And now I was to work for him, live in his house, come into daily contact with my sisters!
At first, of course, only Marianne was at home; Juliana, I understood, was convalescing with a relative. While I got to know one half-sister, I eagerly awaited the return of the other; and in June she came home. I, of course, was ready to believe whatever I was told. Now, it is abundantly clear that both girls had been scared into silence by their father, for never a hint was given of the real circumstances. As for me, I played my role to such perfection that I am quite certain no one in the house has ever guessed at my motives. In fact, I should have found them hard to explain, even to myself. You must remember, Samuel, that I have never known a family of my own; have never had sister or brother, though I longed for them. And here were two charming young women who not only accepted me, but needed me; the loss of their mother was still raw and shocking. As you cannot help but notice, Juliana has come to depend on me - more than is healthy for her, I fear. I am almost mother to my own sister. Relationships, as you see, are somewhat confused in this household.
But the dependency is twofold. Juliana depends on me; I depend on her, and on Marianne, and on my role here. I have become the person everyone believes me to be, and I can be no one else. I cannot bear the thought of separation from my sisters. Especially now that - now that - everything has changed, Samuel, even before tonight - I - I hardly know—
Yes, so much to— I cannot believe—
Thank you. Thank you, Samuel. I cannot tell you how much your friendship means to me.
Yes, it used to be my amusement to imagine myself living here as his rightful daughter; to think of how things might have been if my mother had been his social equal, and if he had been older when they fell in love. Still, by coming here and making myself useful, I have earned his respect, and shaped my life around his. At last I have found a place where I am needed and wanted. I have taken pleasure in observing his habits, in getting to know his tastes and his preferences, in finding him reserved and melancholy as befitted a man who had so recently lost his wife; a man who spent hours by himself, who kept a quiet watch over his daughters and their well-being; a man of dignity and feeling. Almost, you might think, I fell in love with him myself: fell in love with my father, and could not have wanted a better.
But now all is changed - I have found out—
- Yes, yes - I hardly know how to - the poor girls—
- Yes, my discoveries have irrevocably changed my view of him - I cannot bear to see him, to think of— And now? Now I do not know what is to become of us, any of us - for I have killed him, for Juliana, for all of us.
I have killed our father.
Chapter Thirty-one
The West Wind
I could not sleep. I made only a token gesture of lying on my bed; but was soon astir, unable to slow the racing of my brain, and the whirlwind of impressions that fought for dominance.
Standing at my open bedroom door, I listened for sounds of restlessness elsewhere in the house, but heard only the wind, whose temper gradually abated to fitful gusts. Charlotte had looked in on Marianne and Juliana before retiring to bed; she confirmed that both - restored by hot baths and warm drinks - were sleeping quietly. No creak of floorboard from Charlotte’s room betrayed wakefulness there, either. Stepping quietly out to the gallery, I stood by the railings, looking down at the closed door of Mr Farrow’s bedroom. There was a terrible absence, a void - for a moment I fancied that, without Mr Farrow at its centre, the house, fragile as a blown egg, would crack its shell and fly apart, sending us all spinning out into darkness, to the four winds.
Gripping the railing, I thought of his poor wife, Constance, releasing her hold on life, letting herself fall. From what Charlotte had told me, and from what I had already discovered, I knew that Ernest Farrow had driven his wife to her death as surely as he had abused his daughter. I should feel no sympathy for him; I should be glad he had drowned. And yet I could not shake off a sense of loss that only added to my bewilderment.
Activity was the only means of ignoring the turmoil in my head. As soon as day began to break, I dressed - indeed, there had been little point in undressing -and let myself out of the house. I was determined that, in order to avoid additional distress for the girls, I must find Mr Farrow’s body myself. Or, maybe, I wanted to assure myself that he was dead - for I could not believe it, could not let myself assume that his tough and resilient spirit would have given in so easily. If, though, he had drowned in the lake, I must convince Charlotte that the responsibility was not hers; or at least not hers alone. Had I not thrust him away myself, with more than necessary force?
Low cloud loured; the sky was grey and wind-tossed; the willows swayed, lashing the water. Reluctantly I made myself approach the jetty, and walk out. The rowing boat was moored there, where Charlotte had left it; I looked along the banks in both directions, but saw nothing. Incongruously, from somewhere in the trees beyond the boathouse, a nightingale was pouring out its full-throated song: a song of choking plaintiveness and yearning. In ordinary circumstances I would have stopped to listen, tried to see the unremarkable little bird that produced such mesmerizing music. But now I tried to close my ears, and to think about what I must do.
The pit of my stomach chilled with the dread that had seized me before, for I knew that I should have to enter the lake again, dive under the cold waters and search for a body in the murk. Maybe I need not? Maybe it would be better to wait until full daylight, and enlist the help of Reynolds and the stableboy? But this excuse failed to convince even myself.
Hesitating, about to take off my clothes, I glanced back towards the house, and was disconcerted to see a figure approaching. Marianne! Clearly she was not sleepwalking this time, but hurrying across the grass; she had seen me. She was in her nightgown, clutching as she ran at the peacock shawl thrown over her shoulders. I hastened towards her, afraid of some new disaster; but, to my surprise, her face was radiant with gladness.
‘You will find him now, Samuel, won’t you?’ she called, still several yards away. ‘I knew! I knew you would, if I waited - and now I see! He is there - let me show you! I can take you to the exact spot.’
Not understanding, I looked at her in concern. ‘Why did you not say so last night?’
‘Last night?’ she said, puzzled. For a moment I wondered if she had lost all recall of the traumatic events; but she went on: ‘It was too dark to see. But that is why you have come, surely?’
‘Of course!’
Giving me a strange look, she walked purposefully to the pier, where I had stood a few moments earlier.
She waited for me to catch up; then pointed out into the lake. ‘There. There you will find him. I must have known it, mustn’t I? All this time! Yet I had quite forgotten, until last night. How odd, the knowledge we conceal from ourselves!’ She laughed, looking quite untroubled. ‘I slept so well, Samuel - at last! -and awoke so refreshed! I did not think I had dreamed, and yet in my dream I saw him here. And, hark, Samuel! A nightingale - oh, how beautifully she sings! There, now all will be well. It must bring good luck, must it not, to hear a nightingale?’
I could not follow her at all; but this was no time to question her.
‘I will do it,’ I told her; ‘but first I want you to go back indoors. I would rather you were not here - it will distress you.’
‘No! No! I must be here, to guide you. Do hurry - it is cold.’
Unable to strip off my clothes in front of Marianne, I discarded only my jacket, necktie and boots. It was bravado that made me dive from the jetty, instead of wading in as I had done previously, for I was unsure how deep the water was here, or how weedy. After last night, though, and my desperate struggles in the darkness, the shock of immersion was mild. I swam out a few feet and looked round at Marianne.
‘There! There!’ she cried, pointing. It was hard to discern exactly where she meant, but I followed her instructions as closely as I could, and when she called out, ‘Dive, Samuel - now, ther
e!’ I did so. I expected to find nothing, for how could she be so certain? But something loomed below me, something horribly human in shape; I pushed against the pressure of water and reached out both arms, grabbing what was undeniably a human arm, stiff to my touch beneath its cladding of cloth. I turned it towards me, saw the face, and immediately released my grip, making for the surface; there I gasped for air, ignoring Marianne’s cries, and prepared for a second dive. I had seen enough to convince myself that this was indeed Mr Farrow, but I must look again at the horrible sight -at the bloated face, the mouth open, the hands reaching out hopelessly to grasp only water - to see what it was that held the corpse fast. Surely, otherwise, it would have floated free?
I remembered my own panic when I felt myself gripped and entangled by weed. My grisly task must now be to free the corpse and lug it to the shore; but I could not attempt this with Marianne watching. I swam a few yards towards her, and called: ‘He - it -is there, your father’s body, just as you said. I am sorry. It seems he became entrapped underwater.’
Her reaction was quite astonishing. ‘My father? My father’s body?’ Both hands flew to her mouth. ‘What? Father - is he dead, then? Oh - what can have happened? Did we forget him?’
She seemed unable to support herself; she crouched, seemed likely to topple. Afraid that she might fall into the lake, I swam fast towards her and scrambled out. Never, never would I understand this girl; never would I fathom what went on in her mind.
Soaking as I was, I took her arm. ‘Come, Marianne,’
I said gently, urging her to her feet, ‘I thought you understood. You must come back to the house now. Charlotte will take care of you.’
I gathered up her shawl, wrapped it around her and supported her with my arm, leading her off the jetty. Stopping, she turned to gaze at me. ‘My father is dead?’ she repeated. ‘Dead, and in the lake?’ She gave a childish giggle. ‘Did you say that?’
‘Yes. I am very sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ She looked at me and laughed. ‘Why should you be sorry?’
‘Marianne! I don’t think you can have grasped—’
‘Yes! I understand. He is dead - drowned!’ She turned her face up to the sky and shook back her hair; her expression was wild, elated. ‘Now I can breathe. Now we are free! I do understand, Samuel - I understand perfectly. But do you?’
Gazing at her in wonderment, I shook my head slowly; for maybe I knew more than she realized. ‘I am not sure, Marianne. What is your question?’
‘Then I must ask you again. Tell you.’ Almost skipping, she pulled me round to face her, holding both my hands in hers. ‘Sam! We are free! We can be happy. You won’t go away, will you? Now, when we can live as we wish?’ Her eyes, not quite green, not quite blue, held mine in a blend of exultation and pleading; her nails bit into the palm of my hand; she gave a strange, mirthless giggle.
I stood very still, feeling myself on the brink of a declaration.
Of course I shall never leave you, Marianne. How could I, when I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life?
These words remained unspoken. Never had I desired more strongly to take her in my arms, to kiss and caress her, to pour forth my love and longing; and her posture seemed to invite it. However, I stood silent and undecided. In her face I read desperation, I read triumph; I feared madness, and in that instant I was afraid of her.
Only with an effort could I avert my eyes from hers. As I looked away, I saw a grey-clad figure advancing towards us from the lawn - Charlotte. Quickly I released Marianne’s grip on my hands.
She followed my glance. ‘Oh, now here’s Charlotte.’ She took two paces back and drew her shawl around her. ‘She will see to everything. She always does.’
I was vastly relieved, for I had no idea how to deal with Marianne. Charlotte, who must have been amazed to see me soaked and dripping yet again, and Marianne in deshabille, hurried over the rough grass. ‘What has happened?’ she asked urgently, no doubt fearing that Marianne had walked in her sleep.
‘Take care of her - she is very deeply shocked. Keep her indoors,’ I told Charlotte in an undertone. ‘I shall be back very soon.’
Charlotte gave me a quick, meaningful glance, but said nothing. She took charge of Marianne, who shivered, and giggled in that peculiar, unsettling way. Hurriedly I returned to the lake, anxious that I should not find the body again. Indeed, once in and swimming, it took me several minutes of casting around; I tried to remember exactly where Marianne had stood, and where she had pointed, and came again at last to the dreadful sight. I filled my lungs with air, upended myself and struck down, seeing now that both the corpse’s feet were thickly entangled in weed, and that under its dark mass some bulky object lay on the lake-bed, wrapped in tarpaulin and tied with rope. Groping, tugging at the slippery weed, I saw what must have happened - one of Mr Farrow’s feet had become caught beneath the rope. He would of course have kicked for freedom, but succeeded only in enmeshing himself in the weed. He could not have struggled for long, exhausted from his efforts, before the water choked him.
I had to surface. The relief of clean air filling my lungs, of the chill grey morning, the cluck of some water bird! Yet I must go again into the depths, must probe again, must free the poor corpse and bring it to light.
This time, till my chest was almost bursting, I scrabbled at the tarpaulin, succeeding in loosening it a little from its bonds.
My exploring hand touched stone, and in that instant I knew what I had found.
The West Wind.
The West Wind.
The stone figure of the West Wind.
This was what Marianne had meant. How could she know? And having known, how could she have forgotten?
Here it lay - had lain all this while - where Mr Farrow himself must have committed it to the water!
I tugged and tore at the restraining weed, released the corpse’s foot from the rope, and he was free. Grasping the body under both arms, as if pulling an imperilled swimmer to safety, I dragged him to the surface, and then to the shore. He was almost too heavy for me to manage alone; I had to leave him close to the edge, lodged in rushes. A gruesome sight indeed; but I must hurry, and make sure that no one strayed down here to see it unawares. I looked once at the bloated, terrible face, and wished I had not.
I hastened back to the house. There was much to do.
Chapter Thirty-two
Gargoyle
It was the strangest day I had ever known. There was much to do, and many visitors to the house, and all manner of questions to be asked and answered; yet I passed through the hours with numbed senses, as though not quite party to my own thoughts and actions.
After Samuel returned with the news that he had found both Mr Farrow’s body and the missing West Wind, we set about summoning a police officer, a coroner and the family solicitor. Although I did my best to spare Juliana and Marianne from being too closely involved in the proceedings, it was inevitable that they had to answer questions from the police officer. The death had to be registered; the body was retrieved, examined, and later consigned to the mortuary in Staverton. There would be an inquest, of course; I could not think about that yet, for I dreaded to contemplate what honesty might compel me to reveal. The body could not be released for burial until the coroner had made his pronouncement.
Meanwhile, Juliana was my most urgent concern; for I feared that she had planned to take her own life, and that she, not her father, might have been pulled from the lake as a lifeless corpse. There could be no avoiding the truth; seeking her alone in her room, I told her all that I knew and suspected. Suffice it to say that many tears were shed, and an observer might have thought that our grief for the dead man was quite unlimited. I had not yet told her, of course, that although she had lost a father, she had gained a sister: that must wait.
‘I loved him, Charlotte,’ Juliana confided, ‘even though I hated him as well. Does that sound possible? And now all I feel is bafflement - it is too big, too sudden to understand. How c
an a person be with us one day, then so abruptly vanished? I cannot grasp it - cannot get the simple fact into my brain, that he is dead. Where is he now, Charlotte? Where has he gone?’
I could provide no answer. Juliana was the churchgoer, the believer; I went with her merely as a matter of form. I did not know where our father had gone. For his sake, I must surely hope there was no after-life; that his spirit as well as his life had been suffocated and extinguished, there on the lake-bed. If a vengeful God dealt out justice to departed souls, what torments would repay such wickedness? I shuddered, unable to contemplate it. My father was gone; his life had ended; and with it, I hoped, the worst of Juliana’s sufferings.
We were interrupted by Alice, who told us that a messenger had brought a note for Miss Farrow, and that an immediate reply was requested. Juliana dried her tears, and made herself presentable, and we went downstairs.
The messenger was a young man on horseback, bringing a note from the family solicitor, Mr Jessop. Reading the letter, Juliana looked puzzled; she passed it to me.
Dear Miss Farrow, I read,
Following my brief visit this morning, let me convey once more my sincere condolences to you and your family I mentioned then that I had seen your father only recently, with reference to the terms of his Will In this connection, I should like to request a meeting with you and your sister, before the funeral takes place. The formal reading of the Will conventionally takes place after the funeral, but there are matters I should prefer to discuss privately beforehand with you and your sister, which I should not like you to hear for the first time in the presence of Mr Farrow’s extended family Would it be convenient for me to call on you this afternoon, at four o’clock I should be grateful if you would send your reply immediately by return.
Yours most sincerely
Harold Jessop
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