into her faith, and hence the family births, marriages and deaths would be recorded at their nearest Catholic church, rather than an establishment overseen by the Church of England.

Whilst my work is never done, I pride myself on the efficiency of my school, and so, should I wish to take a quiet Tuesday morning off and travel to a nearby town, I might do so. As I climbed into a cab I wondered if my fellow teachers thought this uncharacteristic behaviour related to the gentlemen I had been seen taking tea with. I would correct their misapprehension when and if it became important.

When I located the Catholic church in Blakenall Heath I found it in the process of renovation, with men working on the roof. The young priest in attendance was taken aback at a lone, veiled female visitor but soon recovered his composure. When I asked whether I might see records of his parishioners to resolve “a personal matter” he asked whether I was myself a Catholic. I considered lying to encourage cooperation, then chided myself. “No,” I said, “but the individual whose welfare I am concerned about is.”

“Most of our papers were removed for safekeeping when the restoration began. I would have to send for them.”

“Ah, I see. I am putting you to some trouble.”

“No, I mean yes, but… you must understand, I have to consider the welfare of my flock.”

Though I am no expert in the moods of men, especially the clergy, I believe he found me intriguing. I smiled behind my veil, then said, “It is the welfare of one of them that concerns me.”

“Ah. May I ask whom?”

A reasonable request, and, as it appeared I would be forced to return at a later date, I needed to be certain my errand was not futile. “A young lady called Mary Fraser,” I said, watching his face.

He knew the name, though he regained control of his emotions quickly. “The Fraser family are of this parish, yes.”

“So Mrs Fraser worships here?”

“When her health permits.”

“She is unwell? Do you know what ails her?”

“My foremost concern is with the spiritual wellbeing of those under my care, although I pray for all their health.”

His taut expression implied I would get no more from him on that. I tried another tack. “And Mr Fraser, he is buried here?”

The priest started. “Buried?”

“Yes. He has passed away, I assume.”

“No. Mr Fraser still lives.” The priest’s lips thinned.

“Ah. But he does not worship here?”

“I can have the records here by tomorrow afternoon. Other than that…”

“… you cannot help me?” I try not to overuse the combination of steel and disappointment that has served me well with girls and parents alike, but it is second nature by now.

“I should not say anything.” He forced his gaze back to me. “But whatever you find, or hear, please remember this: divorce is a sin. Now, if you will forgive me, I must prepare for mass.”

“Of course. Thank you for your assistance.” I made sure he saw the donation I put in the box by the door before I left.

A chance to put Mr Holmes’s other suggestion into practice came the next day, whilst the girls were on the sports field. I resisted the temptation to borrow a magnifying glass from the biology mistress, and took only myself and – in accordance with Mr Holmes’s practice – an open mind up to the dormitory.

The window opened easily, as it had on that first night. I examined the hinge, and found it well oiled, although whether this signified more than diligence by the housekeeping staff I could not say. There was no wind, but I secured the window with care anyway. The view was pleasing: across the busy playing fields, out beyond the town, and towards the higher land to the west.

I leaned over the sill and looked down. This side of the school has an impressive growth of wisteria but the branches were all but bare now, just a few yellow leaves clinging to them. I looked up, then cursed myself for a fool.

Above me, underneath the overhanging gable, was a hook. It was a great solid metal construction, left over from the days when the school had been a malt-house, when it must have been used to haul sacks of barley up into the drying loft. And there was something odd about the hook.

I dragged a chair over and stood on it, then peered upwards, into the shadow of the overhanging gable.

The chair rocked. I grabbed for the sill.

I allowed myself a moment to catch my breath then looked out again. There was something on the hook.

Without letting go of the sill I craned my neck. My thighs pressed against the window frame. I hoped the lower fifth were too busy with their hockey practice to notice their headmistress in such a precarious and undignified position.

Yes, there was something pale caught on the hook. I leaned harder. The chair creaked but held. I reached a hand up and snatched at the hook. My fingers found fabric, and I pulled it free. The chair rocked back, and I teetered for a moment, before steadying myself on the window frame. I climbed down with as much aplomb as I could manage.

Once safely on the scrubbed planks I opened my hand to find that I held a torn scrap of boiled cotton sheet, bunched up and tied with a light but coarse rope.

I was in two minds about returning to Blakenall Heath. After all, I now knew that poor Mary had nothing to fear: the “ghost” was a trick, most likely a bedsheet bunched up and tied to a rope threaded through the old hook. The sheet was a match to those in the dormitory; the rope, such as might be used by a local saddle manufactory. Both nights the “ghost” had appeared the wind had been strong enough to agitate such a prop, and Sarah had spoken of it disappearing upwards, as it would were someone below to pull on the rope, whisking the fabric up through the hook – or not, when it became caught. The explanation for the ghost was as mundane as I had thought.

But my curiosity over Mary’s wider circumstances had been piqued. Therefore I returned to the Catholic church the next afternoon.

The priest was as good as his word, and even pointed out which pages in the great ledger might be relevant to the Fraser family, “Although,” he added, “these entries only tell part of the story.” I took this to mean that my enquiries still intrigued him.

I soon located records of Eileen Fraser’s marriage, the birth of her daughter a scant and scandalous eight months later, then two years after that, of a son. The son’s death was also recorded, four years ago, shortly before Mary came to my school. There was no other issue listed.

I found the priest tidying the votive candles outside the vestry and said, “I am afraid you were right.”

“About what, madam?”

I did not correct his assumption about my marital status. “The records show only bare facts. I am not sure how helpful these will be to poor Mary.”

He looked down at the candle in his hand and frowned. But he did not make his apologies or move away, so I prompted, “Though divorce may be a sin, separation is sometimes for the best, is it not?”

He looked up and placed a candle on the table. “I would not want to repeat hearsay. Gossip never does the Lord’s work.”

“In that we are agreed. I wish only for confirmation of the facts. Mr Fraser does not live with Mrs Fraser, is that correct?”

“He does not, no.”

“But he has not moved away?”

“It might be better if he had.”

“Ah. So his continued influence is not a wholesome one. I am sorry, that takes us into the realm of gossip and opinion.”

“No, it is a reasonable supposition. Mr Fraser was never a likeable man, especially when thwarted. By all accounts excess money and a lack of human contact have caused him to twist in on himself.”

I suspected that the weight of confession, formal and otherwise, lay behind this young priest’s willingness to open up to a stranger. His soft heart was a credit to his calling. “I imagine that knowing her husband is in such a dark place does nothing to help poor Mrs Fraser’s health,” I said.

“Indeed not. Though they have little contact, thank the Lord.”

“And she lost her youngest, I see.”

“Ah yes. A tragic accident.”

“May I ask how it happened?”

“I should not say more.” I understood his reticence, given the mother of the dead child was still one of his flock; I would exercise the same tact with my girls. But then he continued, “There has been an interesting recent development in the family that I can share, though I am not sure it is of relevance to young Mary’s situation.”

“Oh?”

“It concerns another family member, one who has slipped far from the faith.”

I had a sudden, unpleasant, suspicion. “Please,” I said, my throat tight, “do go on.”

“Will you not sit down, Miss Hunter?”

“No, Mr Connor, I will not.” I would rather not have had this conversation in public, nor did I wish to be alone with Mr Connor. Any townsfolk who chose to visit The Singing Kettle today in the hopes of seeing something of interest would not be disappointed.

“Please, what is wrong?”

“Why did you not tell me you were related to one of my pupils?” Though I kept my voice low, I would not speak names where they might be overheard.

“One of… oh, you mean my cousin’s girl?”

“Yes, your cousin who was Eileen Connor before her marriage.” When I had read Mary’s mother’s maiden name in the church register I had thought nothing of it, but then the priest told me of the cousin newly returned from America and it had all fallen into place. I had the how of the matter in that scrap of white fabric; the why, I admit, was still to come; but here, surely, was the who: a member of that ill-fated family, with some knowledge of my school, quite capable of scaling a wall covered in a knotty growth of a wisteria to hang a rope from that hook.

“I did not think it relevant. I was under the impression that the last thing you wanted to talk about with me was the school which takes up so much of your life.”

Perhaps he had a point, but I would not be deflected. This man took an active interest in the so-called supernatural. Quite how faking a haunting would further his cause I could not yet say, but he had to be involved somehow. “Mr Connor, I am no more inclined to believe in coincidence than I am in ghosts.”

“I’m sorry, but I am not sure what—”

“That is enough. I do not want to hear another word.” As I turned on my heel every eye was upon me. But I did not look back.

When I took Mary aside and explained the matter of the ghostly hoax she listened in silence. When I asked who she thought might perpetrate such an unpleasant prank she shrugged. I saw relief in her, but uncertainty too. I hoped the truth would soothe her, but she was such a fragile thing, and I did not want to press the point.

Perhaps, in a few weeks, I might be able to objectively analyse Mr Connor’s part in the affair, to work out what he sought to gain or achieve. For now, I determined not to think of him at all.

I interviewed Mary’s senior dorm-mates individually, a process carried out with some delicacy, as I wished both to reassure them and to find out whether they had any more to add to this not-quite mystery. They did not.

Similar tact had to be employed with the servants. It would not do to act without evidence.

On Tuesday evening, to my surprise, Mary came to see me.

I showed her into my office, and waited for her to speak. She sniffed, blinked and said, “Please, Miss Hunter, don’t send me away.”

“Why would I do that, Miss Fraser?”

“Because of the trouble I’ve been.”

Aside from a complaint about her snoring, which could hardly be helped, Mary had been no trouble at all since moving beds. “The past is the past, Mary. And as I explained, there was no ghost. All is well.”

“So I can stay?”

“Of course you can. What makes you think otherwise?”

“The letter from Father.”

“What letter? When did he write to you?” I looked over all post before distributing it to the girls. I had seen no letter.

“Yesterday, miss.”

“Would you be willing to tell me what the letter said?”

“I… yes, miss. He said that seeing as how things were not working out here at the school, and how Mama’s health is getting worse, I should come home to him.”

“You live with your mother outside of term-time, yes?” Had Mrs Fraser gone through the process of a divorce from her unpleasant husband this arrangement would most likely have been overruled by the courts.

“Yes but… she is not well, and she’s getting worse. Her nerves… When Peter died it was horrible, and she never got over it.”

I quashed my unsatisfied curiosity at the circumstances of her little brother’s death. What mattered was the family’s current pain. “But you would still prefer to remain with her when you are not here, and not spend time with your father?”

“Miss, I would rather sleep in a ditch than enter that man’s house!”

I tried not to let my surprise at her passionate words show. “I can assure you it will not come to that.” But her desperate, if incomplete, account put a new light on the hoax that had disturbed my school.

I called the suspect to my office the next morning, having slept on the matter to ensure I had, as Holmes would say “all the data”. My suspect was Elizabeth Munton, a lanky girl from a large local family who had worked at the school for two years, reporting to the housekeeper. I had spoken briefly to her, along with all the other servants, when making my initial enquiries. At the time she had claimed to “not know anything about no ghostly prank” but had refused to meet my eyes, and the way she said “ghostly prank” implied she knew more than she was saying.

This time I tried a different tack. Having asked her to shut the door and sit down, I asked, “Munton, what are your usual duties?”

“Cleaning, laundry and whatever jobs Mrs Clews requires, Miss Hunter.”

“Including, on occasion, the distribution of the post to the girls, I believe?”

Munton squirmed in her chair.

“Did you insinuate a letter that did not arrive by the usual means into Monday’s post?”

“I…” the girl’s eyes darted round my office, looking for escape.

“Did you, Munton?”

Her hands fluttered up from her lap, and she sobbed once. “It wasn’t my idea, miss!”

“Then whose was it?”

“It came from the same man, I think, though Ma didn’t say. She just gave me the letter to bring into work, told me to get it to the Catholic girl, the nervy one.”

“What ‘same man’, Munton?”

“I don’t know his name, miss. He first called on Ma last month, and they spoke in the kitchen. I didn’t mean to overhear…”

“What did this man say?” Mr Connor had arrived in the vicinity last month.

“Something about a prank at the school, and how he needed help with it.”

“And why would your mother acquiesce to such a request? Did she know this man?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.” The girl’s face reddened. “But Ma needs money, what with Pa gone and another baby on the way.”

“And this man offered to pay if you carried out this ‘prank’?”

“Ma never said but… yes, he must’ve. We’ve had meat on the table twice a week since.”

“What precisely did you do, besides deliver the letter?”

“I got the sheet, and Jeb – my middle brother – he got the rope. I strung it up the night before the storms, whilst I was in there cleaning. Later on, he sneaked in below and tugged on the rope.”

“Twice?”

“Aye, ma’am. Twice.” From her face she knew how much trouble she was in. Why do people never consider the consequences of their actions?

“Did you also disrupt a study session in the library?”

“What study session, miss?”

“Never mind. The man who came to your house, did he speak to you?”

“No, just to Ma.”

“But you heard him speak? Did he have an accent, perhaps an Irish one?”

“No, miss, he was local, by his speech.”

“And his appearance: what colour was his hair?”

“His hair? Dark, though thin on top. Ma had me take his hat when he arrived. Please, what’ll happen to me?”

“I think you know what must happen to you now, Munton. I cannot have untrustworthy staff at my school.”

“Yes, Miss Hunter.” Though there were tears in her voice, I saw acceptance too.

“Kindly pack your things. I will not require you to work out your notice.”

Her shoulders sagged and she whispered, “As you will, Miss Hunter.”

“I would advise against telling any of the other staff why you must leave the school’s service.” Not that I minded if she did: knowing the mechanism behind the disruptive incidents might help restore calm. “Come back and see me before you leave.”

When she was gone I sat back, then leaned forward and reached for my pen. I had two letters to write.

The first would be references for Munton, along with a bankers’ draft for a week’s wages. Foolish though the girl had been, she had been obeying her still-more-foolish mother. Up until this incident, she had been a competent housemaid and, although she could not stay here, I would not sabotage her future.

The second letter was harder. No one enjoys admitting they are in the wrong.

“You came, then?” I tried not to sound too relieved, but the maiden aunts who so enjoy my meetings with Mr Connor were not even pretending to address themselves to their Darjeeling today. After last week’s show they watched us raptly, straining to hear the latest development in this low opera of emotions.

“I did. Please, Miss Hunter, sit down.”

I did so, feeling a sigh escape as I did.

“I will come straight out and say this, Mr Connor. I am heartily sorry for the way I treated you last week.”

“I accept your apology. You were applying that fine mind of yours to a problem without being in possession of the full facts.”

“Quite so, to my chagrin. Perhaps coincidences are more common than I care to admit. Certainly, they are more common than conspiracies.” I left it unsaid that I had wanted to think the worst of him rather than face the changes he might bring into my life.

Mr Connor nodded; graciously, I thought. I could imagine myself spending more time with this man. “And how is my cousin’s girl doing?”

“She is nervous and scared, but that is, sadly, normal for her. I am not sure she will ever find happiness and ease, but for my part I will do all I can to help her.”

“And for mine, I will ensure that her wretched brute of a father does not cause any more trouble.”

“He strikes me as a man who will go to great lengths to get what he wants.” And what he had wanted was his only child; thanks to his wife’s faith, and her consequent refusal to agree to a divorce, there would be no other legitimate issue.

“Only if unchecked.” Mr Connor smiled. “I have a purpose here now: to watch over what remains of my family.”

“I am delighted to hear that.”

“It is not a purpose that will take all of my time, Miss Hunter. I might hope, when spring comes, to explore the byways of the local countryside, with a suitable guide.”

“That sounds like a pleasant diversion.”

“More pleasant than chasing ghosts.” I had given Mr Connor the gist of the affair in my letter.

“Now, you know there was no ghost, Mr Connor.”

“Indeed not. But that is not the same as saying there are no ghosts, is it? ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies…’ as the Bard puts it.”

“Perhaps.” Having been both right and wrong in recent weeks, I could concede that much.

Mary fell ill the next week. A bout of brain-fever was not unexpected after her recent traumas. She took to her bed, now out of sight of the fateful window, her rest aided by strong medication prescribed by our matron.

I had yet to replace Munton, so when autumn rain gave way, in the space of an hour, to winter’s still and bitter cold, I took a spare blanket up to Mary myself. I found her dozing, rosary entwined in her fingers. As I unfolded the blanket over her she opened her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Mary,” I murmured, “just rest.”

“I dreamt Father came for me.”

“I can assure you that will not happen.”

Her gaze was febrile and bright. “Are you sure? After Peter died, he said such terrible things.”

“All untrue, I’m sure. Peter was your brother, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She looked past me, as though at something unseen. “He fell.”

Whilst I did not want to cause the girl further pain, curiosity still pricked me. “An accident, yes?”

“Yes.” Her gaze focused on me. “He fell from the attic window.”

No wonder she had connected the flapping sheet outside with her dead brother! “Oh Mary. It must have been awful.” I shivered; the cold had taken hold up here.

“It was.” Her face twisted into an odd, feverish smile. “But it’s all right. No one saw.”

As I opened my mouth to ask what she meant a sharp bang resounded through the dormitory. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding. The noise had come from the far end of the room. I looked to the source of the sound, then, suspicions confirmed, hurried towards it.

The window was wide open. Before fear could get the better of me I leant out and grabbed the latch. My glimpse of the world outside was pure normality: a bright winter’s afternoon, girls on the sports fields below, rooks in the elm trees.

When I tugged the window closed I half expected the catch to be broken, but it was not. Whoever last opened it must have failed to fasten it properly, leaving it to be caught by a stray gust of wind.

I walked back to Mary’s alcove to find her sound asleep, that same peculiar smile still on her face.