The Silence Read online

  Table of Contents

  Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne

  TOWER OF SILENCE

  A DARK DIVIDING

  ROOTS OF EVIL

  SPIDER LIGHT

  THE DEATH CHAMBER

  GHOST SONG

  HOUSE OF THE LOST

  WHAT LIES BENEATH

  PROPERTY OF A LADY *

  THE SIN EATER *

  THE SILENCE *

  * available from Severn House

  THE SILENCE

  Sarah Rayne

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9 – 15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Rayne.

  The right of Sarah Rayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Rayne, Sarah.

  The silence.

  1. Haunted houses–England–Peak District–Fiction.

  2. Horror tales.

  I. Title

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8248-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-474-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-397-6 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Edinburgh,

  8th March 20—

  Dear Emily,

  It seems that after all these months Stilter House can finally be sold. At last! I know probate can take a long time to obtain, but I had begun to think those solicitors were deliberately dragging matters out.

  However, I think that before we put the old place on the market it would be as well to get the furniture removed. Aunt Charlotte had several very nice things, and I wondered whether we could ask Brad West’s wife – widow, I should say – to take a look at them. You remember her? She recently moved to Oxford and has a small antiques shop there, so she would be a good person to consult. Also, family is family, and I dare say Nell has found things difficult since Brad’s death. It would be nice if we could put a little business her way.

  Fondest love,

  Margery

  Edinburgh,

  12th March 20—

  Dear Emily,

  I’m glad you agree about arranging for Nell West to provide valuations for the contents of Stilter House. I’ll write to her at once.

  I don’t think we need worry over what Charlotte used to say about the house. She was always a touch eccentric and given to imagining she saw things. I always thought she simply needed stronger reading glasses.

  And even if there was ever anything in Charlotte’s stories (and nothing will ever convince me there was), Nell would only be there for a day or two.

  I hope your leg is better – although that new treatment sounds very odd. I wish you would trust conventional medicine more. Do remember how much money you spent with that peculiar man last year, who claimed to have healing hands, and left you with ingrowing toenails and the poorer by £500, to say nothing of his being so very familiar with you during the massage part of the procedure.

  Margery

  Edinburgh,

  13th March 20—

  Dear Nell,

  I wonder if you would be free to undertake a small commission in the near future?

  You may remember Brad’s Great-Aunt Charlotte, who lived in Derbyshire? Brad used to spend some of his school holidays with her at Stilter House. Sadly, she died last month, although she was 95 so it wasn’t entirely unexpected, and vigorous and utterly compos mentis to the last.

  I’m executor of the estate, together with Brad’s other aunt, Emily, and one of those house-clearance firms will be clearing everything out. However, the solicitors suggest a professional appraisal of the contents first. Is this something you could do? The estate will cover your fees and travelling costs, of course, and if there’s anything you think you could sell in your Oxford shop we could arrange that.

  I enjoyed the photos you sent of Beth. She has a strong look of Brad, and I shed a tear on his behalf seeing the likeness. Those wretched motorways, so dangerous, and he was always such a good driver, it still angers me to think what happened to him.

  If ever you and Beth can visit me, you would be given a very warm welcome, but of course it’s a long way up here and my house is on the north side of Edinburgh.

  Much love to you both,

  ‘Aunt’ Margery West.

  Nell read Margery West’s letter twice. Was it a genuine offer or was it Brad’s aunt trying to help her a little? She remembered Margery, and although she had never met Charlotte, Brad had often talked about staying at her house in Derbyshire for school holidays. He had been taken to see ancient caves in Dovedale and the Blue John Mines, which he had loved. But best of all, he used to say, was the discovery of a piano at the house and Charlotte arranging music lessons for him. It had been a revelation to learn how to make music for himself, he had said. After that first time he had always thought of the house as magical.

  Nell stared thoughtfully out of the window of her shop, which looked onto Quire Court. At this time of the morning fresh spring sunlight lay in chequered patterns over the quiet old stones. It was not a time when ghosts might be expected to be around, although any ghosts that walked through the court would be civilized and polite ones. If Nell had believed in ghosts she would never be worried by the ones that might haunt Quire Court. But there were other kinds of ghosts . . .

  She read Margery’s letter again, and the memories of Brad flooded back, painful and intrusive. I’ll never forget you, said Nell to Brad’s memory, and I won’t let Beth forget you, either. But I don’t want you walking in and out of my mind, just when I’m starting to put my life back together – just when Beth’s getting used to having no father – just when I’m starting to be so very happy with Michael.

  She would accept Mar
gery West’s request. Beth deserved even this small contact with her father’s family. She had only been seven when Brad died, and photographs and handed-down memories were no substitute for the real thing. It left such a blank if a child did not know one half of its heritage – you had only to read about adopted children seeking their birth parents in later life. And Brad had talked about Great-Aunt Charlotte with so much affection and gratitude that Nell would like Beth to see the house.

  ‘I’ve written to accept Margery’s offer,’ she said to Michael that evening. ‘It’ll only mean two or three days, and Beth’s school breaks up for Easter next week so she’ll come with me.’

  ‘How about the shop?’

  ‘If I drive up to Derbyshire early on Sunday morning, Henry Jessel at the silversmith’s next door would look after the shop for Monday and Tuesday,’ said Nell. She hesitated, then said, ‘How tied up are you with College things? Would you like to come with us? The house is in the Peak District – it’s a gorgeous part of the country.’

  ‘I don’t think I can manage it,’ said Michael. ‘There’s a lot of end of term stuff to deal with.’ He did not say it, but Nell felt him thinking that to accompany her would be an intrusion into Brad’s world, and that he had no place there.

  So she said, ‘You’ve got the new Wilberforce book to finish, as well.’

  ‘I have, and I suspect,’ said Michael, ‘that I’m running out of things to write about Wilberforce. There are only so many things a badly behaved cat can get up to in the space of thirty-five thousand words for eight-year-olds.’

  ‘Did C.S. Lewis run out of Narnia tales?’

  He smiled at her. ‘No. But I’ll stay here with Wilberforce – the fictional one and the real one. Where exactly are you going?’

  ‘It’s a small Derbyshire village called Caudle Moor. The house is called Stilter House, and it was built for a Ralph West. 1900 or thereabouts. Margery West sent me a copy of the deeds of the house and some of the early paperwork – builders’ estimates and architects’ reports and stuff like that.’

  ‘Stilter’s an odd name for a house,’ said Michael, glancing at the large envelope on Nell’s desk.

  ‘I think stilt can be an architectural term. Something to do with pillars or piers.’

  ‘It’s still curious,’ said Michael. ‘I like Caudle, though.’

  ‘It’s an old name for a medieval posset,’ said Nell, who had looked it up, guessing Michael would light on the name. ‘A kind of egg-nog.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Beth? You’re going to Egg-nog Village for Easter.’

  Beth, who had no idea what a posset or an egg-nog was, but who loved new words, beamed.

  ‘I think,’ said Michael thoughtfully, ‘I might send Wilberforce on a visit to a tabby-cat aunt who lives in Egg-nog Village.’

  ‘Aunt Tabitha,’ said Beth, at once.

  ‘Yes. Where’s my notebook. Let’s work that out now.’

  After Michael had left and Beth had gone to bed, Nell explored the contents of Margery West’s envelope. There was a slightly dog-eared photocopy of the title deeds, and Margery had included copies of the initial building orders and architects’ reports. ‘Which might be useful in dating some of the contents,’ she had written.

  Nell unfolded the first of the letters, which was from someone called Samuel Burlap.

  Dear Mr West,

  I have made time to look at the land you have purchased, which is known locally as Acton Field. I have paced it out myself, east boundary to west, and north to south, and it is some three-quarters of an acre, which I believe will do very well as a site for your house. The ground slopes steeply in places and there are, of course, still parts of the old Acton House that stood there. But we can demolish what’s left of that, and if we site the house on the crest of the land you will get a view over Pickering’s Meadows that will be something beautiful, such meadows being a sight to behold of a summer morning.

  Mr Archibald Filbert of Derbyshire is preparing plans for a house and they will be ready in one month. He is a good architect, although a bit modern for some folks. What I recommend for your house, sir, is good Derbyshire stone and clay bricks, together with sound, properly weathered, English timber.

  You will recall that the extension I built at your workplace in Derby two years ago was mostly in stone, and how very pleasing it was when finished.

  Respectfully yours,

  Samuel Burlap,

  Builder.

  Directly beneath this was a letter from the modernist architect, Archibald Filbert. Unlike Mr Burlap, who had written in careful and deliberate blue-black ink, Mr Filbert’s missive was written on one of the new typewriting machines.

  Dear Mr West,

  I have to hand the plans for your new house on Acton Field in Caudle Moor, and believe you will be very happy with them. It is a traditional design, since you say you will be employing Mr Samuel Burlap for the building, and he may find it a perplexity to follow plans for a modern dwelling, being what you might term set in his ways, although a very good builder.

  I shall be pleased to discuss the house plans with you at a time and place convenient to you.

  A note of my charges is included with this letter.

  Assuring you of my best intentions at all times,

  Archibald Filbert (R.I.B.A.)

  The small warfare between these two gentlemen amused Nell, and she turned to the next blue-black ink missive, to see what else the traditional Mr Burlap had to say.

  Dear Mr West,

  I have to hand your letter of 12th ultimo, and if I may make so bold, I suggest you take absolutely no notice whatsoever of the letter sent you by Prebendary Gilfillan. Most country districts have a few old legends, but the Acton land is no more haunted than my vegetable patch and there will be no ghosts to trouble you. If I may make so bold, sir, Prebendary Gilfillan is a gossiping nuisance with an unhealthy preoccupation with the past.

  Trusting you will also forgive my referring to a clergyman in such terms, but if Edgar Gilfillan has been nearer to a cathedral than a day-trip round All Saints in Derby, I should be very surprised indeed. Not wishing to be uncharitable, but I know the Gilfillan family well. They have lived in this area for many years and were always ones to present themselves as saintly.

  Begging pardon again for plain speaking.

  Very truly yours,

  S Burlap

  Nell considered investigating the rest of the envelope’s contents, in case there was anything from the saintly Prebendary who had apparently issued ghost warnings to Ralph West, but it was already half-past eleven which was late enough if she and Beth were to set off at seven tomorrow. She slid the letters carefully back in the envelope and put the envelope in her suitcase for tomorrow’s journey to Caudle Moor.

  But, drifting off to sleep, Samuel Burlap’s words slid in and out of her mind.

  The Acton land is no more haunted than my vegetable patch, he had written. There will be no ghosts to trouble you . . .

  What ghosts? What ghosts did people think had troubled the land in the past?

  TWO

  The drive to Caudle Moor was enjoyable. Nell and Beth played I Spy-type games as they went along, and stopped for an extra breakfast at a motorway pull-in, which Beth loved because she liked speculating where all the other people were going. Nell phoned Michael to say they were over halfway there. His phone went to voicemail, but she left a message and said she would ring again when they arrived.

  As they left the industrial areas of the Midlands and crossed into Derbyshire, the landscape gave way to gently undulating countryside with rolling farmlands. There was a faint, early morning mist, and tiny B-roads branched off, with signposts marked with names that could not possibly have existed anywhere other than England: Wincle and Danebridge and Ramshorn. Beth read these out with delight, and she and Nell made up rhymes about them. It was something Brad and Nell used to do on long car journeys, but it no longer felt lonely to be doing it without him. Beth’s idea of rhymes was sim
plistic, but Nell heard, with a pang, that she had her father’s way of catching a resonance.

  Beth said it was pretty cool to be going off like this on the very first day of the Easter holidays, and double-cool to be going to a house where Dad had stayed.

  ‘I found a photo of him taken at Stilter House,’ she said, not looking at Nell.

  ‘I didn’t know we had any.’

  ‘It was in that old suitcase. It’s a really old photo and it says “Stilter House” on the back. He looks about my age so it must have been taken years ago, and— Why are you laughing?’

  ‘I’m not. Tell me about the photo.’

  ‘He’s sitting at a piano, and I know it’s Dad on account of that photo we’ve got in the frame when he was ten. He looks exactly the same.’

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing any photos of Stilter House. Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘No.’ Beth retreated into silence, and Nell did not press her. They still had private areas where Brad was concerned – memories which were not automatically available for discussing. This appeared to be one of those areas for Beth; she sent her mother one of her enigmatic smiles, and reached for the MP3. She’s tuning me out, thought Nell. Fair enough.

  It had begun to rain as they pulled off the motorway and the signpost to Caudle Moor was half hidden behind dripping trees, but Nell saw it in time and turned in.

  ‘Almost there,’ she said to Beth.

  Almost there . . . Had Brad thought that when he came here for holidays all those years ago? Had he travelled along this road – perhaps on a bus or in an adult’s car – a delighted eight or nine year old, looking forward to going to the house with the magical piano? The rain was still pattering down and the car’s windscreen wipers clicked back and forth in time to the words. Almost there, almost there . . .

  Caudle Moor was a speck of a place. There was a little main street, a straggle of shops including a minuscule supermarket, a pub, and a tiny police house overlooking a green.

  Nell said, half to herself, ‘And they say English villages like this don’t exist any longer.’

  ‘Maybe this one doesn’t exist all the time,’ said Beth hopefully. ‘Maybe it’s magic and it’s only there for people who know where to look.’