The House of a Hundred Whispers

along the path that led to the church doorway, followed by Grace and Portia. The crunching of their shoes on the gravel was curiously muffled. Meanwhile, Rob and Martin made their way between the graves. Rob had a chilling premonition of finding Timmy lying between the kerbstones in front of one of the graves, white-faced, his jumper soaking wet, his hands laced together.
Martin stopped and read out the inscription on one of the memorials. ‘Lieutenant William Staines, 1817. Resurgant. What do you think that means?’
‘Resurgant? That means “I shall rise again”,’ said Rob.
‘Oh. I was never any good at Latin, not like you. So you’re going to rise again, are you, Lieutenant Staines? I won’t hold my breath.’
He moved along to the next memorial. ‘Elizabeth Chase, 1864. In Coelo Quies.’
Rob stopped beside him. ‘Roughly translated, that means “Peace in Heaven”.’
‘She’ll be lucky. What with all those angels sitting on clouds and strumming away at their harps.’
Vicky and Katharine came back out of the church. Vicky shook her head. ‘We looked everywhere,’ she called out. ‘Even the toilet in the vestry.’
The graves along the second row were obviously much older – some so old that their inscriptions had been either weathered away or completely obscured by lichen. But at the end of the row there was a larger headstone with an inscription that was still mostly readable.
‘Matthew Carver, can’t read the date, but it looks like sixteen-something. Stat adhuc tempus. That’s something about time, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ said Rob. He was growing increasingly stressed, his eyes darting all around the graveyard for any sign of Timmy.
‘Tempus. That’s something about time, isn’t it? Like tempus fugit.’
Rob turned around and frowned at the headstone. ‘“Time stands still”, that’s what it means.’
Vicky and the other three women, meanwhile, had been looking into the two mausoleums and searching the weedy overgrown area at the back of the church. As Rob and Martin reached the end of the third row of gravestones, Vicky came back up the path in tears, and Rob went across to hug her.
‘Oh God,’ she wept. ‘Where is he? Please don’t let him be hurt.’
‘Come on, darling, he’ll be all right. He’s just wandered off somewhere and got himself lost. He’s definitely not here, though. I’m going to call the police.’
He took out his phone and dialled 999, and the emergency operator answered immediately.
‘Our five-year-old son’s gone missing around Sampford Spiney. We’ve been searching for over an hour but we still can’t find him. We’re getting seriously worried.’
‘Hold on a moment, sir, and I’ll put you through to Crownhill police station.’
As he waited to be connected, Rob looked down to the lower end of the graveyard, where the granite wall was overshadowed by oak trees. At first he couldn’t be sure, but when he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the drizzle, he thought he could make out a figure standing there, wearing a grey overcoat and a trilby hat with a wide drooping brim, similar to the hat their father used to wear when he let his two Staffordshire bull terriers, Max and Bullet, out of their kennels and took them walking on the moors. He was about to point out the figure to Martin when a voice said, ‘Crownhill police, how can I help you?’
Quickly, trying not to sound panicky, he told the duty sergeant that Timmy had disappeared and that they had searched for him everywhere they could think of, without success. Next to him, Vicky kept her hand pressed over her mouth to stop herself from sobbing out loud.
When he looked down to the end of the graveyard again, the figure had gone. Maybe his stress had led him to imagine it. The wind was blowing the trees so that every now and then a gap appeared between them that resembled a human shape.
‘The police should be here in less than twenty minutes,’ he announced. ‘We’d better get back to the house to meet them.’

8
The rain had cleared away by the time the police arrived at Allhallows Hall, although a blustery wind was still blowing and a silvery sun kept playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds.
Two squad cars were parked in the driveway, as well as a van with three officers in dark-blue overalls and a dog handler with an Alsatian.
‘Well, you’ve come out in force,’ said Martin, as he opened the front door for them.
‘Sergeant Billings,’ said the leading officer, in a strong Devon brogue. He was stocky and short, with a buzz cut that was going grey at the sides, and a broken nose like a jug handle. ‘When a young person goes missing, the sooner we start looking for them the better. ’Specially this time of year, when it gets dark so early.’
‘Come in,’ said Rob. ‘It’s our son, Timmy, who’s missing. He’s only five but he’s quite grown-up and independent for his age.’
‘We’ve searched the whole damned house from top to bottom, and the church,’ put in Martin. ‘We’ve even looked down the well, God help us. And my good lady and I were supposed to be heading back to London by three.’
‘Has he ever gone missing before? Did you have an argument with him, or tell him off for something?’
Rob shook his head. ‘Never, and no. We don’t have to read him the riot act very often, but when we do, usually he sulks and shuts himself in his bedroom and plays video games. But that never lasts for long. He’s not the kind of kid who bears grudges, especially when it’s teatime and there’s beans on toast.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’
Rob dug his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and took out the latest photograph, which he had taken when they were on holiday in Portugal.
‘Thanks. And do you have an item of his clothing for the dog to take a sniff at?’
‘Here,’ said Vicky, picking up Timmy’s yellow jacket from the back of the chair in the hallway.
Sergeant Billings turned around and called out,