Voices in a Haunted Room

“Imagine Sophie and Jeanne alone in that house. They would have servants though ... and perhaps guests to stay.”

“What guests! Can you imagine Sophie entertaining? Oh, Claudine, I hope she doesn’t take it. I’ve never liked the house. I hoped it would crumble away ... that the roof and the walls would fall in and birds would rest there and the rats and mice take over the last stages of destruction.”

“Oh, Maman, how can you condemn it to such a fate? It is a house, after all. I know it’s haunted. I would never be happy living there, but to condemn it to destruction ... it’s like condemning a person.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I think we are both talking a lot of nonsense.... How long will you be in London?”

“As long as Dickon’s work keeps him there.”

“His work ... in the bank?”

“I expect sometimes in the bank.”

“What has that to do with the death of the Queen of France?”

“These things affect finance. There is a great deal involved.”

“And Dickon is involved ... and I suspect in many things.”

“Dickon,” she said with a little laugh, “has a finger in many pies.”

“Secret pies ... secret even from you, Maman?”

“If they were secret he couldn’t tell even me, could he? And I could not ask him to.”

“It is all so mysterious! I know that Dickon is a big landowner and banker and is mixed up with politics in a way about which we are not supposed to enquire. But when you think of the way in which he got you out of France ... well, he must have many contacts there.”

She smiled at me. “I should thank God for it, Claudine. If it had not been so, I should not be here at this moment.”

I threw my arms about her. “I thank God for it too, dearest Maman. I can’t bear to think of it. A world without you! Always be here!”

“Always here to do what I can for you, my love.”

I drew away from her; her smile was tremulous.

She said: “Then, Claudine, let us be thankful for what is and not probe into matters which we are not meant to know. I must go now. I want to make sure they are packing the right things.”

“Can I help you?”

She shook her head.

When she left me I went out into the gardens. Whenever I thought of how near my mother had come to death, I was so filled with emotion and terror that I had to be alone, to reassure myself that it was over. It’s finished, I would tell myself. She is safe.

We shall never let her risk her life again. Dickon would never allow it. I was thankful for Dickon-my powerful stepfather who loved her with an unswerving devotion; he would always take care of her, and because no one could get the better of him, she would be safe while he was there to protect her.

The damp November air cooled my cheeks. It was dark now. I should be glad when the nights began to draw out, which would not be until after Christmas. My thoughts went back to Enderby, that strange house, and the voices I had heard. What was the meaning of that? Some would say I was imagining I heard voices simply because Enderby was the sort of house where one would expect to. I knew about my grandmother Zipporah, who had loved the Count in this very house, and where it was almost certain my mother had been conceived. The house had played a big part in our family history, perhaps that was why it had such an effect on me.

My grandmother had fallen in love, broken her marriage vows and taken her first steps towards a violent death in a square in a French town-and it had all begun at Enderby.

But the voices? I heard them on two occasions. Were they in my mind? That girl had said she heard nothing. But she seemed a little vacant, and the laughter had been low. I hoped Sophie would decide against the house and find somewhere else. Then I should never go near it again.

I must go in. It would soon be time to change for dinner. I wondered whether Sophie would join us. I expected she would as she would want to talk about the house. On the other hand she might prefer to talk about it alone with Jeanne. Perhaps she would change her mind in the morning. Would Enderby look any less sinister in the morning light? But the aspect of houses-as that of people-was not always seen in the same light by everyone. Beauty to some was not necessarily beauty to others; the same with evil; and what might arouse in some a desire to escape from it, might be irresistibly fascinating to others.

As I passed the shrubbery, a voice said: “Claudine!” and a hand seized me and pulled me into the shadow of the bushes.

“Jonathan!”

“I saw you leave the house,” he said.

“Well, what do you want?”

“What do I want? That’s an unnecessary question, isn’t it? You know what I want.

What have I always wanted? Why did you do it, Claudine? Why did you do it?”

He was holding me in a firm grip from which I could not escape. He drew me farther into the shrubbery.

“Let me go, Jonathan. I have to get back to the house.”

“You’ll talk to me first.”

“What about?”

“About everything ... this situation into which you have thrust me.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”