We climbed through the graves again, back up the path that led to the deadhouse, our noses tucked into our elbows to save us from the smell. But we bore right before reaching the grim place this time, to go to the church. The wind was stronger now, gusting death in our faces, tugging our skirts. Anna said something but I didn’t catch the words over the wind, for the wind was like words itself. Words close and whisked away.
The church was an old one, all leaded glass and an uneven roof. The stone around the door was carved in such a way that my eye was caught, hooked and drawn to it. There was a pattern like bad stitching of a hem, and above that were fish, which made the bad stitching like the sea. And we were close to the sea here, for beyond the church was a low wall, and in it a stile that led to fields, and they sloped to the great wide blue – the same view from our bedroom window in the vicarage. The world fell away here, into water, into wind. A body could walk from the church, through the fields, and step out, into death. I turned so that I couldn’t see the sea any more. Such melancholy thoughts would have me take myself to my end.
I was going to join Anna when I saw it, and then my step faltered, for amongst the sea beasts carved into the stone at the church’s door was a woman. Bare-breasted, bare-bellied, and her lower parts scaled.
Her lower parts – that of a fish’s tail.
Anna had lifted the thick ring that served for a door handle, but before she could open the door there came a loud moan, deeper than the wind. I put my hands over my ears, lest the moan should turn into my name.
‘Whatever in the world …’ She shoved the door open and hurried inside with me close behind her, and the moans grew louder still. Became those of a man.
NINETEEN
We had to pick our way through straw to reach him. The floor was laid thick with it, my step uncertain in the poor light, even though it wasn’t yet dinner time and we should have had no need for lamps. Though there were plenty of windows, there was plenty of dirt on the glass. There was candle wax everywhere – on the ends of the benches, on the floor. And papers too, drifts of them, all covered in scrawly writing.
The parson was slumped on a bench at the front of the church, the ginger cat beside him. When he saw us he seemed startled, and said, ‘You have heard them?’
Anna looked uncertain, but I had a suspicion I knew what he was speaking of.
‘I heard the voice last night,’ I said as we made our way down to where he sat.
He gripped the back of the bench. ‘I knew it. I knew you would hear it, Mrs Williams, though I would not wish to curse you with such a thing.’
There came a moan from outside and the church seemed to shake with it.
‘There it is,’ he said. ‘We cannot escape the sound.’
‘The mermaid,’ I said. ‘That’s what you’re meaning, isn’t it?’
‘I speak of the dead, Mrs Williams, not those who might lure us to our ends. That is who speaks on the wind in Morwenstow. And they will not let me rest …’ He looked towards the window as if he feared something would come through it.
‘Or it is simply the wind itself,’ Anna said gently. ‘The sound is unnerving, I would agree, but it is nothing more than nature’s sough.’
We were at odds, the three of us. But I was nearer the parson in my wonderings, for the sound was powerful bad. It could only be a work of darkness, of the kind I knew most.
The parson turned himself from the window and looked keenly at Anna. ‘My wife tells me he has come at last – our deliverer.’
‘The coroner?’ Anna said. ‘He has indeed. Mr Good has given permission for the dead man to be buried.’
At this, the parson put his hands over his eyes and groaned again.
‘That’s a good thing,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it? You didn’t want the dead man troubling you after dark.’
Without showing his face he murmured, ‘Were there any effects found on him? Anything that might identify the man?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We had a good search, too. Him being so—’
‘—exposed,’ Anna finished for me. ‘I’m afraid there was nothing to identify the deceased, Parson Hawker.’
He gave a little sob. ‘Like so many whose ships come to grief here. The ground is thick with them, these strangers to Morwenstow. Another leeward wind today. There will be no room left beneath the south trees and then what will I do?’
Anna sat on the bench beside him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. He was wearing a long brown gown today, made of coarse cloth, and it heaved with his heaviness and his scritching. If he felt her touch, he gave no sign.
‘They will have to go in the fields,’ he cried, ‘and we will have graves all the way to the sea. The wheat will be grown in their blood, the wheat—’
The wind gusted against the window and he tore his hands from his eyes and was on his feet, tripping over his long gown as he rushed to the glass.
‘Is it come yet? I cannot see – the waves. May the Lord deliver these poor souls from their pain, and his servant too. Lord, I beseech thee.’
‘You fear a wreck, Parson?’ Anna said, and the sound of her voice, of Mr Williams’ voice, pulled him back from the window and his fear.
‘Every day, my good sir. For there is so little I can do once the wind has them. I can but watch and wait for the dead to wash in.’
‘Is that what happened with the man you’ll bury tomorrow?’ I said.
‘His ship wasn’t sighted here. We have had no sign of it, but he washed in just the same.’
‘That would seem to me strange, Parson,’ Anna said. ‘To have a victim of a wreck in your parish, but not the ship.’
‘It is not unknown, Mr Williams. The ship could have come to grief elsewhere and news has not yet reached us. It is the doing of the tide that sent him here, to me, as so often is the case.’
‘And how did you hear about the dead man?’ I said.
‘A man of this parish called at the vicarage to report the grim discovery, for I am known to take them into the Lord’s care.’ The parson came and sat by Anna again. ‘The county pays five shillings for news of any dead sighted, and I pay five more. Though I have but little in this world, I must ensure I receive word of those who need my care.’
I thought of the fine paper on the walls of the vicarage, of the good sheets we had slept upon the night before. Plenty shillings had been spent on those.
‘And when the sad news comes, I have the body brought up from the shore. More shillings, and gin, too, for the men I send with the bier are fearful of the sight that awaits them. The smell too … Sometimes it will be days, weeks even, before the sea gives up the dead. I do not begrudge the men something to help them. Were it not for the fortitude granted me by the Lord, I would have to have a nip myself.’
He didn’t seem rich in fortitude, and I thought a nip might be good for him. I would have been grateful for one myself.
‘There was nothing unusual about this body?’ Anna said. ‘Nothing to make you believe it was anything other than a sailor come to grief?’
‘Only Frederick, arriving as the bier reached the fields and spouting his nonsense.’
A movement at my feet and I started back, knocking into the hard angles of the bench end.
‘What is it?’ Anna said.
‘Something’s there – in the straw. There – see it?’
The straw was shifting about, and then I spied a scrap of brown, scuttling along. A mouse.
‘Never fear, Mrs Williams,’ the parson said, when I was only startled. ‘He will see to it.’
I thought the parson must mean the Lord but then there was a growl behind me. We all three turned to see My Most Righteous Cat poking his head out of the pulpit.
‘The pulpit is his favourite spot,’ the parson said. ‘Out of the draughts.’
The grey tabby’s gaze was fixed on the straw at my feet and with one great bound he leapt from the pulpit and lunged up the aisle. The straw before him was alive with wriggling. No wonder the cats liked t
o come to worship.
‘With tomorrow’s service we will put an end to the poor creature’s suffering,’ the parson said, and after a moment I saw that he meant the dead man, not the mouse now in the mouth of My Most Righteous Cat. ‘And my fervent hope is that Frederick will cease his mad talk and spare my wife further torment.’
He looked at each of us in turn, and gravely, so we could be in no doubt we were to stop our wondering at what had happened here.
‘It’s good of you and Mrs Hawker to have us stay,’ Anna said. ‘My wife and I have been struck by your efforts in giving a decent, Christian burial to the strangers lost upon this coast. The cost must be significant.’
He turned to face her and his expression was one of great hopefulness. ‘Oh, it is, sir! Such hardships we have faced here as a result.’
‘We would like to help,’ Anna said, ‘in some small way. My wife is part of a committee of ladies who have modest funds to distribute amongst worthy causes.’
At this, the parson leant towards me and I feared he might fall into my lap, such was his excitement.
‘What welcome news! I would be so grateful, I cannot—’
‘But before my wife writes to her committee, we should like to see the spot the poor man was discovered. To pay our respects.’
He leapt to his feet. ‘Of course! I shall take you there myself.’
‘There’s no need, Parson. You must have much to do before tomorrow’s service.’
‘It’s no hardship. I will find my hat and then—’
‘Just show us the way. I insist.’
Not wanting to risk losing this lie of money, he was forced to agree. He led the way outside. We were close to the sea, there by the church. I could taste its salty breath on my lips.
‘Over the stile here,’ the parson said, ‘and across the fields. You must bear to the left then and go on a little way. There you shall see the roof of my hut, and the path down to the shore is next to it. That’s where our unfortunate sailor was discovered. Right beneath the hut.’
‘You’ve a dwelling on the cliff?’ I said.
‘Of sorts,’ he said, and was able to smile again. The first time that morning. ‘It is where poetry dwells.’
‘You are a man of many talents, Parson,’ Anna said.
‘Oh, my talents are but modest – I would not lay claim to any great triumph, though my work is admired in some discerning quarters,’ at which he glanced at us from under not so modest eyelashes. ‘And how can one not be moved to the heavenly arts when surrounded by such beauty?’ He swept his arm before him at the fields of thin soil, the stunted trees, the unending emptiness of the sea beyond.
‘You do have quite the view,’ Anna said, and we three were silent a moment, looking out at the water that was without a ship or boat of any kind. But were there women in it?
‘Nothing between us and Labrador,’ he murmured, then turned a little to his right. ‘But when the Lord wills the sky to clear, the coast of Wales can be seen in this direction, which is only right and proper, given the sanctified ground on which we stand.’
‘There is some Welsh connection here?’ Anna said.
‘Of the most important kind, sir! A connection of saints.’
Anna lifted her eyes to heaven, which was the place of saints, for she had had enough of them.
‘Our own fair Morwenna, who has given this parish its name, is a daughter of Wales,’ the parson said, ‘daughter of King Brychan, he who had four and twenty sons and daughters.’
‘His poor wife,’ murmured Anna, but the parson was lost in the power of his tale, as I was too, truth be told, for I knew the workings of the saints to be wondrous. They could cure all manner of afflictions with their holy water, and cause them, too, if they were treated badly, as Anna would treat them without me to guide her.
‘Morwenna’s brothers and sisters came unto this land also,’ the parson said, ‘and their names are likewise hallowed. Perhaps you have heard of them?’
‘I doubt it,’ Anna muttered.
‘St Mabon is one,’ the parson said, ‘and Menfre, Yse, Cleder. Nectan too, of course. Ah, I see that you are both familiar with this last.’
‘It is known to us,’ I said. ‘The case we had before this one, it was in Trethevy, where Nectan is said to have lived.’
‘I know it well. Mrs Hawker and I visited on our honeymoon. Happier times.’ He seemed about to slip into melancholy but shook it away. ‘The waterfall there is quite remarkable.’
The waterfall – I shuddered, remembering Mathilda in the water, thrashing against the hateful soul who sought to drown her. And what came after – the creature. A chill had throbbed in my bones long after we’d left the woods, and it wasn’t from the water’s cold. It was fear. Fear at what I’d seen at the waterfall. Was it any wonder poor Mathilda had such troubled sleep?
‘I remember a little house at Trethevy,’ the parson said. ‘There in the woods. A pleasure house, built in the ruins of Nectan’s hermitage.’
‘So we heard,’ Anna said, quite scornful.
‘And did you feel Nectan’s presence at Trethevy?’
‘We certainly felt something,’ Anna muttered.
The parson clapped his hands. ‘The Lord’s glory is amongst us!’
‘One can’t seem to move without finding it in this part of the world,’ Anna said. ‘There are more saints in Cornwall than there are coaching inns.’
‘And yet the people live in darkness,’ the parson said gravely. ‘The great fornicator Wesley moves amongst them and turns them from the Lord’s light. If they would but return to the one true church they would find salvation. Here in Morwenna’s glory is where the Lord dwells, not by their own firesides. Fair Morwenna begged this land from the Saxon king Ethelwolf,’ he said, and sat on a bench beside the church, settling in for his tale. ‘She wished to bring Christian teachings to the pagans in these parts, and so she sailed across—’
‘Would you ask Mrs Hawker to forgive us missing dinner?’ Anna said, walking purposeful to the stile. ‘We’ll likely be out all afternoon.’
And she was away, striding into the wind, with me in her swell – a storm-tossed boat.
TWENTY
We went the way the parson had told us, across the field, and my thoughts were all of Mathilda. It was the parson and his talk of the waterfall. The memory of her fighting for her life, nearly losing her, made my heart beat faster than was good for me. Was she well, back in Boscastle? Was she happy? Did she fear we’d left her behind for ever, that we wouldn’t return? If she should worry even for a moment, my sweet girl, I would be ashamed. I had to send word to her. I had to make Anna help me.
‘What a view!’ Anna said.
We’d come to the end of the field and there the world fell, for the field lay on the top of cliffs, the stony shore far below, so far I thought my insides would purge and I found I was on my knees, my hands like claws gripping the roots of the grass. The sea was loud here, even though it was distant, for it was all a-churn, the blue of it sent white and foamy, and where it smashed itself against the stones of the beach it hissed and snarled.
‘It might be better if you went back to the vicarage,’ Anna said.
I made myself stand, kept my eyes from the edge. ‘I’ll be all right. Just don’t leave me.’
‘As if I would! Here’s the path, look, that the parson said we should follow. Take my arm. I’ll go on the outside, nearest the water, then you’ve no fear of falling in.’
I nodded, but it wasn’t fear of falling that sent me so trembly. It was the fear I might jump. God help me if my name was called.
On we went, our arms together, as if we were on some goodly stroll rather than going to see the place a corpse was found.
I kept my gaze on my boots, but Anna was able to look over the edge.
‘I can see why ships fear this coast,’ she said. ‘There’s not a good landing spot for miles. Only the unforgiving cliffs, unbroken. And those rocks on the shore … My word. Shilly – y
ou’ll have to look at this.’
With her arm locked in mine, I risked a glance, and saw the terror Mr Good had spoken of, that he had been so sure had killed the man who lay in the deadhouse. And now I saw why Mr Good was so sure, and the parson, too. Captain Ians’ belief that the rocks were not to blame seemed to burn away like sea fog on a warm day.
This coast was set with razors.
They reached out from the cliff face, these black knives, their sharp ends pointed at the sea and at those seeking safety from the waves. So many of them, all different lengths but all of them black and terrible. All of them death.
‘This must be the hut,’ Anna said.
A thickety bush, some kind of thorn, grew at the edge of the field in which we stood, and in it were wooden planks laid flat – a roof? We went closer and there were steps that led from the path, over the cliff edge.
Before I could stop her, Anna went down the steps, and vanished.
I had to call her twice before she stuck her head out of the thorn.
‘The way is perfectly safe,’ she said. ‘Just don’t rush.’
As if that was likely. I crawled to the steps, then went down them backwards, not trusting the burden of myself to go upright. Not trusting anything about the dreadful rock knives so far below, the sea waiting beyond them.
‘There, you’ve done it,’ Anna said, and took me by the elbow to make me stand again.
We were beside a curious building fashioned from planks – plank roof, plank walls, a door of planks. It was built so that the roof was just below the level of the cliff top, and it hunkered into the thorn around it. But that could give no shelter, surely, for the wind came straight at us, and the air was salty from the sea’s breath upon it.
Anna opened the door to the hut and we peered inside. It was a neat little room, all dark wood inside, as without, and a bench running on the three sides that weren’t the doorway.
‘So this is where the parson pens his poems,’ Anna said.
‘And waits for the dead.’
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