The House of a Hundred Whispers

maintenance. Firewood from Liz’s Logs in Yelverton. But then some of the credits were more mystifying. PP £11,230. L/b £3,226. And then some much larger credits. JD 1729515 £128,000. BdF 2367838 £347,500.
When Martin added up all of these obscure credits, he reckoned that in those nine years Herbert Russell had been given over £7.5 million, and that was on top of his prison governor’s salary. But apart from their initials and their reference numbers, there were no further details of who the donors were, or why they had given him so much money.
Martin jotted down the figures on a torn-off sheet of paper and then went through to the drawing room.
‘Rob? I don’t know where that Margaret Walsh got her financial statements from, but according to Dad’s own account books, we should all be reasonably rich.’
‘Spag bol all right?’ called Grace, from the kitchen.
‘Yes, Gracey. Wonderful,’ Rob called back, and then frowned at Martin’s piece of paper. ‘Blimey. Do we know who gave him all this money? Are these individual people, or companies?’
‘I haven’t the faintest. That’s all he’s written down. Look at this one – KW 2703145 £545,000. Who would have given him more than half a million? I mean, what for? And what did he do with it? Did he spend it? Did he invest it? Did he bury it in the garden in a pickle jar?’
‘He didn’t keep a diary, did he?’
‘There’s racing diaries, with all the gee-gees he bet on, but that’s all. I don’t ever remember him keeping one, and there was no sign of one in the library, or in his bedroom.’
‘I thought he had accountants to do his tax returns. Maybe they would know.’
‘I think he used to, but from the look of his books he was doing them himself for the past nine years at least.’
‘Perhaps he has another bank account – one that he never told Margaret Walsh about.’
‘In which case we bloody well need to find it,’ said Martin. ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to let seven and a half million go unclaimed. That’s two and a half million each. I know it’s not the National Lottery, but you and I could buy ourselves much bigger houses, and Grace could buy her first house, couldn’t she?’
‘Right at this moment, Martin, I’m not interested in whether I could buy a bigger house or not.’
‘Well, no, sorry, Rob, of course not. But I’ll get to work on it. And if they don’t find Timmy tonight, I’ll be out there again tomorrow, looking for him. I promise you.’
‘Thanks, Martin,’ Rob told him. One of the logs in the grate lurched and dropped downwards, and a shower of sparks flew up the chimney. For a split second, they looked like a glittering, demonic face.

11
They ate their supper in the kitchen, in silence – too tired and too depressed to think of anything to say. Rob had cautioned Martin not to tell Vicky or Grace about the £7.5 million that he had discovered in Herbert Russell’s accounts. There was no way of knowing if it actually existed anywhere, or if Herbert had borrowed it and paid it all back, and apart from that Vicky could think about nothing but Timmy, and she would only find it insensitive if he started talking about some illusory inheritance.
As for Grace, she never liked to speak about their father much, for some reason. She always gave a little shudder when they mentioned his name, as if they were talking about some food that she couldn’t stand, like pickled herring. She had made it clear that she had only come to Allhallows Hall because Portia had insisted that she should lay claim to what was hers – and would be theirs, when they had legally married.
Just after half past ten, a short, broad-shouldered man with scruffy blond hair knocked at the door. He was wearing a crimson anorak and he introduced himself as one of the team leaders from Dartmoor Search and Rescue. He told them that his name was John Kipling – ‘no relation to Rudyard, unfortunately’. He and his volunteers would be searching the moor until six tomorrow morning, and unless they had found Timmy earlier, he would call again then.
They all sat in the drawing room to finish their drinks, watching the fire die down. They had the television switched on, but muted, in case any news item came up about Timmy; but there was little hope of that. Martin went outside for a cigarette and when he came back, still wearing a cloak of cold air and the smell of tobacco, he rubbed his hands together and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m for bed.’
*
Rob fell asleep almost at once. Vicky stayed awake, reading a book she had found in the library called The Legends of Dartmoor.
The book described the demon dogs that were said to roam the moor in packs, and the ghosts of wife-murderers, and how the Devil had demolished a local church spire with bolts of lightning. But it wasn’t all about frightening apparitions. The chapter that had caught Vicky’s attention told of friendly piskies who are supposed to flit around the tors at night, and who will guide any ramblers who find themselves lost – although they will do the opposite to anybody who upsets them, and deliberately lead them miles out of their way. The people of Dartmoor still call it being ‘pisky-led’.
‘The piskies are appreciated, most of all, for the care they take of little children who have gone astray, drying their tears and taking their hands and showing them the way back to their anxious mothers.’
When she read that, Vicky closed the book, her mouth tightly puckered to prevent herself from sobbing out loud. She didn’t want to wake Rob. She knew how exhausted he was, and how much his ankle hurt. He had taken two paracetamol before going to bed.
She switched off her bedside lamp, snuggled down and pulled up