Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  ***

  Jenny was sitting up in her bed, listening to her iPod as I walked in. She smiled, pulling the wires from her ears. “Hi, Dad,” she said breezily. “Guess who I’m listening to?”

  I shrugged. “I’m guessing it has to be something you downloaded.”

  “Yeah, ages ago—when you got me into that swing stuff. I’d forgotten about it.”

  Given the fact that Jenny’s iPod could hold about three months’ worth of continuous music, it wasn’t hard to believe.

  “Tony Bennett rocks!” she said with a wide grin. It appeared that my encounter with Victoria Pascoe had been forgotten. “Do you reckon he’s better than Frank?”

  I shook my head. “Hey, girl, watch your mouth. Sinatra is the King!”

  Jenny laughed and tucked her iPod under the pillow. I’d not seen her so upbeat for a long time, but somehow her mood unnerved me.

  “You’re looking well,” I said airily.

  My daughter shrugged as if she didn’t really understand it herself. “I’ve been talking to Dr. Grace today. You know, about Amelia and all that stuff.”

  “About Allington and the mad woman?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “And what did she say?”

  “Nothing, really. Just asked more questions about my dreams and wrote things down.”

  “But you felt good, just talking?”

  “She believed me, Dad. She doesn’t think I’m going crazy.”

  “She said that?”

  “No. She didn’t need to. I sensed it. No, I knew it. Don’t ask me how.”

  I smiled. “That’s great, Jen. Let’s hope she has some clout when it comes to getting you out of this place.”

  We talked some more about Frank and Tony, and I promised to introduce her to Dean Martin sometime soon. I left her with spring-heeled shoes and a dancing heart, convinced that our luck had changed and Ellen Pascoe would complete the jigsaw leading us to Amelia Root.

  ***

  I called the old girl the following morning, just to check that our meeting was still on. It wasn’t. “I can’t help you, Mr. Adams. My heart aches every time I think of the poor man who lost his wife and little girl. It was my boy—my grandson.” The old woman’s voice sounded suddenly frail. “I could not bear to look at you when I still have love in my heart for the boy who caused you so much pain.”

  I tried to reason with her. “But I could never blame you, Mrs. Pascoe. How could any grandparent stop loving their grandchildren?” My words echoed in my head, hollow platitudes that seemed destined to fail.

  Ellen Pascoe sounded tired, as if my very name had been a weight in her heart. “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams,” she said. The silence that followed left me with no option but to apologise for bothering her and hang up.

  Dead ends. I hated them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Over the week that followed, Jenny slept soundly at night, untroubled by dreams of any kind. She seemed relaxed and happy, spending her days listening to music and reading a chic-lit novel.

  Josie invited me over to the local church hall to watch her run through a set with the old band she used to sing with. “Not sure when it’s going to be, hun, but I just want you to tell me if I’ve still got what it takes,” she said with an air of confidence that suggested she had no real doubts.

  The invitation lifted my spirits, and that evening, I picked up a bottle of Argentinean white at the local late shop. The day had been mild, with not even the hint of a cloud in the sky. I missed Elizabeth and Hanna so much on these days. We would go walking together along the local footpaths with a picnic stuffed into a backpack.

  I sat out late that night and fired up the patio heater, listening to the water trickling into the pond I’d built as soon as Hanna had reached an age where she understood the dangers of even the smallest expanse of water.

  By ten-thirty, the sounds and the smells of autumn evenings had stopped, leaving me alone in my own world. The garden had been designed for this. Peaceful days and silent nights. I sat with my bottle of chilled wine, staring over a lawn lit only by the moon and a few garden lights, thinking through the past few months and wondering what lay in store.

  I had never understood the supernatural or, if I’m honest, ever had any desire to investigate its role in our lives. People who immersed themselves in such things seemed to see spirits everywhere they looked. I didn’t. Maybe that was why I was so convinced by what I witnessed that night.

  It was eleven thirty, and despite being three-quarters through my bottle of wine, I felt stone-cold sober. I sat back and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to drift away from the turbulence of life into an unusually peaceful state. When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring at a tree in the neighbouring garden. The only thing I knew about this tree was its size; it was large enough to cast a shadow across our lawn every sunny summer afternoon.

  Now, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, it had taken on a different shape. I saw the profile of a woman’s face. She was old, her hair tied in a bun. The forehead was long and the eyes deep set, the nose straight and the mouth…I stared. The mouth was open wide and moving in a wind that didn’t exist. In my mind, I heard the wail of anguish that wrenched at my soul. I knew this woman. I knew her even though I’d never set eyes on her in my life. It was Ellen Pascoe.

  That night I dreamed. I saw the shape of the old woman’s face in the tree again. Water dripped from the branches, leaving pools that reflected the moonlight from a cloudless sky. Even now, with the passing of time, I can recall the image vividly. When I called Ellen the following day, to ask her to reconsider her decision, I knew she would agree to see me. She sounded tired and almost on the verge of tears. The call was brief. She agreed to see me that evening, anytime after seven.

  I spent the day in the garden, staring at a tree which now appeared to have no shape whatsoever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ellen Pascoe peered round the narrow gap between the front door and its frame. “Mr. Adams?” she enquired in a frail voice. The old lady dropped the chain and opened the door.

  Darren Pascoe’s grandmother stood no more than five foot with a shock of thinning grey hair tied into a bun. I saw the same forehead, the same nose, but now the mouth formed a wistful smile. She looked every one of her eighty-eight years, yet there was a youthfulness in her manner that time had not dimmed.

  “Do come in,” she said, waving me through to a narrow hallway that was somewhat overpowered by a heavily patterned blue, gold and red carpet. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.” She pointed through an open doorway to her left. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Mrs. Pascoe motored on with her Zimmer and disappeared into the narrow kitchen facing us as I walked into an Aladdin’s cave of porcelain ornaments lining every surface of a cluttered room. The walls were lined with photographs and old prints in yellowing frames. A youthful Benjamin Pascoe smiled down at us in his cap and gown, next to some old photos of a young child—Benjamin, I presumed.

  The prints protected my eyes from a hideous flock wallpaper that looked like a surplus stock from a local pub. I scanned the walls, looking for clues of which I found none, apart from a couple of small pencil sketches of a tree-lined pond.

  Mrs. Pascoe popped her head around the door. “Tea’s ready. Would you mind getting your own?”

  I sat down with our mugs of milky warm tea, wondering if it would be possible to leave without drinking it.

  “Mrs. Pascoe, I’m really sorry to bother you,” I began, “but I thought you might be able to shed some light on the family history.”

  Ellen Pascoe smiled. “Well, dear, I’ll certainly try. What is it you want to know?”

  The old lady peered through her bifocals, her eyes unnervingly magnified by the angle of her head.

  “I know this might seem a strange request,” I began, “so I might as well tell you the whole story, right from the start. At least then you’ll understand exactly why I’m here.”

  Mrs. Pascoe nodded s
lowly. “That would help, dear.”

  Bright as a button! I thought.

  ***

  I began on the day my wife and child lost their lives before moving on a year to Jenny and the nightmares. As the story unfolded, I saw the change in the old woman’s expression. The look of mild interest disappeared, and her eyes grew dark. I told her how the Reverend Francis had called us from St. Jude’s. I told her about the graffiti and the discovery that the word hypocrite was, in fact, referring to Reverend Allington.

  The old lady’s eyes closed as she shook her head but said nothing. When she looked back up at me I continued, explaining how we had traced Allington’s ancestry in our quest to discover the link between Jenny and the spirit of a dead woman.

  Mrs. Pascoe shifted in her chair, her hands crossed neatly on her lap. “Well, you certainly have been through the mill, my dear,” she said. “But I’m not sure how I can help. I might have some old photos, but I don’t think that they would tell you much.”

  I knew the woman was lying. “I’m sorry to impose, Mrs. Pascoe, but we’re desperate—”

  “This woman,” the old lady said, interrupting me mid-flow. “The one in the dream. Does she have a name?”

  “Amelia Root,” I replied.

  Ellen froze, and the colour drained from her face.

  “Are you okay?” I asked nervously.

  “Yes! Yes!” she replied, quickly composing herself.

  “Mrs. Pascoe… That name…it means something to you, doesn’t it?”

  Ellen nodded, her hands trembling. “I have something you need to see,” she said, rising unsteadily from her chair and shuffling across the room before exiting without a word.

  ***

  The old lady had been gone some time, and when she finally returned and pushed an envelope into my hand, there was sadness in her eyes. “No one at St. Jude’s must ever hear about this,” she said. “I beg you.”

  There was no threat in her voice, and I could do nothing less than give her my word. I looked down at the old envelope.

  “It is a letter my own mother left me,” she said. “Along with a letter from my grandmother…”

  It read simply: Dear Ellen. To be opened after my death.

  I pulled out a letter, beautifully written and filling two pages. Within the envelope was another one, smaller and addressed: To Louisa. Upon my death.

  I pulled out my glasses and, with the room now eerily silent, began to read.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My dearest Ellen,

  I have considered, many times, revealing the contents of this letter face-to-face, yet I feel that the printed word will, in effect, carry more weight. Much that needs to be said is within the letter my own mother left for me, and you will find this enclosed. Please do not read it until you have considered my own requests.

  Your great-grandfather lies interned at St. Jude’s, beneath the statue of St. Peter. He was a much respected man who founded the church school and provided an education for many children who would otherwise have grown up illiterate.

  I only remember that those around the parish remember him with affection, considering him to be a true and righteous man. Hence I, as his granddaughter, lived my life, striving to keep his memory alive through my own dedication to the work of God, and in many ways, I considered that he might have approved of my life.

  I was a small girl of about eight when I heard my grandmother, Mary, sobbing in the company of my own mother, who discovered me listening on the other side of the door. She scolded me and I was sent to my room immediately. However, in the days that followed, I noticed that my mother’s disposition had changed, and she talked little, often waving me away when I approached her, telling me that young girls should not be so inquisitive. I saw little of her after that and learned nothing of their dark secret until the day she died.

  You are now free to read the letter I read many years ago and would request of you the same that she, my own mother, requested of me, should God bless you with children. I beg of you this one thing.

  Your Mother, Louisa.

  Mrs. Pascoe sat, impassively, watching as I opened the next envelope. The writing was large and sloped, heavily suggesting that Rebecca might have been shortsighted.

  Dearest Louisa and Thomas,

  You are, and will remain, my beloved children, and I consider it my duty before God that I, Rebecca Laycock, wife of Joseph Laycock, reveal the truth of your ancestry.

  As you know, I was raised by Mary Allington, wife of Charles Allington, who was the long-serving minister at St. Jude’s, a man considered by many to be a saint. One day, my mother came to me in great distress and informed me that she had lived with a terrible knowledge for many years. Sometimes, I wished she had never shared that knowledge.

  For months before my birth, my mother had long suspected that her husband had been attracted to the young school governess employed by the wealthy Stanwick family at The Grange, after his not infrequent and unnecessary visits to their home. She had confided in her own mother, still living in Ireland, writing several letters, but received no comfort in reply.

  The Stanwicks were not God-fearing people, and rarely attended church, but my father claimed that they were generous and made many donations to God’s work, hence his visits. My mother’s fears were allayed and the letters to her mother ceased. However, God had not blessed them with the child they longed for, and my father was beside himself with rage. Why should a servant of God be treated thus? He blamed my mother, claiming her sins, whatever they had been, had left her barren. His absences from the house grew longer and longer until one day, he asked my mother to come to his study. He had some good news.

  “We can have a child,” he told her. My mother, quite naturally asked how this could be. “To the world outside, it will be our child. No one knows of your inability to conceive. You will feign pregnancy and remain out of sight until I bring the baby home.”

  My mother believed that this was the will of God, an answer to prayer, and that to question such was to insult the Lord himself. So she waited the term, venturing out only when necessary, until the night my father arrived home with a local doctor and baby girl, swaddled in a blanket.

  “This is Dr. Ellis,” he announced. “Dr. Ellis delivered your baby tonight.”

  With that, he placed me, a three-hour old child, in my mother’s arms.

  I cannot imagine how she felt, but she loved me from that moment, having convinced herself that I was a gift from the Almighty.

  It was ten years later that a woman arrived at the door of the manse in a state of distress. She quickly introduced herself as Sarah Bell, governess to the Stanwick family, and my mother, concerned that the woman might require spiritual guidance, invited her in.

  The woman revealed that she had carried a dark secret with her for many years and now, unable to live with the guilt of compliance, had wished to unburden her soul. She handed her a letter, several pages in length. “Please read it,” she said. “For I fear that I should not be able to tell my story without a great deal of distress, so I have chosen to write.”

  The woman left, refusing to put a foot over the doorstep. My mother handed me the letter and sat in silence as I read it. I cannot tell you how wretched I felt when I learned the truth. The man I believed to be my father—a man who had been respected and loved. I wept for days, taking to my bed and refusing the food my mother offered me. I had no appetite. Even as I write this, my heart is heavy.

  Your Mother, Rebecca.

  “Where are you up to?” Mrs. Pascoe asked.

  “The governess is about to tell her tale,” I muttered.

  “This is the part you won’t believe,” she said, handing me another letter while peering into my half-empty mug. “I’ll fetch some more tea.”

  Sarah Bell’s account was written on bonded white paper with pale fading ink, almost as if it had been watered down.

  “I would make yourself comfortable,” the old lady said, pulling herself to her feet. �
�I have shorter novels in my possession!”

  She had a point. The letter was several pages long. I began to read.

  My name is Sarah Bell, a woman compelled to document the truth that I have lived with for so long. I am guilty of silence and compliance. These are sins for which I have begged God’s forgiveness and the reason I am writing this letter. I could talk of my time with the Stanwicks for many hours, yet my words would die with me, forgotten in time. I cannot allow this to be and beg you to preserve this letter, allowing it to be passed down through the generations. The reason for this request, you will understand as you read on.

  I was raised by a strict mother and a prudent father who, despite longing for a son, treated me well and invested heavily in my education. I taught at the local school before taking up the position of governess at The Grange in the employment of the wealthy Stanwick family.

  I was made most welcome by Harriet Stanwick, the lady of the house, an immaculate and handsome woman who introduced me to Clara, her daughter, informing me that this was the young lady in my charge. Clara stood, resplendent in a blue velvet dress with exquisite lace cuffs. She had inherited her mother’s fairness of face but I was told that she was preoccupied with much that would hinder her education and would require a firm hand.

  I saw little of Mr. Stanwick, a large man with heavy jowls and dark eyes that seemed to lack any trace of human kindness. He made no effort to welcome me. Indeed, I was a servant and not worthy of his attention. I could see nothing of him in his daughter.

  Clara proved to be a delightful child but was indeed boisterous by nature and would beg me to take her to the woods were she would run and hide from me, giggling incessantly. We would retire to the drawing room for lessons but Clara was tireless and lacked concentration. I would often retire, and take to my bed, weary from my efforts.

  I was, however, happy at The Grange and Mrs. Stanwick would spend much of her leisure time with me, often treating me as a sister rather than an employed hand. One particular day, during one of Mr. Stanwick’s frequent prolonged absences, she took me into her confidence.