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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for The House of Whispers
  3. Title Page
  4. Note to Readers
  5. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  19. Twelve
  20. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  25. Sixteen
  26. Seventeen
  27. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  32. Twenty-One
  33. Twenty-Two
  34. Twenty-Three
  35. Twenty-Four
  36. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  37. Twenty-Five
  38. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  39. Twenty-Six
  40. Twenty-Seven
  41. Twenty-Eight
  42. Twenty-Nine
  43. Thirty
  44. Thirty-One
  45. Thirty-Two
  46. Thirty-Three
  47. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  48. Thirty-Four
  49. Thirty-Five
  50. Thirty-Six
  51. Thirty-Seven
  52. Thirty-Eight
  53. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  54. Thirty-Nine
  55. Forty
  56. Forty-One
  57. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  58. Forty-Two
  59. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  60. Forty-Three
  61. Forty-Four
  62. Forty-Five
  63. Forty-Six
  64. Forty-Seven
  65. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  66. Forty-Eight
  67. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  68. Forty-Nine
  69. Fifty
  70. Fifty-One
  71. Fifty-Two
  72. Fifty-Three
  73. Fifty-Four
  74. Fifty-Five
  75. Fifty-Six
  76. Fifty-Seven
  77. Fifty-Eight
  78. Fifty-Nine
  79. Sixty
  80. Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
  81. Acknowledgements
  82. About the Publisher

Albert Road marked the beginning of the older, more established, part of town, and the trees that towered above my head threw shade across the entire street, bringing the temperature down a notch. The roads on this side of the railway meandered in curves that were laid over a hundred years ago, Albert Road the backbone from which the other, narrower streets sprung like the broken ribs of an ancient skeleton. It was the most desirable part of this expensive satellite of London – a part that Rohan and I would never usually have been able to afford. But fifty-nine had been underpriced, largely – though not entirely – because it was what the estate agent had called ‘a project’.

Rohan had been surprised I’d even looked outside our usual search area.

‘Great location – but, bloody hell!’ he’d said as we’d stood outside on the pavement, taking in the dilapidated three-storey house that sat eternally linked with its smarter twin where the street made a sharp turn left. The matching attic windows of the two houses gave the appearance of eyes that watched the comings and goings of the street ahead of them.

The front of the house was choked with ivy that stretched its tendrils towards and around the third-floor window and the front garden was overgrown, giving us only a hint of red brick and a glance of peeling paintwork around the edge of the front windows. Cast-iron railings ran around the edge of the plot, looking more as if their aim was to restrain the house and its residents than to keep out any undesirables; and a path of cracked terracotta tiles led to the porch. Decrepit was the word that came to mind. Decayed.

‘It’s a vacant property,’ the estate agent said vaguely as he ushered us down the path, keys rattling in his hand. ‘It’s still furnished, and comes “as is”, but you might not want…’ he’d cleared his throat behind his hand. ‘Well, see for yourselves.’

Inside, the theme of decay continued, the semi a far cry from the neo-Georgian new-builds that my husband coveted, with their gleaming new kitchens, plantation shutters and easy-breezy, open-plan layouts. Untouched since the owners’ sudden departure, the interior spoke almost of a different age, its air loaded with the stale exhalations of people long gone. We’d explored its musty depths as the agent had spoken of ‘original features’, ‘exciting potential’ and a ‘rare opportunity’.