Death and the Maiden

Mr Tidson did not revise his opinion of the key of B minor, but talked intelligently upon Stanford in A and Wood in F as he walked beside Mrs Bradley across the Close and out of the gate by Saint Swithun’s Church at the termination of the service.

‘I used to be a choirboy,’ he said.

Mrs Bradley found herself more and more interested in the strange little man. His potentialities, she felt, were infinite. She longed to ask him, point-blank, whether or not he were a murderer, but she felt that this would ruin their friendly relationship and defeat the object of the question, which was, quite simply and unequivocally, to find out the answer.

The evening passed pleasantly and sociably, and gained from the absence of Connie, who went to bed immediately after dinner upon plea of a headache. It was left to Connie, however, to provide the next line of excitement. This she did in the manner beloved of adolescents (whether consciously or unconsciously) by introducing the subject of ghosts. She began by contacting Thomas on the following day, and, to bolster up a weak approach to the matter, adopted a belligerent tone in demanding of the dignified old man whether the hotel was haunted.

‘I have heard it is,’ she asserted, ‘and I certainly think it might be true. What about it, Thomas? “Ghaists nor bogles shall ye fear,” and all that, you know.’

‘Likewise,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘“By the noise of dead men’s bones in charnel houses rattling.”’

‘Oh, don’t!’ said Connie anxiously. ‘Please don’t!’

‘And,’ said Miss Carmody, innocently adding her quota to what she believed to be an intellectual game, ‘“powers above in clouds do sit,” you remember.’

‘“Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,”’said Mr Tidson, giggling at Connie and avoiding Thomas’ eye as he adapted Robert Burns to the trend of the conversation. The others looked at Thomas expectantly.

‘There’s a wee hoose on the ither side o’ the town, so I have haird,’ began Thomas gravely, ‘that is said to contain a footstep.’

‘I shouldn’t care to hear it,’ said Connie. ‘But I’m not talking about a house across the town. I’m talking about this hotel. You ought to know whether the hotel is haunted or not. You’ve lived here long enough, Thomas.’

‘Hotels are not made to be haunted. The guests, maybe, couldna thole it,’ said Thomas, picking up his little round tray. ‘Ghaisties wadna come whaur they werena welcome.’

Connie felt herself snubbed by this original* thought upon the subject, and did not ask any more questions; but Mrs Bradley, who had her own reasons for being interested, said to her after lunch on the following day:

‘Will you come with me to the top of St Catherine’s Hill? It is fine to-day, and we shall not mind if it’s slippery. I think I’d like you to tell me about your ghost.’

‘I suppose you think it sounds ridiculous?’ said Connie, on the defensive.

‘Oh, I don’t see why the hotel shouldn’t be haunted. It has had a long and troubled history. Have you discovered the priest’s hole yet? Perhaps you have seen it on a previous visit? I know you have stayed here before,’ said Mrs Bradley, taking no notice of the protest.

‘Not that long linen-cupboard place down two or three steps at the top of the main staircase?’

‘I understand so. There is a story that a Jesuit was in hiding there when the mistress of the house was taken before the Council to be questioned. He wanted to give himself up, but the servants would not let him. They said that the honour of the house was involved, which, one must admit, was true.’

‘My ghost was a nun,’ said Connie. ‘Nothing happened exactly, but I don’t think I want to sleep in my bedroom any more. Do you think they would change it if I asked them? I don’t want to be laughed at by that sneering Crete Tidson, though. I wish I could make a change without her knowing. Better still, I wish I could start my job a bit sooner, and leave the hotel altogether!’

‘You had better change with me if you feel like that,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘and we will say nothing to any of them. Now come along, and we’ll see how many miles we can walk.’

‘Oh, dear! I suppose I’ve got to come with you,’ said Connie, very ungratefully. Miss Carmody had gone into Alresford, Crete had decided to lie down, and Mr Tidson was off on his own affairs as usual.

The route they followed led them past the Cathedral and across its Close, down College Street and along College Walk, and then, by the river footpath, to the path across the water-meadows. This brought them to the main stream of the Itchen, for this walk was one way – and by far the most delightful – to reach St Catherine’s Hill.

There was a choice of paths, for a bridge spanned the river and led to the towing-path; on the right bank, which Connie chose, was a narrow path alongside the water. They passed forget-me-not and meadow rue, and, on a pool beside the stream, the yellow water-lily. There was water-cress in abundance on all the streams, and the ragged-robin stood two feet high in the water-meadows.

Mrs Bradley and Connie walked for the most part in single file and in silence. At last they crossed the by-pass and began to climb the hill.

They mounted some chalk-cut steps to the first of the pre-Roman earthworks which crowned the top of the hill. From a kind of circular plateau covered with short springy grass a fine view could be had of the river, the city, and the water-meadows. There was an open prospect across the river to the hills around Oliver’s Battery, and away to the south-west were the barrows on Compton Down.

‘Well, now,’ said Mrs Bradley, when she and Connie had seated themselves on the turf and were gazing across to the hills on the opposite side, ‘go ahead, and please don’t leave out anything.’

‘The ghost?’

‘The ghost, child.’

‘And would you really change rooms with me? Really?’

‘Certainly. I confess I should like to see a ghost. One reads so much and experiences so little of these things. This hotel – who knows? – may be a place of first-rate psychic interest and importance.’ She cackled, but Connie remained serious.

‘Well, if you really wouldn’t mind, I’d be terribly glad. It’s a nun, you know. I told you, didn’t I?’

‘Yes? A nun?’

‘In a white habit. She’s fairly small and she – and she squeaks.’

‘Squeaks?’

‘Yes. I don’t know how else to describe it. She frightened me horribly. I hid my face under the bedclothes, and prayed for her to go away, and when I peeped next time she was gone.’

‘Whereabouts in the room did she appear?’

‘Close by the dressing-table, I think. But I couldn’t say for certain. It seemed between there and the fireplace.’

‘Have you any idea of the time when she appeared?’

‘Yes, but it isn’t exact. I heard a clock strike three very soon after she had gone.’

‘You know it was striking the hour?’

‘Oh, yes. It had done all its chimes, and then it struck three clear notes. I expect you’ve heard the clock I mean. I think it’s somewhere near, but in the town, not in the hotel.’

‘Well, child, we shall see what luck I have. If you are ready, let us climb to the grove of trees.’

‘You go,’ said Connie. ‘I’d sooner look at the view.’

Mrs Bradley got up, and climbed, by a broad turf path closely worn to the chalk of the hill, to a grove of trees on the summit. Here she poked inquisitively about among the tree-trunks and discovered what looked like a tramp’s lair in a hole in the ground where, at some time, possibly, a tree had been uprooted. There were the remains of a fire, a couple of rusty tins which had not been opened but were dented all over as though they had been flung against the trees, two great hunks of badly mildewed bread, and a heap of dead leaves which might have been used as a bed.

Although an ancient British track was believed to have run up and over the hill, it was not very likely, Mrs Bradley thought, that a modern tramp would have troubled to take the same route when roads went in every direction around the base of the hill. She was interested in these evidences of human occupation, therefore, particularly as they did not look like the remains of a picnic.

She poked into the hole with her foot, and turned up an old leather sandal. She was sufficiently interested in this to continue poking. She felt that Connie was watching her, so she thoughtfully pushed the heap of leaves over