The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  Joseph, standing to his side now, could see the rider nearing the yard, and there were a number of birds hanging from his saddle. Bright glanced at him: ‘I wonder what it’s like to be ostracised,’ he said. ‘The hunt’s got too hot for him. At times I have felt I could be sorry for him, but only at times, and then the time was short. You know, from boy to man he was selfish, and I found him out to be a liar even as a child. The servants were blamed for things they never did. There was only one period during which he seemed to be different, and that was when he was courting the mistress. Then of a sudden that ended. We had an old coachman here, and he always said Mr Lionel was a sprig of his grandfather, who had been a rake.’

  Bright sighed, and was about to turn away but swung back to Joseph and, his finger wagging in his admonitory manner, he said, ‘Your ears were as open as mine this morning and you’ll be asking yourself questions about what you heard. Now I advise you to forget that episode and don’t repeat any of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Bright drew himself upwards now and actually bristled as he repeated again, ‘Why? Because, young man, it’s none of your business.’

  ‘How do you know it isn’t?’

  Bright’s eyes widened. He poked his head forward; then his face screwed up, and now he was peering at Joseph, and the words came from under his breath, saying, ‘Who are you, anyway? I’ve always had my doubts about you. Do you mean mischief? You are not the usual type who does work like this. I’ve known it from the beginning. Now I ask you, why have you come here? Who are you?’

  Joseph stared back at him for a moment. ‘I am Joseph Carter,’ he said. ‘I told you, and I came here because I wanted a job, a different kind of job. Perhaps just to see how the other half lived, as the saying goes.’

  Bright stepped back from him, his face still holding a look of puzzled enquiry. But then he drew in a long deep breath and, pointing to the drawer again, said, ‘Well, get on with it,’ then he went out of the room but not into the bedroom.

  Joseph did not immediately get on with it, as bidden, but returned to the window and looked down onto the drive. He could picture the man on the horse, a gun slung across his shoulder, the pheasants hanging from the pommel. Then, as if the thought had probed him with a sharp instrument, he turned and looked towards the closed bedroom door. That case. His gaze swung back to the bottom drawer from where he had taken the case…a gun case? A pistol case? A revolver case? He recalled seeing something like it in a magic lantern slide dealing with a pirate story. But a gun. Where could he hide a gun? That was an impossibility. He made a movement towards the drawer; then stopped. What excuse could he give to Bright should he come upon him handling that case? Bright would certainly know all about its presence there. He looked towards the door again. Should he play safe and tell Bright? No, no; he had promised. But what he must do was get his hands underneath that feather tick, because if there was any place for a gun it would be there, and that would be the only place. He couldn’t, though, do anything until tomorrow.

  But what if he meant to use it tonight?

  Eight

  Tomorrow was here, and he put his hand under the feather tick and groped, but could find nothing. He even, supposedly by accident, pulled the bolster away and was rewarded for his stupidity by a reprimand from Bright and a growl from the master, saying, ‘Do you both intend to keep me stuck up here like a wooden dolly?’

  So another day passed; and more days passed, and he had to come to the conclusion that the old man couldn’t have taken anything out of that case. Then there came a Friday, a certain Friday, when he found out differently.

  It had been raining for the past twenty-four hours. Part of the drive was flooded; it was impossible to work in the garden, even in the greenhouses; and so Henrietta had, for the past two days, been confined almost entirely to her room, which was situated next to her mother’s bedroom.

  She stood now looking through the bleared window pane in the direction of the garden, which she couldn’t make out through the slanting, wind-driven rain, and after a while, sighing, she turned once more to the easy chair that was set close to a small fireplace, in which a fire dully glowed. She was wearing a shawl over her woollen dress and she pulled it tightly around her neck as she sat down; then she took up a book from a table to the side of her and idly flicked the pages, because she knew the story by heart. It was about a princess who was so sensitive that she could detect a pea while lying on top of a number of mattresses, and it ended that because of her sensitivity she was chosen to be the wife of the prince, and so lived happily ever after…What could happy ever after mean when one wasn’t happy now?

  What was happy? What did happy mean? The feeling that she had when sitting near her mama? Or when she was digging in the garden? Oh, yes, yes, when she was digging in the garden, not just picking out seedlings but actually digging. Her hands now left the book and took on the position of holding a spade, and when she dug it to the side of her, she told herself, yes, when she was holding the spade, pushing it into the ground, pushing, pushing hard…Yes, hard. Again she made the movements with her hands as if digging.

  Her grandfather was nice, but he was very old. When would she be old?

  She liked whist. And that young man. Yes, yes; he was kind. She liked his eyes. He was kind, and his hand was gentle. Yes, she liked him.

  But she didn’t like…Her thoughts stopped suddenly and she put her hands to her head and rocked from side to side now. There were noises in there. Why were there always noises in there? When she thought of her father they grew louder, screeching, screaming. She hated him. Her hands came from her head now and she was digging once more to the side of her, thrusting the spade into the imaginary ground.

  Abruptly she rose to her feet. She felt ill, not nice, when she thought of him. He was bad. He was going to send her away from her mama. He always said that…His mouth was big and wide when he said he would lock her up. When had he first said he would lock her up? From the day he called her by her new name: not Henrietta but idiot.

  Idiot!

  She didn’t like that, the way his lips stretched when they said idiot. It was bad. Was she bad?

  Oh, she would have to walk. She could not go into her mama, for her mama was resting. She was very tired again. She would go and look at the pictures in the gallery. No. No. Better not, not that way. No, she would go along the corridor to her grandpapa’s room and they would play cribbage. But if he was too tired as well, the young man would play with her. They would be quiet and sit in the far corner; they had done that the other day.

  She pulled the shawl around her, opened the door, went into the corridor, then turned and closed the door quietly. But she had taken only two steps when, at the far end, coming out of her grandpapa’s room, was the man.

  Her first instinct was to run back into the room; but then the noise in her head became louder, so loud that it seemed to affect her eyes and for a moment the man seemed to be blotted from her sight. Then she was moving forward; and he, too, was moving.

  She did not hug the wall as she sometimes did, but she forced her jangling body to walk up the middle. When he was within touching distance, his arm came out bent from the elbow and, the hand, horizontal and stiff, caught her across the chin; then, with a great cry erupting from the exploding noises in her head, she sprang. Her hands went for his face, her nails clawing so deeply into it that he staggered back, one fist beating her while the other gripped a wrist. But it was as he was dragging her hand from his that her teeth dug deep into his thumb.

  The corridor was full of screams from them both, for no matter what he did he could not rid himself of her clawing hands until, at last, other hands came on her, and as Bright pulled her away, Joseph thrust the man back against the wall, only to receive a punch in the chest that sent him reeling and, in his turn, he almost knocked the mistress over. It was her hands that steadied him before she rushed to her daughter to help Bright guide the flailing body along the corridor and into the mas
ter’s bedroom.

  Joseph was left with the man, and for a moment they stood glaring at each other; but seeing that the man was about to make for the bedroom, Joseph ran ahead of him.

  Bright and the mistress were trying to control the writhing girl, while the old man had pulled himself up from the pillows and was yelling, ‘In the name of God! What’s this now!’ only to become silent when there appeared in the doorway the bloodstained figure of his son.

  Lionel Filmore walked slowly up to his father’s bed, while his hand kept wiping away the blood that was running down his face, spilling over his mouth and dripping from his chin. Halfway up the side of the bed he stopped and looked towards Joseph, who was now standing near the head of the bed, and the look said, Get out of my way! And so fearsome did the man appear that Joseph stepped back towards the wardrobe.

  Now father and son were gazing at each other, and it was Lionel who spoke first. ‘She’s sane, you said? Look!’ He drew his hand first down one blood-covered cheek then down the other, and again he said, ‘Look!’ and held up his thumb from where the blood was running down into the cuff of his shirt. ‘What do you say to this, Father…she’s sane? If I wanted final proof I’ve got it. Before, her attacks were mere flea bites to this. Now I’m not going to do a thing to myself, not even to put a handkerchief to my face, but I’m going to ride in and present myself to Doctor Leadman and his disbelieving associate, and, Father, you can do what the hell you like about the other business. But you will not stop me in this, because I’ll have her in a straitjacket if it’s the last thing I do.’ He looked across the bed now to where his daughter was still writhing, but it was on his wife his eyes came to rest as he ended, ‘And it’s a great pity her mother couldn’t accompany her.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Lionel.’ The old man’s voice was quiet. ‘I beg of you, don’t do this.’

  ‘Father’—Lionel’s voice, too, was low—‘if you could go on your gouty knees to me, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. I’ve stood all I’m going to stand. I was going to wait until you were gone and then nothing would have stopped me; but I can’t wait for that now, not with the evidence I’ve got.’

  The old man nodded at him and his voice came deep and steady as he said, ‘That’s the answer I would have expected from you. Yes, that’s the answer. You are my son but you are rotten to the core. Now Lionel, what I am going to do is something that you did years ago, only in a different way. You murdered a man because he was going to expose you for giving a factory girl a bastard. You cut his throat and left him in a wood and you let his brother hang for your crime. Yes, you can wag your head and look at your wife and Bright and the young fellow to your side, they’re all witnesses to what I’m saying, but if they don’t believe me they must go to your brother, because he has the evidence. Now, even having been exposed, Lionel, nothing will stop you wreaking your vengeance on the innocent child that you begot, for you can’t bear the thought that anything that came out of you could be deformed in any way. No. Well, I’m going to stop you, Lionel. I haven’t much longer to go, it might be hours, it might be days. But they can do nothing to me for what I’m going to do now.’ And at this the old man’s hand, with alacrity that defied his age, swung up to the curtain and pulled from its folds a gun. For a moment there was a deadly silence in the room; then the old man, levelling the gun at his son, said, ‘It’s been cocked, it’s all ready. If I miss with the first I’lI get you with the second,’ and he fired.

  Whether Joseph had been going to dive at the bed to prevent the old man carrying out his intention, or Lionel Filmore’s arm had come out and pulled him in front of him, the bullet hit Joseph.

  There was a concerted gasping now in the room as the young fellow seemed to spring from the floor then stand rigid for a moment before looking down at the blood oozing through the white overall from somewhere below his shoulder. Then, before anything could be done to help him, the second shot came from the gun, and this time the old man did not miss his aim. The bullet caught Lionel Filmore in the exact spot where his cravat was tied, and he, too, stood for a moment rigid, staring as in amazement at his father, before slowly crumpling onto the floor.

  Joseph hadn’t fallen but had staggered back and was leaning against the wardrobe door as questions raced through his mind: Why had the old man shot Lionel? Why? He must be in the dream again. It couldn’t happen: he didn’t want to die. What he wanted was to get away from this house. He had wanted to see the man who was his father. Now he knew and he wished he didn’t, because he was a murderer. And why was he lying there? He looked dreadful, dreadful.

  What was the matter with him? Why was he floating? This was ridiculous. Yet it wasn’t, it was fact: the old man had shot him. He hadn’t meant to but that’s what he had done. And why was the mistress laughing? She was standing somewhere near and she was laughing, and she was talking loudly about how she had longed to shoot her husband. Well, he had been shot. And he himself had been shot. Why had the old man shot him? He was covered in blood; he felt odd, faint.

  He was lying on the floor now. Oh, he hoped he wasn’t lying against him. Yet he was his father. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. He shook his head definitely against the idea of lying against that man, because he was not only cruel to his daughter, he had murdered his stepfather’s brother, and his poor stepfather had been hanged for it. Oh, his mother. If only his mother had known; perhaps she wouldn’t have been so sad.

  What were they doing to him? And why was the mistress bending over him? He spoke to her now, saying, ‘Tell Mr Douglas and Miss Bridget…you know, Mrs Filmore. Mam used to always call her Miss Bridget. Am I going to die? He was my father. They won’t take her away, will they?…Hello, Ron.’

  It was as they lifted him from the floor that he passed into unconsciousness.

  Nine

  The doctors had been and gone. Lionel Filmore was pronounced dead. The young man known as Joseph Carter, according to Doctor Curry, had had a lucky escape, for the bullet had lodged itself just below the shoulder blade and he had removed the offending article, under the eyes of the cook, on her kitchen table.

  The police, too, had been and had questioned the master of the house in the presence of two doctors. They both confirmed that, although he had admitted to the shooting, it was impossible to move him, and that in any case his time was running out fast.

  This had been followed by a consultation around the bed between the old man, Victoria and Bright, when it was conveyed to the master of the house that the young man who had helped to tend him over the last few weeks was his grandson, the son of the man whom he had shot, and to this he had answered, ‘I know.’ And when Victoria had said, ‘But how, Father-in-law?’ he had answered, ‘Instinct. From the moment I saw him. He was like Lionel as a boy on the outside, but thanks be to God, I don’t think he’s got a fragment of him inside.’

  It was then that Bright said, ‘I think Mr Douglas should be informed.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Oh, of course.’ The old man’s head wagged. ‘I want to see Douglas. I’ve been longing to see Douglas. Will you see to it, Bright, please?’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away.’

  When Bright had left the room, the old man took hold of Victoria’s hand: ‘If I’m sorry for anyone in all this dire business,’ he said, ‘it is you, my dear, for you’ve had a dirty deal right from the word go. The only thing I can say against you is that you’ve been too hard on your cousin, for she’s a good woman, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Father-in-law.’

  ‘But you don’t know to what extent, my dear.’

  ‘I think I do, Father-in-law. I know that we couldn’t have existed all these years without some outward help. I have never questioned how Bright came by such odd amounts of money in times of necessity; but I knew there could be only one source from where he would have received it.’

  ‘Dear! Dear! You are a very strange girl, because you know, that’s what you still are underneath that stiff exterior, you ar
e still a girl. And to think, knowing that, you have refused to see her; and she could have been a great comfort to you all these years.’

  Victoria now bowed her head, saying, ‘Yes, it does seem strange, doesn’t it? But you see, I was young and empty-headed when this happened to me and I had the feeling that she had paid the man, who was called my husband, money in order to be free from the responsibility of me.’

  Her voice had taken on a sad note now. ‘I imagined she had become tired of my prattle, my vanity, my taking everything and giving nothing. Because that’s what I did. And then there was the fact that Lionel wouldn’t have even dreamed of coming within an arm’s length of me if he had known I had no money, whereas I, all the while, was imagining that it was because of my so-called beauty and my charm that he was marrying me, knowing that I hadn’t a penny. Can you imagine the shock when I found out otherwise? I grew up overnight. Yes, indeed; from a gullible young girl I became an embittered woman, and remained so for a long time. When I did begin to see things differently it was too late. I then felt I couldn’t make a move towards her, yet all the while I wanted to. I longed to. I longed for someone to talk to.’

  ‘And you had only me.’

  Her other hand came on top of his now and she said, ‘I had to change my opinion of you, too, before I appreciated your worth, and I’ve always valued you since. And now’—she patted his hand—‘both our times are running out…’

  But at this he pulled his hand away from hers, saying with gasping firmness, ‘Don’t you…talk…so. Mine…could be…hours away, perhaps a few…days, but you…you are still young.’

  ‘I am forty, Father-in-law. I have lost what looks I ever had and, what is more, my heart is in such a condition that I know it could stop beating within the next minute or so.’