The Whispering House by Rebecca Wade Read Free Book Online Page B

of course. Well, thanks anyway.” Hannah picked up the lettuce and was about to leave when the old man leaning against the counter looked up from his newspaper.
    â€œYou could try asking Eileen Grocott,” he said.
    â€œWhat, old Mrs. Grocott down in Laurel Drive?” The woman leaned over the counter to straighten some newspapers. “What’ll she know about it, Jim?”
    â€œHer grandmother used to work up at Cowleigh Lodge. Way back.”
    â€œHow far back?” Hannah felt a little stab of excitement.
    â€œWell . . .” The old man sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Eileen must be close on a hundred now, I’d think, but her gran was just a young girl when she was in service up there. . . .” He shook his head. “You work it out.”
    Hannah was bad at math, but even she could calculate that if the old lady had been born in, say, 1915, her grandmother might have been born around fifty years earlier, which could well have made her a young girl at roughly the time Maisie had died. “D’you think I could go and see her?” she asked. “Would she talk to me?”
    The old man shrugged. “You could try. Number three, Laurel Drive. Down by the gas station. Lives with her daughter. Mrs. Wilson’s her name, but she’s a widow now, so it’s just the two of them there.”
    Hannah thanked him and left the shop. Walking home, she could hardly believe her luck. Sam had said she should find out about the history of the house, and the opportunity had fallen into her lap! Now that the dreams seemed to be a thing of the past, the thought of finding out more about Maisie Holt didn’t feel frightening anymore, just intriguing. Today was Thursday. If she went to the house on Saturday morning, with luck someone would be in.
    It was much later that evening when it struck her that something the shop woman had said didn’t seem to quite add up. If the problem with Cowleigh Lodge was just a leaking roof, why would that be worse in June than at any other time of year? Then she dismissed it. It was odd, certainly, but probably not important.

Chapter Ten
    Mrs. Grocott
    A T THREE O’CLOCK ON Friday afternoon, the school entrance hall was full of people planning things to do together on the weekend. Most people, anyway. Hannah noticed that Bruce Myers was standing by himself near the front door. She was gathering the courage to go and speak to him when Sam came careering down the corridor, expertly dribbling a piece of balled-up paper like a soccer ball. It landed neatly at Hannah’s feet and he grinned at her. “What are you doing this weekend?”
    â€œWell, tomorrow morning I’m going to visit someone who might be able to fill me in on what happened to Maisie Holt.”
    â€œCool! Can I come?”
    Hannah bit her lip. “It might be better if you didn’t.” Introducing Sam unexpectedly to what must by now be a very frail old lady didn’t seem like a good idea. The shock might kill her. “Tell you what, though,” she said, seeing the disappointed expression on his face. “Why don’t you come over to my house after lunch? Then I can tell you what I’ve found out.”
    â€œOkay.” He seemed satisfied with the compromise, and they parted at the school gates.
    By the time she woke up on Saturday morning, Hannah felt a lot less confident about the approaching visit. For all she knew, Mrs. Grocott could be bed-ridden or suffering from dementia by now, and even if she wasn’t, how would her daughter react to a complete stranger knocking on her door and demanding information?
    But now that the opportunity was there, she couldn’t simply ignore it, so after breakfast she set off through the village until she came to the gas station on the main road. Laurel Drive was a small street just beyond it, lined with about a dozen modern bungalows. When Hannah got to number three, she stood on the doorstep