They shone their torches down the stairs, followed the beams down to the hall below. Speechlessly they crossed to the lounge door, where a lingering trace of warmth still met them. They entered the lounge, still led by the sounds. In the torchlight the room appeared just as they had left it several hours before.

‘I’ll light the lamps,’ said Pollard quietly. The click of his cigarette lighter sounded inordinately loud over the background of sobs. The lamplight flooded the room after he replaced the cylindrical glass cover.

With a thrill of horror, Paul realized that the sounds now came from beyond the nailed doors leading to the billiards-room. He looked at Meredith. The man’s fleshy face was starkly grim, his mouth set. Hunt clutched the tape-recorder, his eyes wide, face white. Smith’s mouth was stretched in a rictus of fear. His eyes showed outrage at his inability to comprehend what he heard.

Pollard walked to the doors, listened, his head bent. The sobs were quieter, muffled by the closed doors, gasping as if an effort at control was being made.

‘If a couple of us went outside we might see something if we shone torches through the window of the billiards-room.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Meredith.

Paul felt confused, sympathetic to Pollard’s suggestion, but cringing within at the thought of going out of the house into the freezing cold of the night. Or, he thought, was he scared by the possibility of actually seeing something inside the dark billiards-room? He shivered.

‘But surely we must have a look?’ he heard himself saying. ‘Surely we must try to . . .’

‘Help?’ Meredith’s mouth grimaced. ‘I appreciate your concern, Wilson. In God’s truth, whatever is making those sounds requires help. But I doubt if we’re capable of giving it.’

Smith, legs apart, fists clenched, stared at the doors.

‘Who do you think? What do you think it is?’

‘I don’t know.’

The tape-recorder shook in Hunt’s hand.

‘But who is it? Is it anything to do with Mary Rolfe? Or Mrs Howard?’

Meredith shrugged.

‘It’s possible.’

Pollard waved an arm.

‘It’s quieter now. Listen.’

The sobs were dying away. They were interrupted by longer and longer silences as if composure was gradually returning. Finally all was quiet beyond the barricaded doors.

As the five men stood there, frozen by the chill breath of their speculations, Paul thought of the evening’s session with Ann Parish. The regression to Mary Rolfe seemed to have occurred ages ago. Was the unhappiness and death by drowning of the Victorian girl connected with the heart-broken weeping they had just heard? Or did it connect with the murder or suicide of Eleanor Howard? He did not know. All he knew was that he hated and loathed this house.

Meredith sighed.