"I won't lie," John said quietly to Sherlock as they stood in the doorway, pondering Ashleigh Foyster's drawing. "I'm feeling just a tiny bit freaked out about this."
Sherlock glanced back at Ashleigh, who was still drawing away and not at all concerned with the fuss her artwork was causing. "Her colour scheme," he said. "It was probably indiscriminate. She's a young child."
"Who knows the sun is yellow and pigs are pink," John pointed out. "And who's just drawn a woman who looks nothing like the one Greg and I saw at the window last night. Her face..."
The "pretty lady's" face consisted of two huge, hollow eyes and a slit mouth that extended from one edge of her oval face to the other. These were in red. The rest of her face was coloured in black so heavily that Ashleigh had nearly broken through the paper with her crayon.
"And," John went on, "since when do nuns wear bright red dresses, anyway?"
"And a crinoline," Sherlock mused.
"A what?"
Sherlock pointed to the wide skirt. "Not exactly church standard, I'll agree," he said. "And very much in the style of the 1860s. The rectory was built in 1862, you remember."
"What, so there's at least two of these ghosts wandering around now?"
"And writing on the walls, it seems." Sherlock went out onto the landing and called Lestrade's name up the stairs. They heard footsteps in the passage below, and then Marianne murmuring "no, your left, Inspector," before he appeared at the foot of the stairs and started to climb. Marianne and Price followed close behind him.
"What's going on?" he asked as he reached the landing.
"Is this what you and John saw on the lawn last night?" Sherlock ignored the look on Price's face and shoved Ashleigh's drawing into Lestrade's hands.
"No." Lestrade turned the paper slightly, then handed it to Marianne, who peered at it.
"Oh, God," she blurted out, a little blasphemously. "No. No, this isn't the nun. This isn't what Lionel and I have seen. And she definitely said...? Ashleigh, sweetheart," she interrupted herself, going to the drawing room doorway. Ashleigh had been scribbling away through all of this, but now raised her head.
"Mummy?"
"Is this the pretty lady you've seen?" Marianne asked her, holding the drawing out. "The one you drew for Sherlock. You've seen her here?"
Ashleigh nodded, unconcerned.
"Where, darling?"
"In my room. Everywhere. She's a nice lady."
"Well, we can at least thank God sincerely for that," Marianne said under her breath, rejoining the group in the hall and handing the picture back to Sherlock. "I don't know what to tell you. This is definitely not the nun."
"Mr. Holmes," Price said, "if there's something else I don't know about, perhaps you could fill me in?"
"Oh, fine." Sherlock led the way down the hall to the bedroom where John and Lestrade had slept the night before. Even in broad daylight, it looked gloomy, since the window was small and access to the sky was blocked out by a large oak tree growing just outside. Its leaves were shivering in the spring breeze and casting trembling shadows on the walls. From the doorway, they could all see that the now-fading communication to Lestrade, and his bolder, darker enquiry, had now been joined by a new comment.
"Well, there's your answer," Sherlock said, gesturing a little dramatically to it.
"Rest," Lestrade read aloud.
"Rest?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "It says pest."
"Why would a ghost want pest? That doesn't even make sense."
"And you're not reading the writing. You're reading into the writing. Pest may be short for pestilence. The writer might be indicating that they see people as pests, or want pestilence to be visited upon the household. or any number of other things. John, what do you think?"
"Sorry." John folded his arms, peering at the scrawled word. It was fainter than the original words had been, but seemed to be in the same handwriting. "I think it says rest, too. Though with that handwriting... I'm starting to think the rectory is being haunted by the ghost of a doctor."
Sherlock shot John an exasperated look and then turned to Price, as if begging him to step up.
"Pest," Price said promptly.
"Marianne?" Sherlock turned and gestured for her to come forward so that she could see it. "Come on, you have eyes, too... for what that's worth."
She contemplated the single word in silence for a few seconds. "I think it says 'rest'," she said at last, but didn't sound particularly confident about it.
"Never in the world would I have thought you and I would agree on this," Price said in amusement. "Two votes for 'pest'. Three for 'rest.' I suggest we ask the spirit for further elaboration, and not by writing on the wall this time."
"Oh, what utter nonsense!" Eric Smith roared, slapping his knee and laughing until his face was red.
"Eric," Marianne scolded mildly, once she could make herself heard over the old man's guffawing. They'd just returned to Borley Manor to confer with Lionel on Price's idea: a séance to be held late that night in the rectory cellar.
"No really, you've no idea..." Eric was wiping his streaming eyes. "Oh, good grief. It was all a bit of good fun to begin with, but now you're all taking this too far. Ghosts? My right foot! I spent most of my childhood here, remember? The only spooky things that ever happened were things my brothers and I were doing ourselves."
"Oh?" Sherlock said, sounding affronted.
"Oh, the looks on all your faces..." Eric started to get out of his chair; seeing the elderly man was having some difficulty with it, both Marianne and John reached over to help steady him.
"Old bones," he said regretfully, still chortling as he finally straightened up. "I certainly hope I won't be resurrected with this rusty old suit of armour on the last day. Come on. I've got a few things to show you – and some confessions to make, after sixty years!"
"Don't let him excite himself too much, will you?" Mabel Smith whispered audibly to Marianne as Eric led the charge out the front door of the manor. "I'll have a cup of tea for him when he gets back. Poor man will probably need one."
"So you're okay with all this, then?"
Lestrade, lingering behind, had managed to catch Lionel Foyster on his own in the rose garden behind Borley Manor. The day was bright and sunny, and the rector wore an awkwardly large straw hat to cover the shiny bald patch on his head.
"With what?" he asked, smiling.
"Price's big idea for a séance. You're not bothered by us doing it in the rectory?"
Lionel shrugged. "Oh, no. I expected when I told Price he could pay us a visit that something of that kind was bound to enter his head. Why should it bother me?"
Lestrade, who had exactly zero religious convictions whatsoever, shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Some men of the cloth might consider that kind of thing to be the second cousin of devil worship."
Lionel chuckled. "Harmless," he said. "Not every clergyman is looking for demons under the coffee table, Inspector Lestrade. I've seen evil before, and I can tell you – never from a spirit or a demon. Just from people. Nasty, miserable people. If there even are demons, I doubt they can hurt us much. I try not to mention that sort of thing too much in the pulpit, anyhow."
"But you said Marianne was psychic?"
"She is," he said staunchly. "But being psychic has little to do with ghosts and devils. If you believe a person can be psychic, you can believe a person can also accidentally set off forces they don't understand and can't control, and that's what I think is happening with Marianne."
Lestrade paused, glancing over the roses around them that were nodding in the midday sun. He was thinking about what Sherlock had said about infrasound. Most of that conversation had sailed right over his non-scientific head, but the idea had interested him – all because you can't hear it doesn't mean it isn't making a sound. As it were. Perhaps this whole thing revolved around an idea like that.
"Anyway," Lionel was saying casually, hands in pockets. "Ghosts aren't devils."
"The nun..."
"Oh, you've seen her too? Yes, she wandered about a little while we were living over there. Or so Marianne says."
"You never saw her? Marianne was talking like you did."
"I may have played along a couple of times," Lionel admitted impishly. "It was all harmless, since Marianne isn't frightened by her. I just felt a bit left out of things, to be honest, when she started up about what she could see and feel. Marianne can still be a bit of a mystery to me."
"She's a lot younger than you, isn't she?"
Seeing Lionel's expression, Lestrade swiftly backtracked.
"God, no," he said. "I mean, I didn't mean it to sound like that. My girlfriend... she's a lot younger, and we're having a few, um... look, well I was just wondering how you and Marianne manage with the age difference thing, that's all."
Lionel Foyster looked thoughtful for a few moments. "I hardly ever think about it, really," he said at last, reaching over to tweak at the dusky red blooms of the nearest rose bush. "I was surprised when you pointed it out just now. Marianne is just... Marianne, not Marianne-who-is-twenty-one-years-younger-than-me. I had the parish at Hinderclay when I met her ten years ago, and I had no idea in the world she was only twenty-two then."
"Her family didn't kick up a fuss?" Lestrade had always considered himself lucky in this respect. Melissa was an only child, and her mother lived in Cambridge. They had nice, chatty, mother-daughter phone conversations and visits a few times a year, but Liz Brennan was not the controlling type and had never, so far as he knew, objected to the relationship.
"She doesn't really have any family. None to speak of, but for a few distant cousins." Lionel shrugged. "Anyway, we just sort of... understood each other from the beginning. On a mental level, you know. A spiritual level."
Lestrade did know. He knew he was regarded by some as a cradle-robber who was interested in Melissa's legs and not her brain, but had learned to brush that off.
"Well, we got married only six months later, so whoever didn't already have a bee in their bonnet about us did after that."
"Was that why you went out to Canada?"
Lionel smiled wryly. "Partly, yes," he admitted. "We spent five years out there, but Marianne didn't want to raise a family there, so we came back just before we had Ashleigh."
"So she's not... restless...?"
"If you mean, is she cheating on me, I don't think so," Lionel said good-naturedly. "I suppose it's a bit quiet for her out here, but we get around that. She has friends in London that she visits a lot. The way I see it, Inspector Lestrade – "
"Greg."
"Greg. The way I see it is, it's a free country. We're not living in the Victorian era where she's stuck with me and I'm stuck with her to avoid a scandal. If she didn't want to be married to me, she wouldn't be."
"The church wouldn't be thrilled about that, I bet."
"The church also wouldn't be thrilled to find out we're having a séance tonight in our cellar." Lionel smiled again. "Besides, if Marianne wanted to leave or divorce me, I doubt she'd mind what the church thought about it. We're happy together, you know. So I think if you're after some advice on your partner, it would be to just let things happen as they happen. I've seen many a relationship ruined by one person trying to force things along on principles that don't seem to apply."
"Here was my secret weapon, as it were. I'm actually surprised to find it still here..."
Eric Smith had led the party not over to the rectory itself, but to a spot in the long grass on the manor side of the quiet road. He pointed to a small culvert.
"Too small for human use," Sherlock commented.
"Not when you're a seven-year-old human, it isn't," Eric said. "Used it many times, I can promise you."
"Where does it lead?"
"Would you believe, right into the rectory kitchen cellar? It's a stormwater drain, I think. The rectory cellars are prone to flooding at the best of times. A skinny adult could probably crawl along it, commando-style, as it were, but I shouldn't try if I were any of you. If it's caved in somewhere in the middle, we'll have to gas you out of it, like a rabbit."
"So how does this all fit in with things?" John asked.
"Well, of course, all those stories that end and there was nobody else in the house at the time are bunk." Eric folded his arms, grinning. "Quite easy for Roy and Don and me – my brothers – quite easy for us to slip in and out, and nobody ever saw us do it. I have a feeling Aunt Alice knew about it. She might even have found it first. She was a funny thing, probably just as bored as we were. But we were only having fun. I didn't really expect any grown-ups were going to take those pranks seriously. Did you know about this, Lionel? I was married and living in Hadleigh by the time you were here as a kid."
Lionel and Lestrade had just rejoined the group, and Lionel, despite his stiff, rheumatic back, had bent slightly to look at the culvert entrance.
"No," he said cheerfully. "Though I'm a bit disappointed I'm only finding it now. No, in my day, we played our pranks the hard way, I'm afraid."
"The hard way?" Price, who had been listening to Eric Smith in increasingly uncomfortable silence and ignoring the occasional triumphant glance from Sherlock, was now starting to look a little green.
"Come on." Lionel gestured with one hand. "Let's go over, and I'll show you."
"Behold," Lionel said. They were standing in the kitchen hall, and he had just pointed out something Sherlock had seen but largely dismissed – a small hatch that provided ventilation to the servant's quarters below.
"I don't suppose anyone's got anything on them to prove it," Lionel said. "But if you put a long wire through this vent, you can very easily pull the rope of the servant's bells and set them off on cue. Did it many times. There's a few other vents around the place that were just as much fun to play with. There's one in the hall that used to go straight through to the drawing room. I expect it's why there are such odd acoustics in the rectory. Marianne and I couldn't have a private conversation here – you never know who can hear it. It's great fun for kids who like to make all sorts of silly noises. Of course, there were two or three actual servants here in those days, and that made things more fun; sometimes I'd keep them up and down the stairs all night. Kids can be awful like that."
"And the coin?" Sherlock asked him. "The one that hit Marianne in the face? And what about the sugar that hit Lestrade?"
"I never said all of it was fake," Lionel protested, but he still looked amused. "I wouldn't have brought you all out here if I could have explained everything to Marianne. I'm afraid those are still mysteries - and not the only ones."
"Maybe," Eric said, a twinkle in his eye, "maybe my being decrepit and stiff is just a clever ruse, and I've been climbing through into the cellar again..."
"In a red dress?" Marianne suddenly asked him.
"I'm sorry?"
"Never mind."
He took her arm and started to escort her through the hall. "Come on," he said, as boisterous as a schoolboy. "I'll show you the best spots to make spooky noises that can be heard all over the rectory, and the spot where I used to clank the water pump to give my stuffy old uncle a good fright..."
~~o0o~~
He led the way back out to the front of the rectory; they were following the drive along the side of the house toward what had once been tennis courts when Lestrade, who was keeping pace with a watchful Sherlock four steps behind everyone else, suddenly stopped.
"Hang on," he said. "Isn't that your car, John?"
John also stopped; he was about to respond when the blue sedan pulled to a halt on the road in front of the rectory. By this time Eric had turned and was looking at them.
"My wife," John explained distractedly, noting that it was his daughter as well. "We'll, um. We'll catch you up, okay?"
Eric nodded and continued talking loudly about the acoustics of the house, leading Price, Lionel and Marianne around the side of the rectory. John crossed the road, reaching the car just as Molly got out of it. With a glance at Sherlock, Lestrade followed a few paces behind.
"What are you doing here?" John asked gently as Molly made her way around the car to him. He opened the rear door; Charlie, confined to her car seat, was whimpering and had clearly had enough of her long car ride. "Why didn't you call?"
"I'm sorry..." Molly unexpectedly buried her face in his shoulder.
"Whoa, what...?" He stopped unclipping Charlie from her car seat to steady her.
"I'm sorry, I just really needed to talk to you in person and I didn't want you to have to come home, so I..."
John gave her a bewildered hug, then broke it and looked carefully at her, frowning. "Private talk?" he asked.
She nodded. John glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who cleared his throat and stepped up.
"Come on, kid," he said, going over to free Charlie's chubby arms and legs and lift her out of the car. "Your mum and dad need to talk. Let's go annoy your Uncle Sherlock."
Neither John nor Molly seemed to register this. Lestrade watched John lead his wife down the path toward the rectory. Just before they reached the bend and disappeared behind the chestnut trees, he heard Sherlock's firm step close behind.
"Something's going on," he said, turning to him. "From the look on Molly's face, I'd say someone's died." His thoughts went out to Harry Watson. Charlie was now whimpering more than ever, grappling at his arm and reaching out for Sherlock. Lestrade gave in and handed her over.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered, shifting her in his arms. She blew a wet raspberry on his neck, then reached up and tugged on one of his dark curls. He winced and started to gently prise her hand open.
Lestrade grinned. "You're a natural," he teased.
"I'm really not," Sherlock said long-sufferingly. "I'm about as paternal as a... something that isn't very paternal."
"So you've spoken to Mycroft about this already?"
John had taken Molly into the bright rectory kitchen and sat down at the table, urging her to do the same. But she remained standing, lit by a flood of sunshine streaming through the diamond-paned window, as if she was on trial. "Yes," she said wretchedly. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't trying to keep things from you, I just – "
"No, that wasn't what I meant." He reached out and squeezed her chilly hands. "I just meant, he thinks he's going to be able to protect us from the worst of it?"
She nodded. "He said he'd help... but we really don't know what's going to happen. I'm sorry I didn't ask you beforehand."
He looked up at her. "What do you think I'd have said if you did?" he asked calmly.
She hedged.
"Serious question, Molly."
"I – I don't know..."
"I'm a bit disappointed by that, if I'm honest," he said, looking down at the hands he held and taking a breath. "For the record, I'd have asked how you'd feel if this was something that happened to Charlie."
"John!"
"Well?" He looked up at her earnestly.
She shut her eyes for a few seconds, weighing this one up in her head. Distantly, they could hear Eric Smith's bull-bellow voice explaining the capers of his youth to his more-or-less captive audience.
"Well," she said finally. "If it was Charlie, I'd want someone to stick up for her..."
He nodded. "And I would, too," he said simply. "And today, that person was you. And that's okay. That's more than okay." He stood up and kissed her forehead.
"Mycroft said I might get fired," she said into his shoulder.
"Then I'll go back to work."
"We might have to move."
"Then we'll move. We were going to move eventually, anyway."
She shook her head. How was he not understanding this? "No," she said, "I mean, we may have to leave London..."
John shrugged. "Sherlock says Australia's a nice place. Just, please not Antarctica."
"Don't be silly," she struggled, smiling reluctantly through tears. "This... this could be big. Mycroft said it might be. If I get fired and then poor Sherlock can't work in the lab anymore, well, and you and Sherlock can't... I may have ruined everything..."
"Nope." John squeezed her hands again. "You haven't ruined anything, and I'm glad you came before I strangled Sherlock or Harry Price or both of them. I really don't think we're going to end up having to leave London. Mycroft wouldn't have it. If he can fake plane crashes and hack CCTV, he can help us." He paused. "Are you sorry you started this?"
She thought about this for a few seconds, then shook her head. "No."
"Then neither am I. Anyway, this is more important than running around a rectory in the middle of the night."
"But you're Sherlock's partner..."
"I'm also your partner," he reminded her. "And I'm not married to Sherlock Holmes." He put one arm around her shoulders as they went to the door. "I mean, that said, though, he is a detective. We should tell him what's going on... oh, shit."
The last thing John wanted was Sherlock throwing himself into the Sadler case.
This was going to be an interesting study in diplomacy.