George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

Currently tied up in Sussex. Two pieces of advice. Look to past history for matters of note, most especially that of the girl in question, and examine the scene with utmost care.

His first suggestion sent a pang through me, for a hidden past had been the key to my own small mystery, nearly a decade ago now. The second was, now he mentioned it, obvious, though care would have to be taken, given the private space in question.

I started by interviewing Mary again. This time I took a different tack, asking her who she thought the ghost might be of, given the school had only been converted to its current use thirty years ago and so lacked any folkloric tales. She paled and shook her head, which I took to mean she had a good idea. After some coaxing she murmured that she feared it was her little brother.

“Did he pass away recently?” I asked gently.

Again she shook her head. Normally such slovenly manners would earn a reprimand, but I could tell the girl was fighting inner turmoil.

“As a young boy then?”

She nodded.

“I am sorry to ask this, but was his death… particularly unfortunate?”

She looked at her hands.

“You have no other siblings, I believe?”

Mary shook her head.

As far as I knew, the poor girl’s only living relative was her mother, a thin flighty woman with an unsteady gaze whom I had met only a few times. Fees for Mary’s education came direct from a small trust fund, administered by a lawyer in Birmingham. If I recalled rightly, at the beginning of this term Mary had been accompanied to the school only by a household servant. “So, it is just your mother and you. Your father is dead?”

Mary started, as though burned, then said in a harsh whisper, “We do not speak of that.”

A sad ending, then. Yet not one that Mary believed had resulted in this “ghost”. But I had distressed the poor girl enough; I let her go.

Another matter I had not considered before Mr Holmes’s missive was the relative proximity of Mrs Fraser’s home to the school. She only lived in Blakenall Heath, close enough that she could have sent Mary to Rosewood Academy as a day girl.

This proximity provided my next avenue of investigation. Given Mary’s attitudes and behaviour I surmised she had been born into her faith, and hence the family births, marriages and deaths would be recorded at their nearest Catholic church, rather than an establishment overseen by the Church of England.

Whilst my work is never done, I pride myself on the efficiency of my school, and so, should I wish to take a quiet Tuesday morning off and travel to a nearby town, I might do so. As I climbed into a cab I wondered if my fellow teachers thought this uncharacteristic behaviour related to the gentlemen I had been seen taking tea with. I would correct their misapprehension when and if it became important.

When I located the Catholic church in Blakenall Heath I found it in the process of renovation, with men working on the roof. The young priest in attendance was taken aback at a lone, veiled female visitor but soon recovered his composure. When I asked whether I might see records of his parishioners to resolve “a personal matter” he asked whether I was myself a Catholic. I considered lying to encourage cooperation, then chided myself. “No,” I said, “but the individual whose welfare I am concerned about is.”

“Most of our papers were removed for safekeeping when the restoration began. I would have to send for them.”

“Ah, I see. I am putting you to some trouble.”

“No, I mean yes, but… you must understand, I have to consider the welfare of my flock.”

Though I am no expert in the moods of men, especially the clergy, I believe he found me intriguing. I smiled behind my veil, then said, “It is the welfare of one of them that concerns me.”

“Ah. May I ask whom?”

A reasonable request, and, as it appeared I would be forced to return at a later date, I needed to be certain my errand was not futile. “A young lady called Mary Fraser,” I said, watching his face.

He knew the name, though he regained control of his emotions quickly. “The Fraser family are of this parish, yes.”

“So Mrs Fraser worships here?”

“When her health permits.”

“She is unwell? Do you know what ails her?”

“My foremost concern is with the spiritual wellbeing of those under my care, although I pray for all their health.”

His taut expression implied I would get no more from him on that. I tried another tack. “And Mr Fraser, he is buried here?”

The priest started. “Buried?”

“Yes. He has passed away, I assume.”

“No. Mr Fraser still lives.” The priest’s lips thinned.

“Ah. But he does not worship here?”

“I can have the records here by tomorrow afternoon. Other than that…”

“… you cannot help me?” I try not to overuse the combination of steel and disappointment that has served me well with girls and parents alike, but it is second nature by now.

“I should not say anything.” He forced his gaze back to me. “But whatever you find, or hear, please remember this: divorce is a sin. Now, if you will forgive me, I must prepare for mass.”

“Of course. Thank you for your assistance.” I made sure he saw the donation I put in the box by the door before I left.

A chance to put Mr Holmes’s other suggestion into practice came the next day, whilst the girls were on the sports field. I resisted the temptation to borrow a magnifying glass from the biology mistress, and took only myself and – in accordance with Mr Holmes’s practice – an open mind up to the dormitory.

The window opened easily, as it had on that first night. I examined the hinge, and found it well oiled, although whether this signified more than diligence by the housekeeping staff I could not say. There was no wind, but I secured the window with care anyway. The view was pleasing: across the busy playing fields, out beyond the town, and towards the higher land to the west.

I leaned over the sill and looked down. This side of the school has an impressive growth of wisteria but the branches were all but bare now, just a few yellow leaves clinging to them. I looked up, then cursed myself for a fool.

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.