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.”