The Knotted House

by Ruth Skrine

  I let my eyes wander down through the rest of the report. Several people gave evidence, each one cross examined at the end of their statement. The first witness to be called was Mr Knight, the bailiff. My heart gives a lurch as I remember he was the father of the ferryman who fished with Duncan.

  I’ve known the prisoner since he was a boy. He’s been in the employ of Mr Smedley for ten years. He lived in a cottage with his parents, next door to the deceased Mr Brent and his wife. They had lived on the estate for only three years. On the morning of 10th October, when the family were away from home, I met the prisoner who told me he wasn’t feeling well, that he had a heavy cold and that angels floated before his eyes. Later in the day I found him at work as usual, and told him to go and kill a pig. He did so. I paid him his wages, £1/16s for himself and his father. After he had taken the wages, he said, “They do keep teasing me”, I asked who, and he replied, “Mrs Brent and them”.’

  The next person in the witness box was Sarah Stokes, identified as the wife of the butler. I had forgotten that was her name.

  I met the prisoner in the lane outside the cottages and asked him how he was. He said, “I have suffered a great deal; I have been fighting with the Indians, they came down the hill with guns and bayonets.” I said, “You have had a bad dream Jake.” He said, “I must go to the Indies and fight for my life. I cannot keep my heart in my chest.” He had some medicine and I told him to take it and go home quietly.

  She doesn’t appear to have been cross-examined and my eye is caught by the next name, Daniel Gardiner. He is the one who broke the news to the butler in the pantry.

  I lived in the same group of cottages as the prisoner. On 10th October, in the afternoon, I saw the prisoner standing near the farmyard gate. I asked him if he was going to kill a pig. He said he was, but he was unable to do it. So I did it for him. After, I saw him looking about and said to him, “What is the matter?” “They want to poison me.” I asked if I had done him any harm, but he did not answer me. I was rather afraid of him. I said, “Jake, you seem to me deranged. I will go and see your mother when I get back home.” I had my tea, and was sitting by the fire when I heard screams. The prisoner’s mother shrieked to me to go to the house and get help. I heard someone say there had been a murder. I went and found the butler and he rode for the constable and the doctor.

  Daniel is cross examined and then Mrs Farley, the murderer’s mother, goes into the box to describe how her son had complained of feeling ill. While she was upstairs putting her husband to bed – he was an invalid – she had heard screams. She identified the murder weapon as a knife she kept in the kitchen drawer.

  I skip through the rest. Two constables gave evidence of finding Mrs Brent dead on the doorstep of her house, and Mr Brent in a bad way further down the path. The surgeon told of how he tried to repair the huge wound in Mr Brent’s stomach, but to no avail. In reply to a question from the Judge, the surgeon said he believed insanity to be hereditary.

  I rub my eyes and try to reconcile the account with what I have read in Duncan’s diary. It is quite clear, not just from his behaviour in the dock but from all the witnesses, that Jake was out of his mind – Indians chasing him with guns and bayonets, someone trying to poison him. Was it the teasing that had sent him round the bend or had he inherited something from his sick father? At least a sane man had not been incarcerated all those years. But what on earth had led Duncan to write that he was not mad? I remember that he had written that one witness said Jake was always a-riding of the donkey backwards, and a-caddling with the pegs. He had conveniently provided a translation; “caddling” was playing, and “pegs” were pigs. That detail is not mentioned in the newspaper.

  Was there some personal reason that Duncan denied the evidence before his eyes? Could he possibly have been as frightened of an inherited madness as I am? I sit with my head in my hands, oblivious to the shelves of books and the muted movements of those around me. The fields and paths of my childhood rise up in my mind, peopled by the characters described in the blurred print. When I first read the diary, Daniel Gardiner had just been a white-faced messenger. Now I know that he had been a friend to Jake, killing the pig when he could not. But he alone of all the witnesses admitted to being afraid of the man. Neither the bailiff, nor the butler’s wife nor his mother had the imagination to sense any danger.

  I try to imagine the currents that were running between these people, all gathered onto one estate by the choices and decisions of my forebears. The murdered couple had only lived there for three years. They must have been brought in after Henry died and the family came into his money. Jake, on the other hand, had worked there since he was fourteen, more than ten years. He could have been born on the estate, his family taken on by Henry because of the debt I do not understand. The newcomers might have resented Jake’s long association with the family, and teased him because they were jealous.

  Thoughts chase each other round and round until my head, neck and shoulders are aching so much that I have to move. I get stiffly off my chair and ask one of the library assistants to show me how to make copies of the relevant sheets. Then I trudge home up the hill, trying not to think of the blood and the screams, or of the lunatic who had been loose in my garden.

  Back home I put the photocopies on my table beside Duncan’s diary, two different accounts of the same drama. On my way downstairs I stop opposite Henry’s portrait, wondering again why he had employed Jake and his father. I am sure this is the man who holds the secret. He looks so unhappy. He is holding a book at an angle so that the title doesn’t show. The cover has gold corners. It reminds me of my grandmother’s prayer book. I stand transfixed. A sour taste fills my mouth, as if my tongue has darted out and licked one of the metal corners of the book. My gaze moves up, past the magnifying glass hanging round his neck. Is that the same one I got from my father? Searching his eyes for some explanation, the bones and arthritic joints of his hand become more prominent, forcing themselves into my field of vision. The muscles seem to be wasting away, leaving nothing but a skeleton. My own hands feel heavy and swollen. I look down at them, those fingers that have manipulated the story of the trial, the details of the murder. They are grubby in the faded light.

  For a terrible moment I am surprised there is no blood on them. I clutch the banister and sink onto a stair with my head between my knees. My arms hang down at my sides, detached from my body. I am terrified they will move out of my control, taking on a life of their own. In desperation I look back at the portrait of Henry. He is perfectly normal, holding his book in a hand covered in well-painted flesh, gazing out as he has always done.

  I clench my fingers, first on the left hand then the right. With an effort I straighten them, one by one. Forcing myself to reach out and take hold of the rail, I creep down the stairs.

  I will not let myself go mad. I am probably hungry; there was no time for lunch. I cut a hunk off the loaf. It is difficult to swallow but gulps of water help it down. As the furniture steadies around me, I know my period has started.

  Back in my room I lie on the bed. Snow still covers the undisturbed field and the reflected light casts an unnatural glow on the ceiling. The colour slowly fades from the sky behind the oak tree. Silence coalesces around me. The grandfather clock has stopped ticking. The happiness that surged through me at the start of the day has drained away, leaving me empty and exposed to any hidden demon that cares to stalk through the rooms and into my mind.

  I am the last of a long chain of Smedleys. My ancestors were surrounded by servants who helped them through their lives. They cleaned their silver, dug their garden, cooked their meals and taught their children to shoot and fish. Perhaps, too, they acted as vessels into which the family poured their craziness. There are no servants to help me run this impossible house – or to carry my madness for me.

  It is quite dark outside now, the branches no longer visible. I think of my father. Perhaps he used the same skimming net, with the ferryman standing by his side. But
that man had been Duncan’s friend, or was he Henry’s? The generations are getting muddled. If my father had lived he would have taught me to fish as he had taught me other things. So many things we shared, just the two of us. So many things – I feel his hands under my armpits as he swings me round in the field . I toss from side to side on the bed, catching sight of him gazing out of the photo above the little pipe cleaner boy. I reach out and put the frame face down so he can look at me no more.

  Chapter 10

  The snow disappears as quickly as it came. I leap out of bed determined to get to school in good time. My private angst is not going to interfere with my work this term.

  At coffee the staff room is full of chat. Louise has a new boyfriend. They met on Christmas Eve and have been together ever since, all of ten days. This one is serious. When I say this is great news I am rewarded with a big grin.

  Mrs Hendry is telling Jim that Jane Coombs hasn’t arrived. I walk over to them in time to hear him say, ‘I was going to tell you. I had a call from social services this morning. There was a crisis and she has been taken into care.’ Looking at me he adds, ‘You were right after all.’

  ‘Won’t she be coming back to school?’ Mrs Hendry asks.

  ‘Not for the moment. She’s in a temporary foster home on the other side of town.’

  It will be good to be relieved of the task of trying to keep her clean and avoiding her wet kisses but I am surprised by the depth of my disappointment. I had begun to accept that Jim was right and it had all been in my imagination. ‘D’you know what happened?’ I ask.

  ‘Not any details. Apparently she ran away from home and was picked up by the police. They are going to try and bring the man to court.’

  I want to strangle him. At the thought of Jane having to talk to strangers about intimate things, of her little body manhandled by doctors, I go hot and then cold. How can such a scrap of a girl survive without being damaged to her very core? In this world, with such horrors stalking our homes and streets, there is no room for childhood innocence. Of course, she is now out of immediate danger but she is in a new place and must be lonely. Jim is disappearing down the corridor so I run after him to catch his sleeve and ask if I can visit her.

  ‘I don’t see why not. I suggest you ring the social worker. I’ll give you her number.’ The bell goes for the end of break and I return to my classroom.

  I have a difficult time ahead. The science syllabus stipulates that the “Life Processes and Living Things” should have been finished the previous term but I have fallen behind and have not tackled the human life cycle yet. I would like to do it when the school nurse is in the building, so that I can deflect any difficult questions to her. The subject needs to be covered as soon as possible, for I am supposed to be teaching “Materials and their Properties” this term.

  The lesson starts all right, with a general run through of the stages of life from the egg and sperm to death. Then I get them to copy the two reproductive systems from the book. ‘Don’t forget the ovaries, and make sure you label everything.’

  ‘How do the sperm and egg meet, Miss?’ the expected question from Robby Bates. He is sitting towards the back of the room with a friend on either side of him. They make a formidable trio; I must find a way to split them up. His face is a picture of wide-eyed innocence as his friends struggle to suppress their grins.

  ‘The nurse will tell you all about that in your sex education class.’ They start to giggle, but I ignore it. There is a strict school policy that has been worked out with the parents’ committee. Jim would have liked us to integrate much more about sex into our science lessons, but parents who want to withdraw their children need to know when it is being covered.

  ‘How do gays have babies, Miss?’ A titter goes round the room. The questions get worse each year.

  ‘Men can’t have babies.’

  The girls look down at their desks, some not knowing what he means, others aware of the scorn that somehow demeans them.

  ‘That’s enough. Get on with your drawing and save your questions for the nurse.’ Though they are only nine, they know so much. I walk down through the class, stopping to comment on the drawings. When I reach the boys I find them passing sweets. This is enough for me to confiscate the packet and move Robby to the front where he wilts under my eye. All the same, I am glad when the bell sounds for the end of the class.

  I ring Jane’s social worker at lunchtime. Her reply is guarded. Once the child has settled, it may be possible for me to visit; she will discuss it with the carer. She refuses to give me the name or address but suggests I ring again in a few weeks. I am hurt to be shut away from the young girl I have befriended, at the same time rather relieved. I banish her from my mind as I look forward to having supper with Quentin.

  When he first returned from Southampton he had been a bit distant. Over our meal he opens out a bit and tells me about the visit. He had taken the children out to help them spend his Christmas money but they were wary of him, refusing his offer of tickets for the pantomime. He had been surprised to find how difficult it was to justify his affair to them. He asks me in a tetchy voice how children can be expected to understand the desires and frustrations of a grown man.

  ‘It’s not easy for them,’ I say. ‘If they take your side they’re being disloyal to their mother.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ His irritation with them, and perhaps with himself, is transferred to me. ‘They blame me for the break up, but they can’t understand that her coldness was partly to blame. When I tried to fix a date for them to visit me here they made excuses. Janice was no help; she says it’s my job to go there. As she doesn’t let me into the house it is really difficult.’

  I tell Quentin about my uncomfortable lesson. ‘They know so much on one level but nothing about the intricacies of relationships.’

  His eyes flick round the room. He isn’t listening. I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. He responds with a wry smile. I am glad his children won’t be coming to visit soon. I don’t want them to think I am the cause of his betrayal. Changing the subject, I tell him about the letter that had arrived this morning from my solicitor, with the news that probate has come through. ‘Will you help me find an auctioneer? I have to get on with selling the good furniture as Briony really needs the money.’

  Quentin’s face lifts as if he is pleased to be of use to someone. But I am hurt when he shows no further interest in my sister. Briony has decided to keep the baby and I want to share my delight with him. His grumpy pre-occupation makes that too difficult. When he hurries off to his own flat, saying he has a busy day ahead, I am relieved.

  The next weekend Quentin is more cheerful. We choose an old establishment whose name is vaguely familiar. The clerk behind the desk in the panelled office sends for the man who will come and value our things and he agrees to call the following week. He will photograph the best pieces, so the pictures can be included in the spring catalogue. He calls me “Ma’am”, when he deigns to talk to me at all. He prefers to deal with Quentin, presuming he is the owner of the house. We don’t disillusion him.

  I am feeling guilty about Susan. I owe her a meal so ask her to join us for supper the next evening. Once the valuable furniture has gone it will be more difficult to entertain. I am also hoping her presence will lighten the constraint that hovers between the two of us.

  With the help of some wine, I find myself telling them about the murder. Quentin has not heard of my visit to the library and as I expand on the newspaper report of the trial he shows more interest. I go back to the subject of Duncan’s memories and manage to turn his account into a story that makes them both laugh. My attempt at a Somerset accent for the bit about “Caddling with the pegs” is rather pathetic, but it doesn’t matter. Their voices and laughter fill the place with warmth and the shadows that lurk in the dark corners of the house become what I know them to be – no more than self-induced delusions.

  ‘Do you really have to put the house on the marke
t?’ Susan asks. ‘The idea of new neighbours…’

  ‘There’s no way I can afford to keep it I am afraid.’

  ‘Even if you made another flat at the top?’

  Just like Briony she is trying to manipulate me. ‘I don’t have the capital to buy my sister out.’ I look across at Quentin but he is intent on his food.

  ‘What will you do? Where will you live?’ Susan is so persistent.

  I am not going to mention my crazy idea about going abroad. She would want to know all sorts of details that I have not begun to explore myself. ‘I shall find a flat somewhere in town quite easily. It will be great to have a new place that is really my own.’ Quentin does look up then, raises his glass to me with the suspicion of a wink. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’ I muster as much conviction as I can, not wanting him to think I have any idea about living with him – not yet anyway.

  As the evening wears on Susan shows no sign of leaving. I yawn and look at my watch, hoping she will notice. Clearly, she is waiting for Quentin to go first. It is after twelve before he pulls himself out of his chair. ‘Meena and I both have to work tomorrow, I’d better be going.’

  I see him as far as the connecting door where he gives me a quick kiss. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he whispers, and shuts the door firmly so that the noise reaches up the stairs to Susan who, a bit unsteady on her feet, is piling the dirty plates. I tell her to leave them till the morning. Taking her arm, I guide her down the stairs and hold on until we reach her own front door.