The House of a Hundred Whispers

voice, talking in an urgent whisper.
‘Stop, Martin! No, stop! Can you hear that?’
Martin stopped, and listened.
‘No. What?’
‘It was definitely somebody whispering.’
Martin waited a few moments longer, but then he said, ‘No. I can’t hear anything.’
‘Really. I’m sure it was somebody whispering.’
‘Did you hear what they said?’
‘No. They weren’t speaking loud enough. But they sounded – I don’t know – panicky.’
‘Oh, come on, Rob. I think you and Timmy have both caught a dose of Allhallows-itis. You remember that old woman who used to live across at Wormold’s Farm? She used to tell us this house could drive anybody who lived in it “maze as a brush”.’
‘You mean old Mrs Damerell. She was a couple of sausage rolls short of a picnic herself.’
Downstairs, they heard knocking at the front door.
‘Come on,’ said Martin. ‘That’ll be Dad’s solicitor. Let’s go down and find out who’s inherited what.’
Rob followed him downstairs. ‘Knowing my luck, it’ll be the headless cherub.’

5
When they came downstairs, they found that the drawing room was hazy with acrid smoke. The logs in the fire were well alight now, but it looked as if the chimney was blocked. Katharine was flapping her hand in front of her face and Timmy was coughing.
‘God, that’s Dad all over,’ said Rob. ‘Too tight to have the chimneys swept.’
‘I can’t breathe!’ Timmy squeaked.
‘Open the windows, will you, Rob,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll go and let Ms What’s-her-name in.’
The smoke was billowing out of the fireplace, thicker and thicker. Rob managed to force all the windows open, even though some of them were jammed with decades of rust and dirt, and he had to shake them several times before they gave way.
‘We’ll meet in the library!’ Martin called out.
‘Let me put this bloody fire out first!’ Rob called back.
He went through to the kitchen. The last time it had been modernised was in 1911, and it still had a monstrous black iron range and reddish marble worktops and high copper taps over the sink. Long-handled ladles and whisks and spatulas were hanging in a row from the ceiling, all tangled together with cobwebs.
Rob found a grimy white plastic bowl in the bottom of the sink and poured water into it. The taps juddered and knocked because there was air trapped in the pipes, and as usual the plumbing started to groan like an animal in pain. Once the bowl was full, he carried it into the drawing room and tipped it slowly over the fire. The logs sizzled and poured out smoke and when Rob breathed in he felt that he was going to choke, but at last the fire was out. With all the windows open, a chilly draught gradually cleared all of the haze away in a series of shudders, although the drawing room still smelled strongly of charred wood.
Rob dropped the plastic bowl back into the sink and then went through to the library, which was on the left-hand side of the hallway. It was less than half the size of the drawing room, with bookshelves on two sides and a small stone fireplace. The window overlooked what had once been the walled kitchen garden, but which was now a jungle of dead thistles and drooping grass.
Margaret Walsh was already sitting at the oak writing table in the middle of the library, with a leather-bound folder in front of her. She was a sturdy, big-bosomed woman in a red tweed suit with red and white feathers in her trilby hat. She looked as if she had dressed to go out on the moor, shooting grouse.
Grace and Portia were sitting on the two-seat leather sofa next to the fireplace, holding hands, so whatever they had been arguing about, they seemed to have made up. Vicky sat in an upright chair by the window, while Rob and Martin remained standing. Vicky had buttoned up Timmy’s yellow jacket again and sent him out to play, and Rob could see him in the kitchen garden, swishing a stick from side to side to knock the heads off dead thistles.
‘Well, you’re all here, good,’ said Margaret Walsh, and opened up the folder. ‘Before I go into detail, I have to tell you that your father changed his will two and a half years ago, and changed it quite radically.’
‘Don’t tell me he left everything to the dogs’ home,’ said Rob.
‘No, not exactly. He had twenty-eight thousand pounds left in his Barclay’s Bank deposit account, but an overdraft of three thousand seven hundred in his current account at Lloyd’s. He also had considerable debts. He owed approximately thirteen thousand to HMRC, six thousand three hundred to Ladbrokes the bookmakers and four thousand two hundred and fifty to Paddy Power.’
Martin had been counting in his head. ‘You must be joking. That leaves only seven hundred and fifty pounds. Two hundred and fifty each. You can’t even buy lunch at The Ivy for that.’
‘The very last time I saw him, he swore blind to me that he’d given up gambling,’ said Grace. Portia gave her a quick sympathetic hug.
‘You still have the house to share between you, don’t you?’ said Katharine. ‘If you can find the right buyer, you may be able to sell it for quite a bit more than a million and a half.’
‘Well, not exactly, I’m afraid,’ said Margaret Walsh, turning over a page in her folder. ‘Originally, Allhallows Hall was going to be divided equally between the three of you – Martin, Rob and Grace. But when Mr Russell altered his will, he specified that after his death it should be held in trust.’
‘Held in trust?’ Martin retorted. ‘Held in trust by whom? And how long for?’
‘Held in trust equally by the three of you for thirteen years. During this time you will be equally responsible for its maintenance, repair, council tax and utility bills and so forth. Should any of you pass away before the thirteen years is up, the surviving trustees will continue to bear the costs until the trust comes to an