The Haunting of Henderson Close Read online

  catherine cavendish

  The Haunting

  of Henderson

  Close

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  For Colin. We travel the Closes, roads and winding lanes together…

  Prologue

  November 1st, 1891

  The tall woman lifted her skirt as she crossed the filthy, narrow street. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of human waste, rotting fruit and vegetables and all manner of foul remains that sloshed their way down the gutters of the open sewer that was Henderson Close, deep in the squalid heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town.

  Henderson Close. The very mention of the name sent shivers down the spines of most of the woman’s acquaintances. They couldn’t understand why she did this. Helping those too feckless, in their eyes, to help themselves.

  A second-floor window rattled open. “Gardyloo!”

  Along with everyone else in the vicinity, the woman scurried for safety, just in time before a torrent of stinking night waste splashed onto the street. The stench hit her with a renewed force that made her eyes water and her stomach heave.

  Breathing through her mouth, the woman hurried on. The sooner she reached her destination, the sooner she could complete her mission and return to the safety of her cozy, lavender-scented flat in the more prosperous New Town.

  As she quickened her step, she passed poorly dressed humanity of all ages. Children in little more than worn-out rags, on such a cold day as this too. She pitied them their filthy bare feet, pock-marked with chilblains, and scabs that wouldn’t heal for want of a decent diet. She averted her eyes from the young girls, barely in their teens, who cradled their swollen bellies. The woman knew what went on. Some of these girls knew the fathers of their unborn babies all too well. They were closely related to them. Others wouldn’t be able to pick the right one out of a police line-up.

  She passed old women with no teeth and sparse grey hair. Yet most of them were probably barely past forty. Her age in fact. With her gloved hand, she adjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles a little higher on her nose, and arrived at number seventeen. A now-familiar clutch of apprehension tugged at her and she glanced around. No, everyone on the street was going about their normal business today.

  She stared up at the dilapidated tenement, nine stories high, as she had done many times before. With land at such a premium in Edinburgh’s teeming Old Town, they built upward, as high as the foundations would stand, and through lack of proper maintenance these old buildings sometimes collapsed, killing and maiming hundreds of inhabitants. Number seventeen was no better nor worse than any of its neighbors. Doors, and any remaining windows that weren’t boarded up, had once been painted in a long-forgotten color, now chipped and flaking off, revealing the rotten wood beneath. It used to be that the richer you were, the higher up you lived. Those at the top of the building could see the sky and were furthest away from the stinking street below. But, for the past century or more, the well-to-do had moved away to the elegant streets of the Georgian New Town. No noxious odors for them.

  The woman shook her head. Back to the purpose of her journey. The family she had come to see – the McDonalds – lived a wretched existence on the ground floor, barely able to afford the single room the mother, father and the youngest five bairns all shared. And the mother had another on the way. It had been like this all the years the woman had known them. Babies came. Babies died. More babies arrived. Mrs. McDonald must be in her late thirties or even older. Still they came. Her older ones were off her hands now. Her oldest.…

  Well, with any luck, at least what she had brought them would ensure food in the family’s bellies for the rest of the week. That’s why she came in the morning, when she knew the man wouldn’t be there or, if he was, he’d be sleeping off the last of the previous night’s ale. Not that Mr. McDonald was such a bad sort. At least, so far as she knew, he didn’t beat his wife or the children and, when he was sober, he would do anyone a kindness, but she couldn’t take a chance on the money getting into his hands. Too much temptation.

  So lost in her own thoughts was she that she was unaware of the three youths who had formed a semi-circle behind her. As she raised her hand to knock on the worm-eaten door, they grabbed her. A fourth assailant – older, in his twenties – seized her. Shards of pain shot through her shoulders. She cried out as the four of them manhandled her round the corner into an alleyway.

  The older one spat at her, threw her to the ground and kicked her. “Give us the money, woman!”

  She tried in vain to curl into a fetal position as the four boys threw kicks and punches. Fists slammed into her face, knocking off her glasses. Blood poured from her nose. A sickening snapping noise and screaming pain tore through her jaw. She closed her eyes and prayed for them to stop. Pain burst through her chest as her ribs cracked. She pleaded for merciful death to release her.

  A man’s roar. The oldest thug stamped on her hand, breaking her fingers. He tore the purse from her broken arm and made off. Hobnail boots thundered as men pursued them.

  Through the red mist of her agony, the woman recognized a familiar voice. Mr. McDonald was home, sober and here to help her. She felt him kneel beside her. He cradled her head. She tried to open her eyes but they were already swollen shut. Or the effort was simply too much. She tasted blood, felt it drip down her cheeks, mingling with the tears that cascaded down her face, and the muddy, stinking wetness of the ground beneath her face.

  Mr. McDonald stroked her forehead. “Oh Miss Carmichael, what have they done to ye?”

  Other voices joined his. Mrs. McDonald tried to wipe the blood off with the ragged hem of her rough wool skirt. “Lord preserve us. Who would do such a thing? Miss Carmichael too. All she ever does is out of the goodness of her heart.”

  The voices floated to the dying woman on echoing waves through the pathways of her mind, becoming fainter and fainter. Mr. and Mrs. McDonald leaned closer as Miss Carmichael struggled to speak. It was no more than a whisper, barely possible with her fractured jaw. “I am so sorry. They took it. Every penny.”

  A final tear tracked its way down Miss Carmichael’s face as the darkness enveloped her for the last time.

  * * *

  In the shadows, a well-dressed young man moved, unnoticed by the crowd gathered over the dead woman.

  A smile creased his lips as he walked away.

  Chapter One

  2018

  “You have to remember, Hannah, people didn’t live underground in Henderson Close. It was only built over after the last of them had left.”

  Hannah screwed up her nose as she stared around her. A dark street. Tenements on both sides, claustrophobically close, soared upward, only to be abruptly cut off by the foundations of the newer building above.

  “They certainly lived close together in those days,” Hannah said. “If they’d leaned out of their window, they could have shaken hands with the person living opposite.”

  Beneath her feet, the street was pockmarked with holes and littered with loose stones. At least it was dry though, which is more than it would have been back in the time when Henderson Close was a bustling, filthy hive of activity.

  Ailsa, the general manager, went on, “Of course, in the old days, you would have needed to pick your way very carefully along here. As you can see, it’s quite steep and you would have met all sorts of rubbish washing down the gutters.”

  “I can imagine.” Hannah followed Ailsa up the silent street, clutching at the handrail for support.

  “Sensible,” Ailsa said. “I always advise my visitors to hang on. It’s quite gloo
my down here and so uneven. I’ve tripped a few times myself, and I know where the potholes are.”

  Hannah laughed. Above her, someone had hung Victorian-style shirts and a couple of sheets on a line stretching across the street. Ailsa kept up a running commentary while Hannah concentrated on trying to memorize her surroundings and the stories associated with each location. She would be given a script later and would need to perfect her role.

  Each of the Henderson Close tour guides portrayed a character known to have lived there at some stage – some at the top of society and some very much on the bottom rung. Hannah would start next week dressed as Mary Stratton, English housekeeper to Sir William Henderson, an eighteenth-century banker and philanthropist, after whom the Close was named.

  For Hannah, newly arrived in Edinburgh from her native Salisbury, this was her dream job – even if the pay wasn’t up to much.

  Ailsa stopped outside an open door. “Now this is a significant stop for you. Sir William Henderson lived here with his wife and two daughters.”

  Hannah peered inside a workshop, which contained all the trappings of a Victorian printer.

  “Obviously, Sir William and his family would have lived higher up the building, so their quarters were destroyed when the redevelopment began in the late 1890s. The lower down the pecking order you were, the closer you lived to the stink of the street. Everything got poured down there. And I mean everything. Then you had chimneys belching out clouds of filthy, stinking smoke that coated the whole city with black soot. No wonder Edinburgh earned its old nickname of Auld Reekie.”

  “The effluent ended up in the Nor’ Loch, didn’t it?” Hannah had read about the disgusting foul lake.

  “Yes, that’s right. Along with all the so-called witches they dunked or drowned. They drained it in the early 1800s and constructed Princes Gardens. You wouldn’t think what it had been when you look at all the lovely flowers, would you?”

  Hannah smiled. “Maybe that’s the reason the flowers are so lovely.”

  Ailsa gave a light laugh. “You’re probably right.”

  They moved off. Ailsa pointed out places of interest along the way. “Once you’ve told them a couple of anecdotes about Sir William, and old Murdoch Maclean, whose printing shop you were looking at, move your guests off and around this corner.” Ailsa turned to the right.

  “Just around here, you’ll see where Miss Carmichael was viciously slain. You can make a fair meal of this.” She stopped. “Now, look down. What do you see?”

  The light wasn’t bright, but Hannah could make out a dark stain.

  Ailsa lowered her voice. “Miss Carmichael’s blood.”

  Hannah stared. “Really?”

  “Probably not, but it makes a good story. The guests love a ghost story and Miss Carmichael is the perfect subject. Little is known about her – what we do know is in the notes – but we’re fairly certain that this is the spot where she was beaten, robbed and kicked to death by a gang of four ruffians. Three of them were captured and hanged. The fourth escaped and was never apprehended. It is said that, to this day, Miss Carmichael wanders this street, looking for her murderer and demanding justice.”

  Hannah shivered. Ailsa laughed. “That’s exactly the reaction you want.”

  “Well, it is pretty gruesome,” Hannah said. “Mind you, the creepy environment helps. It’s so quiet here. Eerie.”

  “Especially just here.”

  The two stood in silence for a few seconds. The stillness lay between them in the gloom. Hannah swallowed, feeling an almost uncontrollable urge to move on but not wanting her new employer to think she was spooked. She forced herself to stand motionless, as Ailsa was doing. Listening. When Ailsa finally spoke, Hannah jumped.

  “You can’t hear any traffic from above,” Ailsa said. “So it’s pretty creepy. I’ve often felt as if someone was behind me, but when I’ve turned, there’s been no one there.” She paused again. Was she looking for some reaction? Hannah concentrated on breathing steadily. It always calmed her in fraught situations. Maybe it was some sort of test. The place was eerie and no doubt there were guests whose imaginations began to run away with them. It wouldn’t do for the tour guide to be the nervy type.

  Ailsa exhaled. “OK, come on, I want to show you Eliza’s room. She’s another character you can get some mileage out of.”

  The manager led the way further down the dark, narrow street. An unexpected ripple of cold air ruffled Hannah’s hair and she shivered.

  “You’ll get used to that,” Ailsa said. “All sorts of unexplained drafts and sudden chills. Sometimes even smells, and not always pleasant either. If you shut your eyes sometimes, you could almost believe you were there, back in the days when it would have been a seething mass of humanity.”

  Hannah smiled and wished she meant it. That chill had been strange. Almost as if someone had breathed cold air on her.

  * * *

  “You certainly look the part.” Ailsa straightened Hannah’s white cap and stood back. “Yes, every inch the eighteenth-century housekeeper, newly arrived from London, Mrs. Mary Stratton.”

  “Whatever happened to Mr. Stratton, I wonder?”

  “He probably never existed. Mary would have been given the courtesy title of ‘Mrs’. Same applied to the cooks. You didn’t find too many married servants in the 1700s.”

  Hannah drew a sharp intake of breath.

  “Nerves?” Ailsa asked.

  Hannah nodded. “It feels like a flock of butterflies are dive-bombing my stomach.”

  Ailsa laid a hand on her arm. “You’ll be fine. We’ve all been there. Just treat this dress rehearsal as if we were normal paying visitors. You know your part and you know the anecdotes and history of the Close. Just relax into your role and let Mary Stratton take over.”

  Hannah had an almost hysterical desire to laugh. “Sounds like a case of demonic possession.”

  Ailsa smiled. “You’ll soon get the hang of it. Come up to the gift shop and we can get started. We open in just over an hour, so there’ll be just enough time for the tour.”

  Hannah inhaled and picked up her long skirt as she followed Ailsa up the stairs.

  A small group of ten people was waiting for her. Some were familiar, some not, but all were her new colleagues and they would assess her performance before she was let loose on the general public the following day. All the rehearsing, research and practice had been leading up to this.

  Hannah said a silent prayer, moistened her lips, and began. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I trust your journey here was a pleasant one.”

  Smiles and murmurings greeted this.

  “My name is Mrs. Stratton. Mrs. Mary Stratton. And I have the honor to be housekeeper to Sir William Henderson, who owns a private bank and also prides himself on his good works. Something we all know bankers like to engage in.”

  A ripple of laughter killed at least three of Hannah’s butterflies.

  “But more of him a little later. For now, I want to take you down the stairs, underground to a secret world known as Henderson Close. Please follow me and do take care to hold the handrails. The Close is inclined to be uneven and we wouldn’t want any accidents. Medicine was a little primitive in the eighteenth century and I am advised that we are clean out of leeches.” More giggles.

  Hannah led her group through a door at the back of the shop and down a flight of stone stairs.

  At the bottom, she steered them past some shattered old wooden doors and into a room devoid of any furniture, whitewashed and illuminated only by a few flickering candle lamps hanging on the walls.

  Hannah took up her position in the center of the room and began the story of Eliza McTavish.

  “She and her family of eight children and a ne’er-do-well husband lived in this one room. They cooked here, babies were born here, ate here, slept here and even died here. Eliza birthed sixteen chi
ldren, lying on a meager mattress that was stuffed with hay.” On cue, a corner of the room lit up gloomily to reveal a lifelike waxwork of a sickly looking woman, her face frozen in an agony of childbirth. She wore a filthy greying shift streaked with ‘blood’ and lay on one side, on the straw mattress Hannah had just described. The light shut off.

  One of Hannah’s male colleagues piped up. “Where did they go to the bathroom?”

  Hannah pointed to a bucket in another corner of the room.

  “Eugh!” the man said, echoed by his fellow ‘guests’.

  “Yes indeed, sir, ‘Eugh’. Although after a little while, they do say you get used to it.”

  More laughter greeted this. Hannah gave an inward cheer as twelve more of her butterflies fluttered to the ground. Outwardly she wrinkled her nose and shuddered and slowly moved back to the far wall.

  “The year was 1645 and plague spread through the streets of the Old Town. As always, it hit the poorest first. Those who lived at street level, amid the vermin and the filth and.…” She pressed a button behind her and the silhouettes of two enormous rats flashed up onto the wall her guests were facing. A couple of them gasped and laughter erupted.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Hannah said, lowering her voice to add gravitas, “the rats came and brought the fleas with their deadly gift of bubonic plague. Poor Eliza McTavish caught it. Soon she was gripped by a violent fever, chills. She coughed up bloody phlegm and then, at the last, her body erupted in massive boils called buboes. Pretty soon, her children started showing similar symptoms. Right as she lay dying in her bed, they called in the plague doctor.”

  Another press of the button and the rats scurried away to be replaced by an eight-foot-high profile of a frightening-looking creature sporting a floor-length cloak, hood and an enormous curved beak, like some gargantuan crow.

  Gasps and nervous laughter echoed around the whitewashed room and Hannah marveled at how authentically her colleagues performed their current roles.