A House of Bells: A Thrilling Gothic Supernatural Mystery and Suspense Novel Read online

  A House of Bells

  J. T. Croft

  To the memory of Graham Thomas, who laid down to sleep as I laid down my pen.

  31st December 2020

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  A House of Bells.

  Preface

  A House of Bells deals with silence, the area of sensitivity surrounding deafness, and the physical and mental impairments to speech. These are emotive subjects and the language used to describe the Deaf community and those unable or unwilling to speak has evolved. I have used the terms, such as they were, given the time period, in a way that reflects the use and prejudices of the time, and I wanted to address and give my reasons for the use of outdated and possibly offensive language so that readers understand why it has been used and my intentions behind it.

  I am grateful to the British Deaf Association for their input and guidance on the history, terminology and sensitivities surrounding deafness, and the information on techniques used historically by ‘oralist’ teachers during the time that the novel is set (1918). The heroine shows awareness of and sensitivity about the significance of the terms people use to describe ‘impairment’, often challenging the stereotypes that existed (and still exist).

  I have used and described British Sign Language (BSL) for hand signs and fingerspelling, having superimposed modern words and/or signs where historical ones do not exist, or could not be found.

  J. T. Croft

  February 2021

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Get Exclusive Content

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by J. T. Croft

  Prologue

  The fall had shattered the woman’s neck and fractured bones right down to her ankles.

  James completed his post-mortem examination on the covered billiard table and reset the broken body’s dislocations.

  She deserves better than this, he thought as he closed the rip in her sombre gown from which the splintered leg bone had violently erupted.

  ‘I appreciate your help, Dr Croswell,’ said the police inspector, yawning. He mopped his brow and glanced around at the stuffed animal trophies in the richly furnished room of Hemingworth Hall. Their black and lifeless eyes stared down at the makeshift mortuary. ‘A dreadful business, to be sure.’

  James barely registered the attempt at conversation. His mouth was dry, and he was numb from being woken three hours earlier; the final midnight call before the storm ripped down the telegraph lines to the house. The doctor accepted his responsibility as the closest and most qualified medical professional available at short notice. Still, he fought to remain detached from any emotional association with the governess lying on the green billiard cloth. No training or life experience could fully prepare him for the violent and sudden loss of a close confidant, and James struggled to separate the joyful spirit of Jane Urquhart from the lifeless, broken body before him. He gained comfort from the cold, congealed sweat on her unmarked face—she had landed feet first, sparing him the dreadful encounter with a heavily fractured skull.

  Death had come quickly and mercifully, but not before a short period of agony in the arms of her traumatised young ward. James had administered the sedative to mollify the young girl, and the opiate would soon be rocking the horrific memory to sleep.

  It was rare to work on violent deaths and injuries so severe, however accidental, so far from the city. The war had been a different matter, and James’s role as a senior medic had prepared him for more than a life’s instruction in setting bone, removing shrapnel or amputating limbs from the wrappings of their muddied military khaki. His muscle memory returned quickly to deal with the governess’s fall—a small comfort under the circumstances.

  ‘The storm is making it difficult to reach the coroner in Warwick,’ said the inspector, shifting from foot to foot and scanning the surroundings of the stately room. ‘I’m aware you knew the lady?’

  James handed his completed notebook to the inspector.

  ‘We played chess,’ he said. ‘She was an excellent teacher.’

  ‘She taught you how to play?’ said the inspector, nodding with professional approval as he flicked through the detailed report.

  ‘She taught me how to lose with dignity.’

  ‘What of the staining on the forefinger and thumb?’ asked the inspector, pointing his cartridge pen to the lifeless right hand.

  ‘It’s in my report,’ said James, pulling across a sheet to cover the body. ‘It could be ink, soot from a pinched candlewick or bruising from the shock to the circulatory system at the ends of the fingers; it’s not uncommon. I’ve scraped a sample onto a slide, and you can send it to the laboratory. I’ll keep the coroner informed.’

  James followed the glance of the inspector to the emerald glass bottle on a nearby tray.

  ‘When the housemaid discovered the laudanum in her room,’ said the inspector, ‘you seemed surprised she was an addict?’

  James turned and washed his hands in the makeshift basin, hastily prepared within the closed room. He paused, wiping them on a threadbare towel.

  ‘I’ve given you a statement, along with everyone else in the house—’

  ‘Not quite everybody.’ The inspector pulled out his notebook and scanned a list of names. ‘I still have to question the manservant, Mr Bishop.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that,’ said James, buttoning his rolled-down sleeves. ‘The man’s mute, but Captain Ferris and I can attest to his character; he’s the reason Charles came back alive from Flanders at all, despite his injuries.’

  The loose casement windows rattled with a sudden gust of air, and the lights dimmed, buzzing as the antiquated electrics fought to regain control from the October storm.

  ‘If you take my advice,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t call him a manservant, not to his face at any rate. He’s much more than that.’

  ‘Mr Bishop guards the valuables in the tower, does he not?’ pressed the inspector.

  James hesitated, unwilling to embellish the ridiculous notion that great stores of Reformation silver, the legendary wealth of the family, lay hidden and unused in the decrepit manor house tower. ‘Mr Bishop is diligent in all his duties,’ he said, ‘but guarding access to fabled treasure is not one of them.’

  ‘I’m not insinuating anything, Dr Croswell. It’s well known he has been a long-standing support to Captain Ferris since his return from the war.’ The inspector bit on the end of his pen. ‘Strange that so delicate a woman as Miss Urquhart could possess the strength to pull herself up and climb so high, don’t you think?’

  ‘Miss Urquhart was delicate only in body,
Inspector, and the mind is capable of extraordinary things, when under periods of mental stress.’

  The inspector held up a finger to strengthen his point. ‘Perhaps fables of Catholic silver encouraged closer inspection of the tower? Belief is a powerful motivator.’

  ‘I will not answer any more questions on fairy tales,’ said James, shaking his head.

  The inspector pursed his lips and tapped his pen against his cheek.

  ‘Given her delicate mental state,’ he said, ‘and being under the influence of a powerful opiate—could this, in your medical opinion, be a motive for suicide? The housekeeper attests to seeing Miss Urquhart climbing on the outside of the spiral staircase before the railing gave way, and she fell to her death.’

  James frowned, disgusted by the shameful assertion.

  ‘Jane Urquhart loved life, and she was fond of Rose. What drove her to do those things is unknown, and possibly unknowable. I am not a psychoanalyst, but her death from that height results from the giving way of the dilapidated railings, two-thirds of the way up. You’ve seen how the house is falling apart?’

  A gust of wind slammed into the house and forced its way up to the eaves of the roof, lifting and dislodging several slates. They smashed onto the cracked paving outside in the black autumn night.

  The inspector shrugged. ‘Returning to the laudanum—’

  James closed his case and put on his coat. The mantelpiece clock chimed four times, barely audible over the sound of the howling gale.

  ‘It’s late, Inspector, and I have a full surgery ahead of me in four hours. I prescribe the tincture as a pain relief for Miss Ferris alongside other medicines for her deteriorating condition.’ He met the curious gaze of the police officer. ‘I do not prescribe it for recreational use.’ He pulled at the bell rope, setting off a distant and muffled tinkling. The sound of rapidly approaching feet on stone came from the other side, hurrying to unlock the casement doors.

  ‘I can only tell you what happened to the body at the time of her death and how she died,’ added James. ‘You and your men moved her to the billiard room before I arrived, but the injuries she sustained are consistent with a fall of some thirty feet onto a tiled floor. What her motives were and why she climbed to such a dangerous height are out of my jurisdiction.’

  James turned to the prostrate form of the governess. ‘And, out of respect, I do not wish to speculate on the motive or cause of her sudden and unbalanced mental state; that is your job to deduce. Mine is to mourn.’

  The doors unlocked and swung outwards, revealing the fearful face of the housemaid in the main hall. ‘The master has asked to see you before you leave, Dr Croswell,’ she said.

  James nodded and offered the police officer the door. The inspector collected his hat from the horns of a nearby wall-mounted stag.

  ‘Can you tell Captain Ferris that I will return with the undertaker this afternoon?’ said the inspector. He turned, glancing at the blanched and terrified face of the house servant.

  ‘I’m not a man prone to fancy, Dr Croswell, but given the governess’s alleged wild ramblings before her demise, not to mention Hemingworth’s reputation for being an unquiet house—’

  James pivoted. ‘Neither am I, Inspector. A meeting with ghosts or ghouls did not cause Miss Urquhart’s death.’ He raised his arm to usher the police officer from the room and signal the conversation was at an end.

  ‘The force of gravity, intersecting with the surface of the earth, killed my friend lying there.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early for that, Charles?’ asked James disapprovingly as his friend fumbled with the stopper to the whisky. The candle- and firelight fractured by the crystal decanter sent fragments of amber sparking across the drawing-room panelling.

  ‘It’s late,’ said Charles Ferris, shakily raising the tumbler to his lips. ‘I haven’t been to bed yet.’

  ‘You haven’t slept properly for weeks. Have you been taking the—’

  ‘I haven’t slept since Sophia died and this nonsense started, so don’t bother to lecture me about it, James.’ Charles downed the whisky and misjudged the side table as he replaced the glass. The crystal tumbler slipped to the floor, smashing into a myriad of glistening pieces.

  James strode towards his friend in the wheelchair, knelt in front of him, and stared into his dead eyes.

  ‘That was blindness before you lecture me, Dr Croswell. I’ve not had nearly enough yet.’ He yelled out for the housekeeper before glancing over with opaque eyes.

  ‘We’ve known each other since Cambridge, Captain Ferris, and I will for the sake of our friendship lecture you however I damn well please.’

  Charles snorted. ‘That’s some bedside manner you’ve developed out here in the wilds.’

  ‘It’s called tough love, Charles, though I prefer to call it honesty.’ James kicked the lifeless boot of his best friend.

  ‘You’ll never know how much I wish I could feel that. I barely feel anything anymore.’ Charles twisted the chair towards the fire and held out his hand.

  James threw on a log of seasoned oak; sparks scattered up the chimney. The flue sucked the glowing fragments rapidly out into the turbulent air outside. ‘What will you do with Rose, now that Jane—’

  ‘She was bloody good, you know?’ said Charles thoughtfully. ‘Jane was making real progress; I almost thought I heard Rose murmuring in her sleep two nights ago.’

  He looked up towards James. ‘I’m not sending her away to some asylum, or whatever you call them these days. She’s staying here with me until I’m sure that what haunts this damn place is no longer a threat. Who’s saying it wouldn’t follow her, anyway?’

  ‘You need another governess then—’

  ‘I need a miracle, James.’

  ‘—one skilled in communicating with the deaf and dumb,’ continued the doctor, ignoring the interruption.

  Charles stiffened and gripped the end of his chair tightly. ‘She’s neither.’ He relaxed his hands. ‘I used to be annoyed by the constant running around the house by them; what I wouldn’t give for an hour like that now, even ten minutes …’

  ‘I’ll put my feelers out,’ said James. ‘For someone suitably qualified. There may be some at the Cambria Institute—’

  Charles reversed back into the corner of the room, knocking into the writing desk. He reached behind him and fumbled for a letter. ‘No need. I’ve already made arrangements with an agent in Mayfair; someone that has already offered me guidance on spiritual matters—defence in particular.’

  ‘Defence?’ said James, uncomfortable with his friend’s recent interest in matters that lay outside of science and reason.

  ‘Come,’ said Charles, ‘I’ll show you before I lock the damn chamber for good.’

  Charles wheeled across to the door as the housekeeper arrived. ‘Mrs Stanton, will you be so good as to arrange the clearance of the glass near the hearth,’ he said. ‘My friend here has had a terrible evening, as have we all, and has dropped one of the 1878 set.’

  Mrs Stanton pressed her lips together as James silently protested with a look of innocence. He gave the woman a short shake of his head; it wasn’t as if Charles was likely to see the exchange, not in the dim light. The sharp features of the housekeeper cast shadows across her pockmarked face as she realised the ruse. She placed a hand gently on her employer’s shoulder; Charles flinched.

  ‘And where is Bishop? I need the damn lights on,’ he said, wheeling out into the main hall. ‘How am I supposed to see anything at all with these blasted eyes without light!’

  The doctor and housekeeper followed swiftly.

  ‘Mr Bishop is with Billy, sir,’ said Mrs Stanton. ‘He’s finishing the preparations you requested, in the tower wing.’

  ‘I’ll see to him myself,’ barked Charles. ‘Check on Rose. Make sure she is where she is supposed to be and not wandering the house again at ungodly hours.’

  James passed the housekeeper, who was still in the process of a short curtsy. It was a habit l
ong learned, but now not necessary or noticed except during his closest friend’s regular visits.

  ‘From now on,’ said Charles, heading to the partly glazed double doors at the end of the corridor to the tower rooms, ‘no one goes up there, and nothing gets out.’

  James caught up and glanced through the small stained-glass panels to see movement and candlelight beyond. Charles leaned forwards from his chair and banged on the door with the side of his fist. The tower boomed with the echo and James looked behind at the house staff’s timid faces, leaning out from other doorways. The doors opened, and a man of great size all but blotted out the dimly lit room beyond.

  ‘Is it done?’ said Charles, entering the chamber. ‘Is all prepared, Bishop?’

  The giant mute nodded, clapped once in his affirmation, and pointed behind him.

  James stood in the lower chamber of the tower, once so familiar to him—the bell staircase of Hemingworth Hall. He recalled his childhood, racing up and down the two hundred steps until Charles’s father would come out of the study and sue for peace. The distant ceiling above always gave him a sense of vertigo, and he shivered with the memory of trying to outdo his closest rival in the deadly spiral slide down the handrail; the same that had given way hours before.

  The staircase was now monstrously transformed. Candlelit lamps and wall sconces illuminated the circular walls of the four-storey tower. The self-supporting stone treads, keyed in one on top of another, were a marvel of post-Reformation period architecture. They were bounded on one side by dark oak panelling, and on the other by an ornate wrought-iron filigree railing with a polished wooden handrail. James gazed in disbelief at the grand entrance to the bell staircase; the hall’s crowning glory was now webbed with great silver strands of taut silk thread and rope. Tarnished steel bells, removed from their delicate hangings within the railings, glistened and swung at points along the lines, ringing as Bishop and the teenage boy assisting him attached the final strands around the base of the steps and across the central void. Sitting centrally and suspended like a great spider within the midst of the web hung a wheel-like oil lamp chandelier. It burned brightly above the central opening, casting its light and shadows to the barricaded and webbed doorways that led off to adjoining floors, and to the embossed ceiling rose eighty feet above.