The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  The fog that fell the night I birthed the lamb has stayed with us, rising and falling with the hours, turning daytime into twilight, lending a roof to Nature’s chapel. I am cocooned by it.

  I set to work, trying to ignore the harsh sting of icy water and lye that turns my skin sore and red. As I beat my monthly blood from the rags, I sing to myself – an old ballad that Agnes taught me as a child. The story is sentimental, and when I was young, with a head full of notions, it appealed to me. Some silly maiden falls for a rogue who treats her ill. She prays for help to catch him and keep him, claiming that, deep down, he loves her more than his life of crime and sin. She can redeem him, she says, if only God will help. But by the end of the tale, the Devil has claimed his prize, and the poor girl gives herself up to a life of sadness and solitude, forever repenting that she could not save the man she loved.

  Perhaps Agnes was trying to teach me a lesson, trying to instil some caution in me, for she saw my wilfulness early on. Perhaps she was trying to save me from the lessons that life has since taught, but I didn’t listen. I was made bold by the idea of so great a passion and so great a sacrifice. Of course, that was before I learned the truth about love, before I felt the torment of devotion where it is not desired, before I knew and accepted my own solitude, and before I understood that such stories are only that.

  Agnes, with her crooked gait, creviced cheeks and white hair like cotton grass, needn’t have relied upon tragic ballads as a warning – her very presence is proof enough of the result of a disappointed heart. I decided long ago I would not suffer the same fate.

  Still, it’s a pleasant tune, full of melancholy, and one I turn to often. Now, it serves to quell any foreboding I might feel, for I cannot rid myself of the memory of that day and the figure I saw in the fog. No matter how many times I tell myself it was nothing more than imagination, that I was tired and overwrought, I cannot cast the image from my mind’s eye, or shake the creeping fear that comes with it. Deep down, I know I did not make it up.

  And as I think of it, I feel it again – the slow crawl across my shoulder blades, prickling at my neck, a quickening of my heartbeat. I try to shake it off, but the sensation stays. I fall silent, stop my work and listen, resisting the urge to look around. There’s no one about for miles, save Ambrose, who I know is out on the fells with his dog, Flint, checking the sheep for early lambs.

  I go back to my laundry, working in the lye, rubbing at the stains. I hum the tune, quieter now, but fear is pressing in my chest and my voice comes out uneven. Bracken, who’s been lazing at my feet, raises her head, one ear cocked, and makes a low growl.

  I put a palm on her back, taking comfort in her solid warmth. ‘You sense it too?’

  Her nose twitches and she grumbles before resting her head on her paws.

  I begin rinsing and wringing the sodden rags. My fingers are aching and clumsy with cold.

  For a time I focus on the task, finding pleasure in monotony, pausing after each rag is wrung out to flex my fingers and bring the blood back into them. I watch the fog sink into the valley, obscuring the treetops and silencing the birds. Today I don’t like the eerie stillness that descends, so I begin my song again.

  And after a few minutes I’m answered by a whistle – a few distant notes echoed back to me. I strain for the sound of footfall or hoof-beat, of someone on the path that runs along the valley, but hear nothing, the fog muffling everything but the splash and burble of the falls. I’m imagining things again. It might be birdcall, or wind singing through the stones.

  But when, after a few moments, I continue, it comes again, a whistle picking up alongside. This time, when I stop, it carries a few more notes before it too falls silent.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I call, fear rising. I hold my breath and listen.

  There’s no answer.

  Slowly, I put down the wet rag I’m holding and reach for my crook.

  A sudden shower of pebbles scatters the hillside by the falls as if someone has disturbed the higher ground. Bracken jumps to her feet, tense and growling.

  ‘Who’s there? Ambrose, is that you?’ But Ambrose is not one for tricks – it’s not his nature – and Bracken knows him by sound and scent.

  I feel the sensation of eyes on me, like a spider crawling up my spine, and this time I stand and spin about, trying to see through the gloom. I call Bracken to my side and try to quiet her but she begins to bark, breaks away and runs to the foot of the falls, snarling and snapping into the hazy space above.

  I see what has disturbed her: a figure in the fog, a dark smudge on the crag above the falls.

  For a few seconds I can do nothing. I stare at the thing, gripped by horror. The fog blurs my vision. I expect the figure to disappear as before, but it does not move. It stands and waits. Again the blood rushes in my veins and my heart is all chaos.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I call again. ‘Show yourself!’

  The figure obeys me – moves forward to stand on a rock at the very top of the falls. Now I can make out the shape of a hat, a long coat and a staff.

  Bracken is all savage eyes and sharp teeth.

  Then, from above, ‘Call off your dog!’

  And with the order a great wave of relief courses through me, faster than the rushing water at my feet. This is no phantom.

  I call to Bracken but she won’t come, so I go to her, picking my way over the rocks. I catch hold of her rope collar and find my fingers are shaking.

  The man does not wait for invitation. He finds a precarious path down the side of the falls, climbing from rock to rock, clinging to the heather, stones slithering away from beneath his soles. As he emerges from the veil of mist and spray, I see there’s nothing ghostly about him. He’s tall, made to seem more so by a long buckskin coat, sturdy leather boots and a battered brown hat. He has a pack slung about his shoulders, beneath which he’s stowed the staff that I now see has the curved bow of a shepherd’s crook.

  He reaches the valley foot and stands a few yards from me. ‘I mean you no harm,’ he says. ‘I heard you. I didn’t expect . . .’ He makes a gesture towards my clothes.

  His voice has a smoky, charred tone, reminding me of the charcoal-burners who often have such a break in their voice, but now he’s close, he speaks quietly.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask. ‘Why were you watching me?’

  He stands and stares for a few moments. Then he takes a step forward and extends a hand. ‘Ferreby. Ellis Ferreby.’ I do not take it. I keep my grasp on Bracken’s collar.

  She’s fallen quiet now but I feel her coiled energy as she watches him. I know, if I say the word, she’ll snap at him, like a fox after our hens.

  ‘I said, why were you watching me?’

  ‘I lost the track in the fog. I heard your voice and thought to seek the owner. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  He glances at my tight grasp on the crook, the dog at my heel. ‘Then I’ll be on my way, if you’ll put me on the right path.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  He shrugs. ‘Anywhere there’s work. Folks told me they’d be needing hands for the lambing at a place called Scarcross Hall.’

  I should have guessed. The only men travelling at this time of year are those seeking a place to earn their bread and beer, those with no hearthside to wait out the winter, those wanting a place they won’t be found. We don’t welcome such strangers. ‘Who told you so?’

  He does not answer but shrugs off his pack and sets it down. ‘That’s a fine-looking bitch you have there.’

  I feel Bracken bristle, but I won’t let him see I’m so wary myself. ‘I’ve not seen you in these parts before,’ I say.

  He bends suddenly, dropping to one knee, and holds out an empty palm towards Bracken. ‘Come here, girl . . .’

  Bracken glances up at me, questioning, just once and then to him.
He says nothing more, but crouches, eyes lowered, palm still upturned in a gesture of conciliation and submission. I feel the moment the resistance goes out of her. She relaxes, noses the air for his scent, takes a tentative step towards him. I loosen my grip on her collar. And she goes to him. She goes to him and sniffs his hand.

  I’ve seen her skip and yap around Ambrose before, I’ve even seen her let Sam pet her once or twice, but I’ve never seen her go to a stranger. Bracken is my dog and she answers to no one but me.

  He pats her head, rubs her ears, then stands. She folds herself neatly at his feet. I cannot believe it.

  ‘If you’ll show me the path to Scarcross Hall, I’ll be on my way,’ he says.

  I turn and begin to gather the rags, wringing out the last few and placing them in the waiting basket. My fingers are still trembling with slowly dissolving panic. I take my time, hoping he’ll understand the message in my coldness.

  He watches in silence and, though I don’t look at him, I sense that he’s judging me, weighing me up. There’s a strange stillness about him – he makes no offer of help and is not compelled to chatter as some might, but seems content to wait for my answer.

  When I’ve folded the last rag, I turn back and find he’s donned his pack. Bracken is on her feet, looking up at him the way she looks at me when she’s waiting on my word. ‘Bracken, come to heel,’ I say, but she doesn’t move. She looks at me and wags her tail.

  ‘Scarcross Hall?’ he asks again.

  I don’t know why I don’t send him on, why I don’t tell him who I am and turn him away. The words seem to tumble out of me before I can check them. ‘I’m going that way.’

  He nods, taking that as some sort of permission.

  At last Bracken trots to my side. I set off, following the valley bottom towards the path home. I don’t look back or speak to him again but I know he follows. I can feel his eyes on my back.

  Chapter 4

  As we leave the valley and reach the sloped sweep of the fell we meet Ambrose Garrick and his dog, Flint. The two dogs greet each other with a volley of yaps. I’m relieved to see him. My father’s head shepherd, now mine, I trust his judgement as much as my own, at least in matters of farm and flock. I’ll leave the stranger’s fate to him but mention nothing of the queer nature of our meeting.

  We wait while the stranger climbs the last few yards towards us. I see Ambrose take the measure of him. Ambrose is a big man, red-bearded with weather-beaten skin and the curt manner of those born and bred in the hills. I know he can seem imposing, but the stranger bears his scrutiny and greets him with a solid handshake.

  ‘Looking for work, then?’ Ambrose asks.

  ‘Yes. I was told to speak with you by John Bestwicke.’

  ‘John’s one of our best men. You know him?’

  ‘Only in passing. Said he was headed up here himself in a few days. Told me to try my luck.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ellis Ferreby.’

  ‘You’re not from these parts. I’d know you if you were.’

  ‘I worked these last years on the moors above York and as far as the Cumbrian fells. I know hill country.’

  Ambrose shoots me a questioning look, raises an eyebrow, but I just shrug, passing the decision back. I’m not shy of my responsibility, quite the contrary, but I prefer to leave these matters to him. I’ve learned the hard way that shepherding men prefer to strike an accord with their own kind.

  ‘We’ve no quarters, but you can sleep in the hayloft till the hay is in,’ Ambrose says. ‘Your bread and beer, and twopence a day.’

  The stranger nods.

  ‘Well, then, Master Ferreby, follow me and I’ll see you housed and fed. You can start with me in the morning. One week to begin and we’ll see how you work.’ Ambrose assumes agreement – no man desperate enough to wander the fells in the fog would turn down the offer – and starts along the path to Scarcross Hall.

  I stride ahead, the basket of rags heavy in the crook of my arm, eager to leave them behind. Though I trust Ambrose’s instinct, I’m not sure it matches my own this time. We’ve employed many men like Ellis Ferreby over the years and I know the type. The hills are full of them: men without history, without a home, who keep their counsel when questioned about their past. Often they’re good workers, grateful enough for the chance we give, but some bring their troubles with them. I’m always glad when the harvest is done, the sheep are put out for winter and we are left alone once more.

  Reaching Scarcross Hall, I hear raised voices and recognise the sound of Father in a rage. I find him in the kitchen, puffed up with fury, gesticulating wildly – an echo of the formidable man he used to be. His temper has not abated with age: rather, it’s grown worse. At times, it gets the better of him. The smallest incident can ignite explosions of irrational anger. Agnes knows to tread carefully but has grown peevish and impatient after so many years. The fights they have can be fearsome.

  ‘You are lying, woman!’ Father yells, as I enter. ‘By Christ, I swear I shall turn you out into the night if you don’t tell me the truth.’ He’s been threatening this for years. We all know it will never happen.

  ‘I told you, I know nothing of it,’ Agnes says.

  ‘You’ve taken it, haven’t you? Taken it to sell to the tinkers. This is what I get for keeping you all these years, for not insisting that you know your place – nothing but lying and thievery!’

  Agnes rolls her eyes and turns away, exasperated.

  Bracken, usually keen to curl up by the fire whenever I allow it, slinks away and sits by the door. I’m unwilling to put myself at the centre of one of their squabbles but curiosity gets the better of me. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The Applegarth woman’ – as Father calls Agnes when he’s angry with her – ‘the Applegarth woman has stolen my inkwell and won’t admit it.’

  She turns to me. ‘He’s worked himself up over a piece of brass.’

  ‘That inkwell belonged to Merion Booth, the man who raised this family up from nothing, who made our fortune, whose riches paid for the very flags upon which you stand and the slates over your head.’ As he speaks, he jabs Agnes with the end of his cane. ‘So don’t you dare say it’s just a piece of brass.’

  ‘Raise a hand to me again, Bartram Booth, and I’ll bring curses down upon you.’

  I know she’d never do this. Agnes would never wish harm on anyone, but this is the game they play – petty bullying and empty threats.

  ‘Was it you took my coins too? Will you use them against me in your spell casting? Do you think I’ll allow such witchery in my house? Do you think I’m so old and forgetful that I would not see what you’re about? I’ve said nothing about your heathen ways before but I’ll keep silent no longer.’

  ‘I haven’t touched your precious coins neither.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he says, leaning over her, eyes dark with threat. ‘You have no idea what you are toying with.’

  I put my basket on the table. I’ll have to deal with this before I address the wet rags. ‘Calm yourself, Father. Where did you last see the coins?’

  ‘In a safe place, away from prying eyes and thieving fingers,’ he says, stepping away from Agnes with a sour look.

  ‘And the inkwell?’

  ‘It was on my desk, of course.’

  I cross the room and put a soothing hand on his forearm. ‘Are you sure you didn’t move it yourself, to fill it perhaps, or to make space on your table?’

  Father glowers. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’

  ‘Then, come, we’ll find them together.’

  I lead him across the hall towards his study, Agnes trailing after us. The cold pinches as we leave the warmth of the kitchen. It’s always chill in the hall, even in summer. The room should be the heart of the house, with a ceiling stretching to the rafters, a large, open hearth and a big
window that reflects spirals of sunlight on rare days of sunshine. At one time, with beeswax candles burning in the sconces, rich tapestries stopping the draughts, minstrels in the gallery and a fine feast spread on the heavy oak table, it might have been splendid. But now the table is pushed up against the panelling and any useful furniture has been moved to smaller rooms that are easier to heat. There are no candles, and no tapestries or rush mats to soften the stone-flagged floor. We never set a blaze because the chimney is fallen in and the wind whistles through the cracked panes in the window, straight off the moor. I’ve often wondered what kind of people might have had need of such a space, for we certainly have no use for it.

  My father’s study is at the back of the house with windows that look out over the old walled garden. Since his health failed, and his sight began to fade, it’s become his sanctuary and the room in which he spends most of his days. There’s bare light through the panes and no candles burning, the only brightness cast by a few flames from a timid fire.

  I take a taper, light it and touch the candles in the stick on the desk. Though Ambrose and I manage the flock, Father is still head of the household. He likes to oversee the account books and keep up correspondence with the cloth merchants in Halifax and Leeds. The desk is strewn with ledgers and bills of sale. His reading glass teeters precariously close to the edge. I find at least three quills with snapped nibs, all dripping ink onto the wood. But Father is right: there is no sign of the inkwell.

  He is triumphant. ‘Who else could have taken it? No one else comes in here, save Ambrose and yourself. She must have it.’

  Agnes shoots him a dark look but keeps her silence.

  We search on bookshelves, under rugs and in boxes filled with old bones and rocks – Father likes to collect these things – but we cannot find the inkwell, nor any sign of the missing coins.

  He stands by, drumming his fingers on the desk. I don’t understand why the loss of these things has vexed him so when he has not mentioned them for so long. I’ve not seen the coins since I was a child, and Agnes is right about the inkwell: I doubt it has little value beyond that endowed by Father’s sentiment.