The Golden Key

by Marian Womack

  The photographer Peter Henry Emerson had stayed in the abbey shortly after its construction in 1875, and then again in 1881. He was not interested in photographing buildings; he went out every morning to capture the land and its occupants. Helena in truth had not followed the notion of researching the photographer; and in any case she would not have found anything to share with Lady Matthews: she seemed to have his entire oeuvre hanging inside this room.

  ‘An impressive collection,’ she offered.

  ‘That series over there.’ Lady Matthews pointed with a shaking hand at the photographs on a back wall of the room. ‘Those are the pictures he took while he was here for the hunt. It has taken me twenty years to find all these.’

  Some of the images were as clear and haunting in their quiet, unmoving quality as the land itself they were representing. About half of them, however, were too foggy to clearly represent anything, and it surprised Helena that anyone would have thought them worthy to be displayed.

  ‘Some were discarded, you see. The “moved” ones; I think that is the term they use. But to me they are the dearest.’

  Helena could get a glimpse of a figure peering through the fog; she could even see the girls themselves if she half-closed her eyes. They looked like the photographs of ghosts, a long-discarded memento mori. But Helena knew these were fancies, and she needed facts.

  ‘Why has he not been invited?’

  ‘Peter Emerson? Oh, he is abroad, I think.’

  ‘Lady Matthews, if I may—’

  ‘Would you allow me to begin, my dear? I have been told you want to hear my “impressions” of that morning; as if I hadn’t repeated them to the police over and over.’

  Helena ignored the slight rebuff.

  ‘By all means. I also wanted to let you know that Old John is dead. I went to his family’s home this morning.’

  A tremor crossed the old face, but Lady Matthews maintained her detachment while she asked, without looking in Helena’s direction, ‘Who, do you say?’

  ‘Old John, one of your older tenants.’ The old woman offered no reaction to the news. ‘Lady Matthews, I do not want to overtax you, but—’

  ‘You would like to know it all, everything that we have ascertained over the past twenty years.’

  ‘Yes, that would be most useful.’

  ‘However, Miss Walton, you must realise that hasn’t helped us at all. The children have never been found.’

  ‘Still, if you want me to cover more ground in less time than, let’s say, another twenty years, it would speed things up a great deal if you were to trust me.’

  ‘Yes, but you are missing the point, my dear. I wanted someone to look at this mess with a new perspective… Poor John—he knew very well one day he would come back for him at last. He named one of his granddaughters Rosie, after me, you know.’

  ‘Who, Lady Matthews? Who was going to come for him?’

  But she feigned not to have heard the question, so Helena decided to try another one:

  ‘That beggar woman, the servants say she has tried to get into the house several times.’

  ‘Three times,’ she corrected; so, she was aware of the situation. Now it was Helena’s turn to smile: she would not be able to feign she didn’t know what she was talking about.

  ‘Do you have any idea why?’

  ‘Not in the faintest.’

  ‘Did she ever manage to steal anything, take anything, to your knowledge?’

  ‘Well, it was curious…’

  ‘What was curious?’

  ‘The only time she managed to actually get in—she went there directly.’

  ‘Where, Lady Matthews?’ The old lady looked at Helena. She looked almost like a child, happy with a secret knowledge no one else had.

  ‘To the nursery. She was found there, on the floor, sleeping curled up, like a baby in the womb.’

  Helena wondered why the servants had not shared this piece of information with her.

  * * *

  At last, Helena got her version of events: on the morning in question Lady Matthews had wanted to get up earlier than usual, not wanting to miss the excitement of the dogs, let out of their kennels, all the preparations contributing to their monstrous eagerness. It promised to be an excellent hunt.

  She also had another task to perform: to make sure the girls didn’t wander into the ruins. What she could not understand was why her husband had not demolished them completely and built the new house closer to the sea.

  ‘You see? I hated the ruins. I cannot think of a place in closer communion with the shadows.’

  This comment struck Helena as singularly perceptive, and very much in accordance with her own impressions.

  ‘But you haven’t demolished them either, Lady Matthews—’

  ‘I couldn’t now, with the girls gone, could I? What if they are still hiding there, somehow?’ It was an odd comment, but Helena knew what she meant.

  Afterwards she would always remember how quiet that day was, the eerie silence that crept down the stairs from the old nursery rooms at tea time, when normally a flurry of girlish feet would sound noisily on the treads. She would remark on the closed wardrobe doors, on the closed books, the pencils and colours quiet in their china pots, the glue pot shut forever, the cuttings and postcards and decoupage littering the polished surfaces, the silent dolls which could not give away the sisters’ secrets, no matter how much they wanted to betray them. All those treasures left behind forever. The abandoned mousseline dress hanging behind the door, an empty replacement of the self, discarded, looking more than ever like a costume.

  Breakfasting in bed, Lady Matthews had run through the various adjustments and last-minute requests in her head: the absence of Lord Caister’s valet; the need to provide refreshments to those who, to her husband’s dismay, had expressed a desire to stay behind. One could judge the lady of a house on the attention paid to the smallest detail, she said, and she would not be caught out. It was her first hunt at the abbey. She knew that the men would be eating down in the depths of the cave-like kitchen. It was customary to do so on hunting days. She still had a few minutes, a short interval of welcome solitude. The dogs would already be out in the yard at the back waiting, while the men sipped their coffee and brandy and ate their eggs and kidneys surrounded by huge pots and oversized baskets.

  She finished and got ready without her maid’s help, going straight down. The house was oddly silent. She failed to see any of the houseguests, any of her servants. She went onto the terrace and looked out, but there was no one in sight: the kitchen was empty, a rare occurrence, and the dogs could be heard in the distance.

  She felt confused. What time was it? She thought she was doing what had to be done. But more peculiar than anything else was the deserted servants’ quarters, where one could always be sure to find someone bustling about with their duties. She recalled now being woken up by the noise of guns, and how she had dismissed the notion: it had to be a dream, she had thought, the shooting would only start later. But where could they possibly be? Were they all playing a joke on her? Had her silly maid woken her at the wrong time on purpose? She had expected that, some kind of revenge on the young bride who had been a governess shortly before.

  She knew where the hunting party was set to begin and started walking in that direction.

  She did not expect the mist rising from the ground; it wasn’t so hot after all, and it wouldn’t be for the whole rest of the morning. Some dark clouds closed over where she was, and she felt a strange anxiety. The mist rose slowly, and she could not see her feet for a moment.

  The hunt would cover the whole estate, but the eastern side would offer the best shooting for the wild ducks and geese, not to mention the pheasants. She knew that’s where they were bound to start.

  But once out of the house she felt disorientated, by the elusive hour, by the elusive hunting grounds. What was happening to her?

  Some birds flew above, and she heard the guns firing. The beaters were making their
rattle, walking in her direction. She realised her precarious situation, and rapidly moved on. But she didn’t know exactly which way to do so. Left, or right?

  She saw a little copse and ran there, and, without knowing why she did it, she hid beneath a tree, catching her breath. It was then that she saw it: the white muslin of a light summer dress, a girl, running along like a little dove. She thought it was Maud, her eldest stepdaughter.

  ‘Maud? Darling?’ she called from the empty copse, and only the branches moving repeatedly, and only the birds shooting up into the sky, and the smell of gunpowder, offered their silent acknowledgement. She was there; had Maud been?

  The girl was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if she had seen her after all.

  Later on, she would recall that moment, trying in desperation to fix it with the utmost precision regarding place, time, and whatever else was needed or asked by the constable. For that would be the last time she would ever see the girl.

  * * *

  ‘There was an odd energy floating around that morning. It not only affected me, but all of us, everything. The hunt was a disaster; they kept getting lost and could not find anything to shoot! Unheard of! Malcolm, my husband, was incensed.’

  ‘Lady Matthews, you mentioned that Old John knew that… somebody would come back for him—’ Helena dreaded how to put the next question, but Lady Matthews anticipated it.

  ‘Yes. That’s around the first time he saw him.’

  ‘Saw who?’

  ‘The devil, Miss Walton. I’d guessed you would have had ample experience of him, with your Catholic roots.’

  Helena ignored the comment. She had, in fact, been raised as an Anglican, but she had no desire to explain to this woman that she didn’t profess any faith.

  ‘You are saying that Old John saw the devil at the time the girls went missing?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m saying, my dear. And now he is back. Do you really want to know everything we know? Perhaps you can start with this.’

  She walked towards her bedside table and produced a little key, which she used to open a drawer; from this she took out a piece of paper. She walked back, handed it to Helena, and sat down again, heavily this time.

  It was a list of names, seven names in total. Next to them, ages, none older than fourteen. The last three names were those of Maud, Flora, and Alice:

  Michael Farrow, fourteen years

  Benedict Hobbs, nine years

  James Proctor, twelve years

  Rosalind Proctor, six years

  Maud Matthews, twelve years

  Flora Matthews, ten years

  Alice Matthews, eight years

  ‘Lady Matthews, I’m afraid I don’t follow—’

  ‘Don’t you? Well, then perhaps I have overestimated you, my dear. Do you imagine our children were the only ones taken?’ She looked at Helena with disdain. ‘Of course he took others! Only those didn’t make the papers, did they? The police said they had run away, or gone to find work in London, or whatever excuse they deploy for not looking for the missing children of the lower classes.’

  Helena looked at her in dismay.

  ‘Are you saying that there were more disappearances?’

  Lady Matthews laughed, and her laughter, loud and manic, filled the room with so many things: her sadness, the frustration of many families, and, Helena feared, her own incompetence.

  ‘My dear, there were twenty years ago, and there are now again!’

  ‘You mean that another child has vanished now? Are the police involved at all in finding him, her? Lady Matthews, I beg you, no more riddles. I need as much information as you can give me about this case; and I need to see the child’s parents. Was it in this area—’

  The old lady cut her off with a hand gesture.

  ‘His family will not tell you anything. They are convinced he has run away to join the Navy, of all things.’ She laughed again. ‘Simply because the poor boy was fond of sea stories! Can you think of anything more ridiculous than that? They don’t want to know the truth, and I can’t blame them. This is a ghastly business, Miss Walton. It’s tainted us all. But I know, and Old John knew, and Mrs Ashby knows—’

  ‘What do you know?’

  She looked at Helena in disbelief, as if she were a little girl that needed everything explained to her.

  ‘That he took them, Miss Walton. And that it is happening again. And I trust that you can help us.’

  ‘Lady Matthews, what do you mean by tainted?’ There it was, an averted look that, in Helena’s experience, meant guilt. She insisted: ‘Lady Matthews, if I may, I would like to know about your business venture with Charles Bale.’

  The old lady looked confused. ‘The factory?’

  ‘Yes. What was the business trying to do?’

  ‘Nothing much, I don’t think. Harness the power of nature: the sea, the sun, the wind. Oh, it was nonsense, I know.’

  ‘Why did it go under?’ Lady Matthews looked at her and, for a moment, Helena expected an answer. Silence. ‘Lady Matthews, if I may insist, I am only trying to get a general idea of the local context at the time of the disappearances.’

  ‘Well, as far as I know, the technology did not work… as we had been led to believe. There were some problems. The venture had to be abandoned. And now, if you excuse me, my headache is back with a vengeance.’

  * * *

  ‘Jenkins, I would like to see the nursery. Could you please find me the key?’

  The butler did not stir.

  ‘I’ve got Lady Matthews’s permission.’

  ‘Ah. Very well, Miss Walton. I don’t normally go to that part of the house: my knee, all those steep steps…’

  ‘Perhaps you could ask Miss Waltraud to come with me, if that is convenient?’

  ‘A splendid idea.’

  ‘That would be most helpful, thank you very much.’

  The butler started moving away, so Helena called: ‘And, Jenkins!’

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘The beggar woman.’ She saw his expression change. ‘She was found in the nursery, sleeping.’

  He said nothing. But two could play this game. Helena stared at him in silence; she would not move until he gave her an answer.

  ‘That is right, miss.’

  ‘Any idea of why she went there?’

  ‘She just wanted it back, I think.’

  ‘Wanted what back, Jenkins?’

  He had spoken without looking directly at her; butlers were apt at communicating while staring at walls and halls and the general universe.

  ‘The doll, miss.’

  And with that he turned abruptly to go.

  * * *

  The eastern wing: so, the nursery, probably, looked out onto the distant sea.

  Helena was told to wait for Miss Waltraud in a little sitting room, and there she appeared shortly, with a bunch of keys in her hand.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind the climb,’ Eliza commented. ‘I’m told it is rather narrow in places.’

  ‘And how did the children manage?’

  ‘Apparently they had their own exterior access, to come and go, so as not to disturb the house.’

  An odd arrangement, in particular for children fond of going where they were not meant to.

  ‘Could we take this external route? I’d like to see it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m afraid the external stairs have been condemned for the past decade at least.’

  They climbed up, took a corridor, went up another set of stairs, came into an upper landing, and climbed once more. Helena had lost count of the steps they had gone up, but thought a distance like that must surely be off-putting for both children to visit their parents and vice-versa. She imagined them stuck in this upper part of the house, very tired with nothing to do, and knew that, if they were clever, inquisitive children, curiouser and curiouser, they would have hated to conform to this imposed idleness.

  ‘Here we are, I think…’

  Eliza had her fair share
of trouble making the key turn in its lock; but turn it did, eventually. The door would not give, and they had to push it a little. A flutter of dust got to their eyes and their nostrils, and they both bent down, coughing wildly.

  When Helena could look up, she saw the reason: the room was infused in that same whitish substance she had seen in the meadow, although thankfully in a much smaller measure. It did float still, sticking itself to the surfaces, like oversized dust particles.

  ‘This is not what I had expected,’ said Helena.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘When was the last time anyone was up here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Mrs Burroughs looted the place looking for books to read with Dot. But she hasn’t been back in years. She says this place is unnerving.’

  ‘Did she explain why?’

  ‘It was mostly the dirt, I think. It gave her a severe headache, apparently. I assume it was even worse than that.’

  ‘Let’s carry on.’

  They entered the little sitting room. All was painted in white peeling paint, the doors and the different pieces of furniture and the walls. There was a round table where Helena guessed the children ate, a miniature fireplace, a chair tumbled down on the floor. A cupboard with its two doors opened and askance, and the crunchy dirt and the dead leaves that one always wonders how—how on earth—they get into an empty place; until one spots the open window, the curtain moving wildly on a corner of the room, the air chilling one’s soul. Cobwebs aging, long and distorted, dust obscured by frost.

  But none of this was different from any other abandoned place. What made this space so wrong was the fungi.

  The walls and the furniture pieces were strangely swallowed by it. It infused everything with its wrongness, forcing the wood into wrong shapes, collapsing the paint on the walls. It made everything look as if it were made of pasteboard, strangely provisional. Helena thought that, if she were to touch that wall, she would make a hole in it; she was certain she could grab the table with her own small hands and bend it.