This House is Haunted by John Boyne

Christmas Carol . Have you read it?”
    He stared at me as if I had suddenly started to speak an ancient Russian dialect and shook his head. “I don’t have much time for reading,” he said. “My clerking keeps me busy enough for reading. Them as has time to read should do so, I expect. But not me.”
    “Well, you have heard of it at least.”
    “I have not,” he said, shaking his head.
    “You’ve never heard of A Christmas Carol ?” I asked, astounded, for the short novel had been a popular success. “By Charles Dickens.”
    “No, miss. I’m not familiar with the gentleman.”
    I burst out laughing, certain that he was playing some elaborate joke, and his face turned red with anger. He had never heard of Charles Dickens? Was such a thing possible? Had he heard of Queen Victoria? The Pope in Rome?
    “Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed, for the manner in which he looked at me suggested that he took any perceived slights against his character terriblyseriously. “I wonder whether I might speak with Mr. Raisin. Is he available?”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “I’m afraid not. Is it necessary to make one?”
    Cratchett glanced at his watch and frowned. “He has a meeting with an important client on the hour,” he said. “I can ask him if he can fit you in now but you’ll have to be quick with your business. Name please?”
    “Eliza Caine,” I said and he nodded and took himself off to a different room while I stood staring around me. There was no place to sit and nothing of interest to look at. I picked up a copy of that morning’s Times that lay on Cratchett’s desk and glanced at the headlines. Another murder in Clerkenwell. A young girl this time. And another, in Wimbledon. A middle-aged man who was known to police. Also, a small child had gone missing in Paddington Station and the Prince of Wales was due to make a visit to Newcastle.
    “Miss Caine?” said Cratchett, returning now, and I dropped the newspaper, feeling as if I had been discovered doing something I shouldn’t. His eyes followed to the desk and he seemed displeased by my rooting among his things. “Come with me, won’t you? Mr. Raisin can spare you five minutes if you promise to be quick.”
    I nodded. “Five minutes will be perfectly adequate,” I said, not believing that for a moment. I suspected that I had enough questions to fill ten times that amount but five minutes would have to do for a start. I followed him into the next room, which was far more luxurious than the antechamber, and he closed the door behind me. By the window stood a large oak desk, covered in documents, neatly arranged, and as I entered a man stood up from behind it and came towards me, offering hishand. He was in his late thirties, neatly presented with a tired if kindly expression on his face. Rather handsome too, if one’s tastes ran to the older gentleman.
    “Alfred Raisin,” he said, offering a polite bow. “I believe you wanted to see me. I’m afraid I don’t have much time today though. I don’t know if Cratchett said but—”
    “Yes, I understand perfectly,” I replied, taking the seat that he offered me opposite his desk as he returned to sitting behind it. “I have come on a chance, that’s all. I hoped you’d make time for me.”
    “Of course, Miss …?”
    “Caine,” I said. “Eliza Caine.”
    “And you’re new to Gaudlin? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
    “That’s right,” I said. “I arrived only last night. By the London train to Norwich and then Mr. Heckling brought me here in the carriage.”
    “Heckling,” he replied, looking a little surprised. “You don’t mean the—”
    “Yes, the stable man out at Gaudlin Hall,” I explained. “I’m the new governess.”
    He put both hands to his face and pressed the fingertips against his closed eyes for a moment, as if he was thoroughly exhausted, then sat back and stared at me as much in curiosity as surprise. He