THE HAUNTING

PAUL DOHERTY

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Copyright © 1997 P. C. Doherty

The right of P. C. Doherty to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978 0 7553 5048 3

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P. C. Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now the Headmaster of a school in North-East London, and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

P. C. Doherty’s Hugh Corbett medieval mysteries - SATAN IN ST MARY’S, CROWN IN DARKNESS, SPY IN CHANCERY, THE ANGEL OF DEATH, THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, MURDER WEARS A COWL, THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD, THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL, SATAN’S FIRE and THE DEVIL’S HUNT - are also available from Headline, as are his other novels of mystery and murder - AN ANCIENT EVIL, being the Knight’s Tale, A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS, being the Man of Law’s Tale, A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS, being the Franklin’s Tale, and GHOSTLY MURDERS, being the Priest’s Tale, all told during the evenings on a pilgrimage from London to Canterbury.

Acclaim for P. C. Doherty’s medieval mysteries:

‘Medieval London comes vividly to life . . . Doherty’s depictions of medieval characters and manners of thought, from the highest to the lowest, ringing true’

Publishers Weekly

‘I really like these medieval whodunnits’

Sarah Broadhurst, Bookseller

‘. . . this is one of those books you hate to put down’

Prima

‘A powerful compound of history and intrigue’

Redbridge Guardian

To Kay Savage, with many thanks for her support and
encouragement over the years.

AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE

This novel is placed in a mid-Victorian setting. It was enjoyable to research this period of dramatic change. The Victorians of the mid-nineteenth century were more relaxed and casual in their manners and etiquette than, perhaps, forty years later. The impact of new inventions were making themselves felt, be it changes in clothing, eating habits, the effect of the railways, matches, gas lighting, etc. Coffee and tea were favourite beverages: the former was often served after dinner, only later in the century was it accepted as part of high society etiquette.

The Catholic Church in 1865 was one still coming out of the catacombs. Archbishop Manning had yet to be made a Cardinal and the organisation of the Catholic hierarchy was still undeveloped. Bishops often ruled very large dioceses. Priests had to travel around and use existing buildings: even as late as 1893, the liturgy was celebrated at Woodford Green in an iron shed. The Mass Father Oliver celebrates is, of course, the Tridentine Rite: the excerpts from the offices of exorcism are also 19th century. The biblical quotations are from the King James Version; officially frowned on but (secretly) deeply admired by the Catholic Church. The spiritual phenomena depicted in the novel have been culled from ones I have learnt about over the years. The office of Exorcist still exists in the Catholic Church; appointed solely by their Bishop, these exorcists often do their work in great secrecy. The Church is still reluctant (as it always has been) to publicise such occasions.

Paul C. Doherty

Chapter 1

The Seven Dials, London: November 1865

The police inspector stood on a corner of Brinklow Lane in that dingy area of London known as Seven Dials. He pushed back his helmet and mopped the sweat from his brow. At each end of the lane, special constables were shooing away the crowd as Inspector Thurston prepared to enter what the denizens of this hideous area had dubbed the ‘Haunted House’.

All around him were crumbling, foetid dwelling houses with their decaying plaster, rotting wood and shabby masonry. The house causing the furore had once belonged to Robert Benfleet, late parishioner of St Giles and now interred in that church’s weed-filled cemetery. It was a five-storeyed, narrow, gloomy mansion.

Benfleet, according to local lore, had been ancient in both sin and age. Once he was dead, Benfleet’s executors had only been too willing to sell the decrepit mansion to a new property developer, a Member of Parliament with ready access to what dwelling places were about to come on to the market.

Old Benfleet’s house had been split into so-called apartments and filled with drabs, whores and pickpockets, anyone who could afford the few pennies a week in rent. They had clustered in like flies since Benfleet’s death, only to leave one by one, claiming the house was evil and that they would not enter it for love nor money.

Three nights ago a riot had almost been caused by remaining residents, angry at losing the roof over their heads. The new property owner, after a brief, whispered conversation with the Home Secretary, had requested a thorough police search to dispel the suspicions that a rival was playing music-hall tricks to clear the dwelling place, lower the price and snap it up at the earliest opportunity.

Thurston pointed to a constable, his young face almost hidden by his helmet and luxurious mutton-chop whiskers.

‘Right, Coggins, you come with me!’

The constable licked his lips and shuffled his feet. At a click of Thurston’s fingers another constable handed over one of the lighted bull’s-eye lanterns. Thurston, accompanied by a trembling Coggins, turned the key in the front door and pushed it open. The interior was black as night, foul and damp. In the flickering light from the lantern the walls glistened with mildewed dirt. Some of the plaster had crumbled; it crunched under their boots as they made their way along the hallway.

‘Goodness sir!’ Coggins whispered. ‘It’s bloody awful!’

‘Silence!’

Thurston would have openly agreed with his constable, but he had heard so many stories about this place he realised that the slightest show of fear might make him a laughing stock for years to come.

‘They should have called in the army,’ Coggins moaned. ‘Seven Dials is well known as a robbers’ den. The only people who are allowed in here are Catholic priests and soldiers with bayonets fixed.’

Thurston ignored him; he stopped outside a small downstairs room and raised the lantern. He thought of his own small house in Clerkenwell, the scrubbed kitchen floor, spotless table and merry fire burning in the burnished hearth. He quietly thanked God that he didn’t have to bring his wife and child to a place like this. The intolerable stench made Thurston wonder if the cesspits and privies were clogged.

‘They should have brought the army in!’ Coggins repeated.

‘If they had brought the army in, Coggins, it would have caused a furore, articles in the newspapers and our governors don’t want that. Go in, make a thorough search, allay public fear and return to the station. That’s what we are going to do!’

Thurston moved to the foot of the rickety stairs and stared up. Nothing but darkness. He felt beneath his cape for the truncheon hanging on his belt hook. He wished he had a firearm, a pistol, anything.

Thurston was frightened. It wasn’t the darkness, the filth or the throat-gagging odours but something else, cold and evil, lurking in the darkness: something about to shatter that terrible silence.

They began to climb the stairs slowly, the lantern creating a pool of light around them. On the first stairwell, Coggins quietly cursed as fat, bloated rats scurried away.

The higher they climbed, the more fearful both policemen became. Thurston’s face grew damp with sweat. The darkness seemed to embrace them, promising terrors yet to come. There was little light. The glass in the windows had long been smashed and either boarded up or covered in grease-covered paper. This, torn and tattered, flapped noisily in the night breeze. From the alleys below a dog barked. Thurston recalled childhood stories about a howling dog being Satan’s herald.

They had reached the third storey, making a thorough search of each room, when Coggins, forgetting all rank, grabbed his inspector’s arm.

‘Listen, sir!’

Thurston, one foot on the next stair, tensed. He was about to reprimand Coggins when he heard it: an eerie creaking as if someone further up the house kept opening and shutting a door.

‘Come on,’ Thurston ordered. His throat and mouth were dry and he pinched his nostrils at the increasingly foul smell. Where had he experienced that before? Thurston wiped the sweat from his cheek with the heel of his hand.

‘It’s the same smell!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Do you remember, Coggins, when we exhumed that coffin last summer in St Jude’s cemetery at Whitechapel?’

‘Is there a corpse here, sir? Pshaw!’ Coggins turned away, fighting hard to control his nausea.

‘A dead cat or some other animal,’ Thurston declared.

He climbed on. The creaking now echoed like a bell through the house. On the fourth stairwell Coggins again grasped his inspector’s arm.

‘Why are we here, sir?’

‘Because we are ordered to be, Constable: that’s what happens in the police force. Someone gives you an order and you carry it out.’ Thurston hoped his voice and army training helped still his terrors as well those of his young companion.

‘Who was Benfleet?’ Coggins asked.

‘He was a wicked old man who owned this house for years. They say he was a soldier who fought with Wellington in Spain, came back with some plunder and bought this untidy pile. Mad as a March hare, he dressed in a woman’s gown, yellow as a canary, with a red kerchief round his head. Now, Constable, Benfleet’s safely buried in a pinewood coffin, six feet below the clay of St Giles’ cemetery. Someone’s playing a game!’

They paused.

‘We are coming up!’ Thurston shouted up the stairs. ‘We are police officers. Believe me, when I put the bracelets on your wrists you will regret tonight’s japes!’

His words echoed up the gloomy stairwell but the only answer was that ominous creaking. Thurston continued his climb. As he did so, he recalled the stories about the deceased Robert Benfleet. How he used to live in shabby luxury in a room at the top of the house, drinking his pot of port and rocking himself backwards and forwards in a great rocking chair he had bought from a captain of a ship at Tilbury.

At last they reached the stairs to the attic. The creaking was now louder and faster. Coggins moaned as he saw the faint sliver of light through the half-open door at the top.

‘Sir, I don’t like this. We should go back. This is a rotten, evil place and it’s so cold.’

Thurston had to agree: an icy draught was blowing through the house. His sweat-soaked shirt now clung like a pack of ice against his back. Nevertheless he continued. Coggins, shaking so much he could hardly keep the lantern still, trailed behind. The inspector drew his truncheon. At the top he pushed the door open. Inside, dressed in a gown of yellow with a red kerchief wrapped round his evil face, Robert Benfleet, eyes blazing with hatred, a hideous smirk on his lips, swayed backwards and forwards in his great oaken rocking chair . . .

Five nights later, Inspector Thurston and a large party of constables again gathered on the corner of Brinklow Lane.

The inspector would never forget what he had seen at the top of that hideous old house. He and Coggins had immediately fled. Only when they were down two flights of stairs did Thurston regain the presence of mind to start shouting for help from his colleagues below. Coggins had collapsed and had to be taken by carriage to a doctor on the other side of Oxford Circus. Thurston, forgetting all regulations, had gone into a nearby gin shop where, despite the black looks and muttered curses of those within, he had downed a quart of ale. Only then did he lead his men back to the station. He had filed his report. His superiors had not been amused but Thurston had a name and reputation as a brave and honest officer. The superintendent had growled something about fingering the collars of villains, not exorcising ghosts, and said he would seek advice.

Now Thurston had fresh orders. Twenty constables had been assigned to him while, earlier that afternoon, he had also been told to hire six workmen, armed with picks and shovels, to be at Benfleet’s house just after dark. These now stood stamping their feet. Thurston’s last instruction was to provide every assistance to the man who came to help them.

Just as the clock of a nearby church struck seven, Thurston heard the clop of horses’ hooves. A hackney carriage stopped at the far side of the lane. Thurston raised his lantern and stared at the small, dapper figure who climbed out and strolled towards him.

‘This is off limits, sir!’

‘I know, Inspector.’

The new arrival drew closer. He was dressed rather quaintly in a black, broad-brimmed felt hat and a long overcoat, his chin and mouth almost covered by the muffler round his neck. His boots were like those of a soldier, ankle high and brightly polished.

The man doffed his hat. He put down the shabby black case he carried, took off his leather gloves and shook the Inspector’s hand.

‘Oliver Grafeld,’ he announced.

‘Who?’

‘I, I am Father Oliver Grafeld.’

Thurston caught the slight stammer. The man seemed as anxious as he.

‘I am sorry, Father, but what are you doing here?’

Grafeld stepped closer. He wore round, thin-rimmed spectacles which gave him an owlish look. His face was youngish, olive-skinned; the gentle eyes blinked up at Thurston who towered at least six inches above him.

‘You look surprised, Inspector. Weren’t you told I was coming?’

‘No, Father, I wasn’t.’

Thurston studied this young, soft-spoken priest. Now he was up closer, Thurston could see the overcoat was slightly shabby and the muffler frayed, as was the brim of the hat clutched in his hands.

‘Are you a Catholic, Inspector?’

‘No, sir. I’m not too sure what I am. I say my prayers and I go to the local church on Sunday.’

‘So, you’ve never attended an exorcism?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘An exorcism!’

The young priest picked up his case. He reminded Thurston of his old school teacher; patient and earnest.

‘An exorcism, Inspector, is the blessing of a dwelling, a house, or, indeed, a person, to drive away evil, to purge and cleanse it.’

‘I’ve never been to one of those, sir.’ Thurston tried to hide the disbelief in his voice.

The young priest tapped him on the hand. ‘I assure you, Inspector,’ he said, ‘this is not some mummery or trickery from St Bartholomew’s Fair. Sometimes it works and sometimes it does not.’ Grafeld picked up his case and pointed at the house. ‘Will you come in with me?’

‘I’d rather . . .’ Thurston shrugged. ‘Of course I will.’ His hand went beneath his cape and touched the butt of the revolver nestling in its holster.

‘It could be frightening,’ the priest continued. He smiled, pushing the spectacles to the top of his nose. ‘But that is trickery. Think of it as fireworks or, as Shakespeare puts it; “sound and fury signifying nothing”. Now, tell your men to stay outside. They are not to come in whatever they hear.’

The young priest crossed the lane and, without looking to left or right, went inside. Thurston rattled out a series of orders to the constables. He told the attendant sergeant to deploy his men around the house and followed Grafeld in.

He was amazed to find the priest had already picked up one of the lanterns placed inside the doorway and was making his way up the stairs.

‘Come on, Inspector!’ Father Grafeld’s voice sounded boyish and cheerful. ‘Forget the nasty smells, the damp walls and the squeaking rats! We don’t need an exorcism for them. Hot water, carbolic soap, a good broom and a pot of paint will take care of all that.’

Thurston followed the priest up the stairs. When they reached the fourth storey, the inspector again experienced a feeling of cold evil, smelt the pervasive stench and heard the ominous creaking from the top of the house.

The young priest paused on the stairwell. He placed his hat on the broad windowsill and, crouching down, unlocked his case.

‘I hope I haven’t forgotten anything,’ he murmured. ‘If my sister didn’t remind me, I assure you, Inspector, I’d walk out without my shirt on!’

‘Listen to that creaking!’ Thurston exclaimed.

‘Just ignore it, Inspector.’ The priest’s voice became hard. ‘You are a former soldier, aren’t you?’

Thurston put his lantern down and nodded. The priest stood up.

‘It’s just like waiting for the enemy,’ the priest said. ‘Put your trust in God and don’t show fear. Now you’ve got to help me.’

Grafeld placed a purple stole round his neck. He put his gloves inside the overturned hat and took a small candlewick from his pocket.

‘Inspector, be so good as to light that.’

Thurston made to obey then jumped as the door to the garret suddenly slammed shut. The creaking increased and he glimpsed the faint light glowing beneath the door. He tried not to gag at the foetid smell but his hand trembled as he held the match to light the candle.

‘Very good, Inspector.’ The priest now took a small leather-bound volume from his case. ‘It’s the Rituale Romanum,’ he explained. ‘The Rite laid down by our Church for an exorcism.’

Thurston stared disbelievingly back. He had very little knowledge about religion, even less about popish practices. In the army he had met a number of Catholics and regarded them as everyone else did, as eccentrics, members of a foreign religion; to be humoured and tolerated but not taken too seriously.

‘Now.’

In the lantern light Thurston noticed the priest’s face had paled, a fine sheen of sweat glistening beneath the dishevelled line of black hair.

‘It can be frightening,’ Grafeld declared. ‘But, remember this, Inspector: you are never too sure of what is real and what is in your imagination.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Did you see a ghost, because you came to this house fearful of seeing something? That’s a possibility. Or did you see an entity which has an existence of its own and is bound to this place?’

‘Bound?’ Thurston whispered, his eyes going beyond the priest to that terrible door at the top of the stairs. The light was now gone, all was silent. Even the terrible smell had disappeared.

‘Evil has been done here.’ Grafeld gave a lopsided grin. ‘To be honest, Inspector, I am as frightened as you. Each situation is different from the rest.’

‘You are frightened?’

‘Of course.’ Grafeld stooped down and took two small phials out of his case.

‘Is this your first time? I mean,’ Thurston added hastily, ‘you look young.’

‘Everyone says that, Inspector. My inexperience is more due to nervousness than anything else. I put my faith in Christ and His Blessed Mother.’ He grasped the inspector’s hand, his touch warm and soft. ‘Believe me,’ he added, ‘we shall both come out of this well. If you can pray. If you cannot, think of something beautiful: your wife, your children, a picnic on a summer’s day. Come, our enemy awaits.’

Thurston, the lantern now hanging from a hook on his belt, carried the candle, cupping the flame with his hand. Grafeld went first, not wanting the inspector to see how frightened he really was, indeed, as he always was whenever his Church ordered him to a place like this. He recited the litany, the invocation to God and His saints. He knew it by heart, which was just as well because the light was poor.

‘Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison! Kyrie eleison! Lord have mercy! Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy!’

By the time he had reached the top of the stairs Grafeld felt more confident as he continued the invocation to the Trinity, to Mary, Mother of God, to the great saints of the heavenly court. He paused outside the door.

‘Just open it,’ he ordered Thurston. ‘Go inside, put the lantern down, and the candle on a ledge. Leave and wait out here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Please do it!’ Grafeld snapped.

The inspector hastened to obey. As he pulled down the latch the door swung open and a blast of cold, foul air made the candle flame dance. The two stepped inside and Thurston held the lantern up.

‘There’s nothing,’ he breathed. ‘Nothing at all!’

‘Do as I say,’ Grafeld whispered.

The inspector put the lantern down and placed the candle on one of the windowsills. Grafeld heard the door close behind the inspector. He heaved a sigh of relief, knelt in the lantern’s pool of light and continued the litany.

‘St Francis, St Anthony.’

The air was growing colder. The foul stench of death had returned. Grafeld crossed himself three times and, opening one of the phials, sprinkled holy water with his fingers. The smell in the room made him stop and retch. He thanked God that, as usual, he had fasted for the last twenty-four hours, wryly reflecting perhaps this was why the Church insisted on it. He finished the Litany of the Saints and began further prayers, asking for divine assistance.

Suddenly the door flew open. Grafeld glimpsed Thurston’s surprised face before it slammed shut. Again the darkness, the cold and that reeking odour.

Grafeld was halfway through the ‘Our Father’, stumbling over the Latin words, when he heard the breathing, soft yet rapid, as if someone had run far and was now hiding in the shadows trying to catch their breath. Grafeld concentrated on his prayers. He now accepted that the police had not panicked or embroidered their tale. This place, the entire house, stank of evil. Some terrible act had occurred here. The old man Benfleet had not continued his journey after death but was still trapped in the wickedness he had done.

The breathing grew louder. Grafeld now opened the second phial and traced on his own brow a cross with the chrism, the holy oil of baptism. On his knees he shuffled to the wall and made a similar sign there.

‘You foulsome, interfering little bastard!You whoreson dog!’ The voice growled low and throaty from the darkness. ‘Why don’t you piss off, little priest! Why not go back to your toothsome little sister at the boarding house? Why not climb into her bed, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Still grieving over Arthur, are you?’

Silence, followed by a low, menacing chuckle. ‘On your knees saying your prayers are you, boy?’

The voice had now moved to a far corner. Grafeld closed his eyes and recited the prayers he knew by heart. Sometimes he’d be distracted: he was with Arthur under that oak tree and the thunderstorm was raging about them and the lightning was falling like fire from heaven. Or Emma on her wedding day in her white satin dress and Oliver, watching her come up the aisle, knew he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. He tried to clear his mind but he couldn’t. He closed his breviary.

‘In the name of Jesus,’ he said softly. ‘I command you, by what name are you called?’

‘Piss off!’

‘In the name of the Lord Jesus,’ Grafeld repeated. ‘By what name are you called? Why are you here? Answer me!’

‘Answer you, answer you . . .?’ I don’t take orders from nancy boys!’

Again Grafeld repeated his commands.

‘If you want to know,’ the voice was whining, ‘my name is Robert Benfleet, owner of this house. You, little priest, are trespassing!’

The door was again flung open and then slammed shut. As it did, the room filled with light as if gas lanterns had been lit. Grafeld gazed at the terrible figure with its back to the door, the stained yellow gown covering the squat body, the red kerchief round the leering old face.

‘Why are you here?’ Grafeld commanded.

The room was plunged into darkness. Grafeld returned to his prayers. Creak! Creak! Creak! A rocking chair was being pushed backwards and forwards. Then the lantern moved slowly, carried by some invisible hand, and was put down with a crash. Grafeld stood up. In the faint light, he saw the outlines of the rocking chair and that terrible figure swaying backwards and forwards like a child on a swing.

‘I know what you are thinking.’ The voice became sing-song. ‘Am I dreaming or is this real?’

‘Why are you here?’ Grafeld repeated. He must not be distracted.

‘This is my place.’ The voice became low and tired.

‘And where do you dwell?’

‘In the dead of night.’

‘And why do you not go?’

‘Judgement, fear of judgement!’

‘In Christ’s name!’ Grafeld declared. ‘I bid you leave this place in the Name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost!’

The lantern fell over as if it had been kicked. Grafeld felt himself shoved back against the wall. The door slammed open and shut. There was a pounding on the stairs outside. He heard Thurston yell. A cry came from below like that of some fugitive trapped and caught by his pursuers.

Grafeld continued the exorcism. He blessed each corner of the room, daubing the wall with the sign of the cross, sprinkling the holy water over the floor. The air grew less cold; now the only stench came from the mustiness of the dirty chamber. Grafeld felt hungry and tired. He sat down with his back to the wall. With a knock on the door Thurston entered, carrying another lantern.

‘Father, are you all right?’

‘I am so hungry and tired, Inspector. What happened out there?’

‘I heard noises, voices from the inside here. The door kept opening and shutting then somebody pushed by me. I was nearly knocked down the stairs as if someone was running away.’ Thurston smiled weakly. ‘Being a policeman I gave chase but there was nothing. Could it return?’

‘Possibly,’ Grafeld replied. ‘But, if it does, it will be weaker, at least for a while, and, Inspector, that’s where you come in.’ He pointed to the hearth. ‘Can I ask a favour?’

‘Anything you want, Father.’

‘Could one of your men light a fire?’

Grafeld hitched his coat up. Thurston heard the jingle in his pocket.

‘You want some food, Father?’

‘I’d love a pie and a mug of tea. We are not yet finished here, Inspector.’

Thurston hurried off, only too eager to bring more constables into the house. Kindling and some coal were found and fires were lit in the scullery and in the attic. Another constable brought up tea and sandwiches of beef dripping from their supply wagon. Grafeld bit into the bread.

‘It’s rather stale,’ Thurston explained. ‘The tea is strong but . . .’

‘Pure ambrosia,’ the priest replied. ‘Now, Inspector, this house has a small garden at the back?’

‘More of a yard really.’

The priest took another mouthful.

‘And, here in the attic, the walls are thin. You found coal and kindling in the cellar?’

Thurston nodded.

‘Then logic dictates,’ Grafeld went on, ‘that it must be the cellar. Send your men down there, tell them to dig as deep as they can.’

‘What are you looking for, Father?’

‘The bond, the chain which kept Benfleet’s spirit here.’

‘You are so sure?’

‘It’s always the same. Whatever you may read in the penny dreadfuls, ghosts do not haunt houses, gardens or streets because they have taken a fancy to them. It’s always something else, be it confusion, ignorance or, in this case, evil. If you search hard enough, you always find it.’

Thurston pulled a face. He really couldn’t believe what had happened here. Then he remembered that dreadful figure, the stench, the coldness, the low mocking voice from the other side of the door and decided it would be best to humour this strange priest.

Thurston clattered down the stairs shouting orders. Grafeld finished his tea and the last of his sandwich. He remembered he had said no prayer of thanks and wearily got to his knees to do so. Nevertheless, he was still distracted. He wondered if Emma was asleep or up worrying about him? She had done so ever since they had moved from their parish at Barking. From below he heard the faint sounds of digging and the shouts of the constables.

‘Let’s go at it pell mell,’ Grafeld whispered. ‘To Heaven or, hand in hand, to Hell!’

He put his breviary, the phials of oil and holy water back in the battered case. He crouched before the fire, his stomach rumbling.

‘Things sweet to taste prove indigestibly sour,’ Oliver quoted from his favourite Shakespeare play, Richard II. Perhaps tea and beef dripping did not mix so well?

The room was growing warmer. Grafeld’s back was aching so he sat in a corner, crossed his arms and was fast asleep when Thurston came back into the room.

‘Father Grafeld! Father Grafeld!’

Grafeld opened his eyes.

‘I’ve been wasting your time, Inspector?’

Thurston’s face was grim. ‘No, far from it. We’ve only been digging for an hour and found three corpses. The cellar is large and cavernous, there are bound to be more.’

Grafeld struggled to his feet.

‘You knew there’d be something, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, as I said,’ the priest replied, ‘there always is. Do you read Shakespeare, Inspector?’

Thurston shrugged.

‘Shakespeare knew what he was writing about. In every one of his plays, whenever a ghost appears, it is because of evil unresolved: that’s as true of Elsinore in Denmark as it is of the Seven Dials in London.’