The Voices behind the Walls

By M.M. Gaidar

People have been disappearing from around the Northumbrian coast for almost three decades. Thirty-six missing women. Locals say, it is a curse stirred by the digging of an ancient Viking burial mound. After being estranged from her kin for many years, Cassandra Ayers returns to her family mansion on the Northumbrian coast to find out if her home is really haunted and uncover the mystery of the thirty-six missing women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.M. Gaidar
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781999058418

M.M. Gaidar

Hello, my dear readers. I am a Canadian-Ukrainian writer. Mostly, I gravitate towards the genres of Gothic mystery, epic and adventure fantasy. I'm a winner of the short horror story competition Twisted 50 that was held in London, in 2017. Another short story of mine was published in the compilation "The Christmas Whisper" in Kyiv. I write in English and Ukrainian.Currently, my home is in Canada where I'm working in the film industry as a screenplay writer and Script Supervisor.I am a coffee lover and cat admirer. I love reading and watching movies. To my mind, the best way to broaden one's life experience and get inspired is travelling. The idea of starting the series of novels about the private detective, Cassandra Ayers, was conjured in my mind while visiting Highgate Cemetery in London.Read as much as you can! This is the only way to live many lives.Вітаю вас на моїй сторінці. Я канадсько-українська письменниця. Пишу переважно у жанрі готичного детективу, а також епічного та пригодницького фентезі. Переможниця конкурсу коротких оповідань жахів Twisted 50, що проводився у Лондоні у 2017. Маю публікацію короткого оповідання у збірці "Різдвяний шепіт". Пишу українською та англійською мовами.Наразі проживаю у Канаді і працюю у кіно, пишу сценарії та виконую роль помічника режисера на знімальному майданчику.Люблю каву і котиків. Обожнюю літературу та кіно. Вважаю, що найкращий спосіб, у який можна набувати нового життєвого досвіду та натхнення - це подорож. Ідея розпочати детективну серію про Кассандру Ейрс, наприклад, мені спала на думку, коли я була на екскурсії на Хайгейтському цвинтарі у Лондоні.Читайте! Лише так можна прожити кілька життів.

Book preview

M.M. Gaidar

The Voices behind the Walls

Book 3

The Voices behind the Walls

© 2019 by M.M. Gaidar. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-9990584-1-8

Editor – Stacey Jansen

The Voices behind the Walls is the third book in the series of mystery tales about Cassandra Ayers, the private detective solving supernatural cases in London, 1900.

After many years, Cassandra Ayers returns home, to Caxton Hall, an old bleak manor haunted by the painful memories of her mother’s death and her own miserable childhood. But there is also a secret only the voices behind the walls can tell.

Also in the series

Cassandra’s Shadows

The Highgate Ghost

A Werewolf of the Moor

The Voices Behind the Walls

The Lost Caravan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1. Thirty-six

Chapter 2. The Place Where Nothing Ever Changed

Chapter 3. The Wrong Book

Chapter 4. Broken Things

Chapter 5. Evelyn

Chapter 6. The Guests Arrive

Chapter 7. Murder Night

Chapter 8. The Writing’s on the Floor

Chapter 9. Missing Jewellery and Missing Tappington

Chapter 10. Peter Straub’s Theory

Chapter 11. A New Missing Person

Chapter 12. A Bed No One Slept In and A Conversation No One heard

Chapter 13. Masks Off

Chapter 14. The Benefits of an Old Manor

Chapter 15. The Plotters

Chapter 16. How Ragnar Lothbrok Started the Real Curse

Chapter 17. Twilight Gathers

Afterword

About the author

Chapter 1

Thirty-Six

Everything tasted foul to Arthur Illingsworth that day. Even his favourite sandwich with delectable, boiled tongue did not live up to his modest expectations. The mustard was not savoury enough; the pickled cucumber was too runny; the bread crumbled all over his writing desk. As for the tea, can there be a worse offence to a man’s palate than a lukewarm cuppa?

However, the true reason for the annoyance of the superintendent of the Northumberland Constabulary had nothing to do with his lunch. He had just returned from a meeting with the chief, where the sole purpose of Arthur’s presence was to be scolded and admonished like a brat who had failed at arithmetic. He had stood there before the chief and listened to his long rant. The man had not minced his words. Though incompetent was not the rudest of them, it had cut deep and assaulted what Arthur cherished most: his job and his commitment to it.

But he did fail, Arthur had to admit. And the wall across from his desk was a constant reminder of that. He raised his eyes and stared for a long time at the newspaper clippings, his notes, photographs and letters covering the wall like a blanket. This was an ongoing investigation that had begun in 1868, and had seen little advancement since then, except for the new victims. Superintendents had come and gone, but this case remained up on the wall, mocking every newly uniformed man tasked with solving it.

Arthur Illingsworth’s face had earned him the nickname Bulldog because of the uncanny resemblance. His already dramatic features intensified as he reacted to the fresh newspaper on his desk. The heading on the front page screamed with stupidity: Ragnar Lothbrok’s Vengeance: The King of Yore Returns? Since that burial mound had been dug up three decades ago, there had been no end to these sorts of superstitions. A local archaeologist, Peter Straub, claimed it was the grave of the Ragnar Lothbrok that had been opened. According to the archaeologist, the Viking king had risen to avenge himself, and it had been none other than Ragnar who had kidnapped all those people. Arthur crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the bin. He had no patience for fools.

His gaze travelled to the opposite wall again, the one covered with the all-too-familiar papers related to the case. He knew every letter written, every comma, every crease of paper. Thirty-five women. Gone. Over thirty-two years. Without a trace. And all the disappearances happened in this vicinity. Not in London. Or Manchester. Or any other city crawling with criminals, where there were enough dark corners to hide in, enough dark alleys to slip into, enough reasons to go insane. Why, of all places, here? What was so special about these streets, hills and coast? What kind of evil had been concealing itself for decades among the people he knew by name, whose hands he shook? Since being installed in the position of superintendent, not a single day had passed without him trying to crack this mystery.

Some of these women were local, and others had come here from different boroughs and towns around the country, whether for business or just to visit family. But as soon as they set their foot on the ground of this corner of Northumberland, something had snatched them away, like a moray eel attacking its prey at lightning speed, and then immediately retreating into the darkness of its cave.

Arthur threw the paper wrapper, greasy from the beef-tongue sandwich, into the bin and brushed off some crumbs that had become tangled in the fabric of his uniform. Lunch was over. He owed this case some serious thinking. With his intention set, he approached the victims’ information the investigative group had compiled and displayed on the wall. What did they know? Their ages? Different for every missing woman. The youngest was seventeen, the daughter of a local fisherman; the oldest arrived at the Alnmouth train station on her forty-fourth birthday. Arthur suspected he was dealing with crimes of a sexual nature.

Now, on top of that, he had to deal with this ridiculous case of Peter Straub breaking into Caxton Hall, after he had already once been denied access to Lord Dunstan’s library. Arthur returned to his desk and rubbed his face, hoping to energise himself. Still very much tired and unenthused, he pulled a piece of paper closer and took off the cap of the cherished fountain pen the chief had presented to him when assigning him to the post. He positioned the pen above the piece of paper and carefully wrote down the name of the place where Straub had committed his crime — Caxton Hall. He traced the name, covering it with another layer of ink.

Only one distinctive memory was related to Caxton Hall – a fond memory of a girl he used to be in love with: Cassandra Ayers. Both she and he had had difficult childhoods and tyrannical parents. Arthur had heard she had become a private investigator, that little girl who used to climb trees with him, until she got herself a pair of breasts and was then no longer allowed to "loiter around with that creature, like some vagabond." Those were Cassandra’s stepmother’s words. She, Lady Dunstan, had not lowered her voice, even knowing that Arthur could hear everything from the next room. He, apparently, was that creature. He didn’t need to look in the mirror to remind himself of why she called him that. Once, Arthur’s father had beaten him so severely, he had broken Arthur’s jaw and nose. Although the doctor had done everything possible to help the injuries mend, the boy’s face had been forever disfigured, the jaw had turned square, and the nose had flattened.

Cassandra had slipped out of Caxton Hall that day and sneaked into his room through the window. To get there, she had climbed a big willow tree growing outside Arthur’s bedchamber. She had sat with him, her eyes filled with sadness. That was when she told him he resembled a bulldog, and that he should wear the moniker with pride.

‘Pride?’ Arthur had asked. ‘Where’s pride in that?’

‘Everyone will try to make fun of you now by calling you that name. Accept it. Don’t let them use it as a weapon against you. Let it be your shield instead.’

‘A shield? How?’

‘A bulldog is a small but ferocious animal that can pin a bull to the ground.’

‘You think I can pin a bull to the ground?’ He had smiled through the pain of his swollen face.

‘With a little training,’ she had admitted, with a cheeky twinkle in her eye.

It was she who was able to pin down a bull. Everything was possible for her. She was bigger than life. But then she had suddenly left, before he had had a chance to tell her how he felt. That was eleven years ago, and Arthur hadn’t seen her since.

A knock on the door scared away his memories.

‘Yes?’ He croaked and cleared his throat with some nasty cold tea.

Constable Perkins poked his head in the door.

‘May I come in, sir?’ His breath was laboured after a horse ride.

‘Yes. Please.’ Arthur stole a glance at Perkins’s horse tethered at the entrance to the police station. Glorious beast. He needed to find himself a horse like that, he thought.

The constable’s Wellingtons squeaked as he walked in and then stopped. He waited until there was an indication that he was allowed to speak. He was a former military man, with perfect poise and discipline.

‘What is it, Perkins?’

When the question lingered, Arthur looked worryingly at his colleague and repeated his question. Perkins was not at all pleased to break the news; instead, he only extended a letter to the superintendent. It had already been opened. Arthur checked the address on the envelope and raised a questioning look at his man. The envelope was intended for Perkins.

‘You ought to see this,’ Perkins insisted.

Typically, Arthur would check the name at the bottom of the letter to know beforehand if he knew the person writing to him. In this case, the name Nicholas Longford didn’t ring a bell. Once again, unsure of what to expect, the superintendent sent Perkins a quizzical look. The constable nodded at the letter — it would explain everything. Arthur started reading silently.

My dear Perkins,

You are my last hope in the whole world. I beseech you to help me find the whereabouts of my daughter-in-law, Kathryn Knightley. On the second of September of this year, Kathryn took a train to Alnmouth. Since then, I haven’t had a word from her.

Let me know if you can help.

Sincerely yours,

Nicholas Longford

Arthur slowly lowered the letter. With Kathryn Knightley, the victim count was thirty-six.

Chapter 2

The Place Where Nothing Ever Changed

The road seemed to crawl across the endless fields of faded autumn grass in the Northumbrian coast: brown, yellow, green, and a lot of brown again. There were knee-deep puddles along the road, and mud in such abundance, it seemed it would devour all human civilization.

‘You’ve barely said a word to me this entire trip.’ Valentine cracked open the door of the carriage and breathed in the air, heavily laden with the smell of the nearby sea.

‘I did say at lunch pass the salt, please,’ Cassandra reminded him. She was inclined to observe everything with contempt as it moved past them, blending into an unattractive blur of muck and sludge. At the end of this journey, she would find the house she had hoped she would never enter again, not since she had run off when she was eighteen years old. It had been ten years. Of course, she had not been able to avoid seeing her father on the occasions he travelled down south for Parliament sessions now and then. Every time he was required in the capital, Lydia would write to Cassandra and remind her she had been a shameful runaway and had caused her father much suffering. Curious to see in what manner her father was suffering, Cassandra would agree to meet with him, only to find him, every time, very much healthy and as venomous as ever.

Her father would invite her to meet him at his pompous club, where gentlemen would gather to play cards and billiards and discuss how to make even more profit. The rendezvous with her father had always been brief and cold. Lord Dunstan would inquire about his daughter’s health, remind her how terribly she limped, offer her some money, which she would reject, then they would have dinner in silence, apart from her father’s sparse, dry remarks about the state of affairs at Caxton Hall and Parliament. Every time, after it was over, as she bid her father goodnight, Cassandra would wonder why she allowed these reunions to persist, but they did, over and over again, with this virtual stranger people called her father.

Cassandra should have known returning to her family nest would be an event traumatic enough on its own, but paired with a very untimely attempt to quit smoking opium and cigarettes altogether had turned Cassandra into a grump. Even Valentine couldn’t bear her company longer than fifteen minutes. After they had already spent half an hour in the carriage, Valentine stuck his head through the open door, either craving fresh air or considering the idea of throwing himself out of this miserable carriage.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cassandra said. ‘I know I must be a terrible companion. I haven’t been in a good mood since… since ever.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Valentine shut the door, changing his mind about ending his misery in such a gruesome manner. ‘I’ve been having the time of my life.’ He grinned.

‘You could’ve been taking photographs of your young nymphs in your studio instead of trudging across the whole country with a bore who has barely said a word to you, while you’ve been nothing but a perfect friend.’

‘Am I? Well, I don’t know. I didn’t pass that salt to you, after all.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I know. Don’t worry. But wait. Did you say nymphs? Is it too late for me to go back?’

She made an all-right-that’s-enough-of-this-buffoonery face at him.

‘They are not my nymphs. I borrow them at the art school. They sit for me,’ Valentine explained with an expression of pure innocence.

‘Whatever you say.’

Cassandra’s leg was killing her. They say one gets used to everything. Well, not pain. It becomes an annoying companion whose presence is impossible to overlook. She would normally soothe it with opium, but she had made herself a promise that her head would stay clear for the duration of this visit. She needed to maintain focus and be able to concentrate while dealing with the matters she intended to deal with. And it was of utmost importance that Lydia not find out about Cassandra’s addiction, or she would most assuredly seize the opportunity to preach about the kind of behaviour that befits a true lady. Nevertheless, nothing had prevented her from sneaking her opium outfit into her bag at the last minute before departure, so she did.

‘So tell me, what is it like? Your home, I mean.’ Valentine asked.

‘Caxton Hall is hardly my home,’ Cassandra said. ‘It’s where I was being kept prisoner before I escaped.’

‘All right. Tell me about that mass of bricks and mortar which you will inherit after your father dies.’

Cassandra shrugged. ‘It’s a gloomy Jacobean house. Every corner scared me out of my wits when I was little. Dark, cold, unwelcoming, with every Medieval inconvenience you can possibly think of.’

Valentine puffed with disbelief. ‘It can’t be so bad!’

‘You’re right. It’s not. If you stay for a