He’s heard things, collected rumour and gossip in alehouses up and down the valley. A rare one, they said, with nudges and laden smiles, not many like her. He knows better than to believe everything he hears over a pint pot but she’s not what he expected.
She is taller. Broader. Her gait has something manly about it. Plain-featured, drab-haired, with colouring that matches the winter-leached heather – it’s only in the slim jaw and in her voice that he detects anything womanly. He noticed her voice on their first meeting – low and rich, with a hint of gentility.
He watches her backside as she climbs the hill ahead of him. The clothes – breeches and boots – almost hide her shape but there’s a telltale tapering at the waist, a widening at the hips. Good teeth – he noticed that too – straight and white. He judges her as he would judge a breeding ewe.
He had not meant to frighten her that first day. He had crossed the moor slantwise, losing a drovers’ track some miles back and finding himself without sure footing as the fog came down. The murk had made him blind. The mud sucked at his heels. He turned an ankle and wondered if he would last another night warmed by nothing but the few sips of liquor in his spent flask. But he has a keen sense of direction, and even without a horizon to fix upon, or sun and shadows by which to right himself, he had found his way to her.
Her manner with him is still curt, her suspicion marked. That is to be expected – only a fool would welcome a stranger without question and he sees she’s not easily taken in. But he saw the change in her when the dog came to him so easily and he knew that something so simple to him was extraordinary to her. He’s always had a way with animals. Betsy used to joke that it was a quality he never mastered when it came to people. But he saw the alteration in her and understood that the dog is a weakness, a way in.
Even with the dogs, it takes most of the day to find, sort and check the flock, bring them safely down and drive them into the lower grazing. Ellis finds his place in the group easily enough under Garrick’s direction, working alongside Bestwicke and Ravens to collect strays and runners, while the dogs do the brute work of gathering.
Coursing the edge of the moor top, where the rough grassy hillocks of the fell give way to stunted heather and rain-drenched peat, he catches the true scent of the land for the first time. Every place and every season has its own smell, he’s found. Pay attention and he’ll come to know it, just as he’ll learn the way the sun fades to shadow at a certain time of day on a certain hillside, the texture of the grasses on this fell and the next, the particular course of the breeze as it travels down the valley. Now, in this moment, the wind brings it to him: the rich savour of damp peat, must and decay, the metallic, coppery scent of snow and ancient, rain-washed stone, a hint of salt and sea storms. He recognises it, he thinks, though that is impossible. He knows it by some deeper sense, then: in his bones, in his blood.
He pauses, looking back down the fell towards the chimneys of Scarcross Hall.
You can’t mistake the place, he’d been told by the tavern keeper. Find the church and follow the old coffin path that runs up towards the moor top. You’ll not miss it.
The man had been right: the house commands attention. It’s grander than he’d supposed, with the high chimneys and crenellated gables of an older age, mullioned windows and two jutting wings on either side of a central hall, clearly designed with more than practicality in mind – a statement of wealth and power, one man’s attempt to make his mark in this wild landscape. If it were another house he might despise it. He might feel contempt for the arrogance of the wealthy, with their propensity to tame things that cannot be tamed. But on first sight, his feeling had been of surprise and something like awe.
Then, as he had followed Garrick past the decrepit half-timbered barn and drew closer, he saw that any days of grandeur were long faded. There are slates missing from the roof, cracked panes in the leads and a crumbling central chimney. A high wall lends poor protection, pocked and lichen-stained, ravaged by years of storm and gale. It has the air of a shipwreck, abandoned and disintegrating amid the great wild ocean of the moor. Even now, the dark windows seem to stare back at him, soulless, like the eyes of a destitute. Despite all his resolution, he shivers.
Mercy Booth keeps her distance. Aware that both she and Garrick are making silent judgement upon him, he keeps his mouth shut, his eyes and ears keen. Doing so seems to win Garrick’s approval, for once the day’s work is done, the pregnant ewes counted into the field, the man comes up to him and slaps a hand on his shoulder – a gesture in place of words he does not need to hear.
She comes to stand beside them, leaning both elbows on the willow gate. Her cheeks are wind-whipped. Strands of damp mousy hair straggle across her neck. He watches from the corner of his eye – watches her watching the sheep – and knows she’s calculating which will lamb first, which might need separating from the rest, looking for signs of foot rot and milk fever. He knows because he cannot help doing the same.
When Garrick leaves, she turns to Ellis and takes a breath as though she’s about to speak, but says nothing. He’s suddenly aware of her arm, so close to his on the gatepost, and moves away.
The boy he’s seen around the place, Garrick’s son, rounds the corner of the barn with a bundle in his arms – a lamb wrapped in a blanket – the same coddled specimen that he saw before the kitchen hearth on the night he arrived.
The boy is rushing, breathless, mumbling when he speaks. ‘I’ve brought him to see if any of the ewes will take him.’
Mercy’s expression softens in the boy’s presence, a hand to his copper curls. ‘It’s too late for that, Sam. We missed our chance.’
The boy frowns. ‘Then what’ll become of him?’
‘You’ll have to feed him until he’s ready to go to grass, then we’ll put him in with the others.’
‘So you’ll keep him for a tup?’
‘He’s small and not strong. He didn’t have the best start.’
The boy is disappointed and she sees it. ‘Well, let’s see how he stands,’ she says. ‘Show Master Ferreby what a fine shepherd you’ve become.’
It’s the first time she’s acknowledged him all day and the first she has used his name – a sign he’s done well. It sends a small, pleasurable ripple through him.
The boy unwraps the lamb tenderly and places it on the ground. It bleats and looks around, confused to find itself on cold, damp earth. A few of the ewes raise their heads at the sound.
The boy is looking at him, expectant and hopeful.
‘How old is he?’ Ellis asks.
‘Nine days.’
‘Mistress Booth is right. He’s pretty but he’s small. Best make him a wether.’
‘What did I do wrong?’ the boy asks, looking from one to the other.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘It’s God’s way, that’s all.’ She crouches next to the creature and runs her hands over its back and belly, down its legs. ‘We should see to the gelding. There’s some salve in the barn.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Ellis says.
They both look at him, questioning.
He draws a knife from his belt. ‘I always have a keen blade about me.’
She nods. ‘There now, Sam. You help Master Ferreby.’
She signals their intention to Garrick and the three of them walk to the barn, where she ferrets in a stack of chests and trestle tables, then brings out an earthenware pot of sheep salve.
Ellis pulls one of the chests towards the door, into the last of the daylight, sits and takes the lamb into his arms. It bleats and struggles but he can tell he’s right – this animal is not strong enough, not well formed enough to make a good tup, might not even grow big enough to make a decent fleece, but it’s worth saving, if only for the boy’s sake.
With his blade between his teeth he flips the lamb, gripping the hind legs between his knees. He has Sam hold the lamb by the forele
gs, and draws out the cods. The creature wriggles and kicks.
‘Hold him still, lad.’ Quickly he makes two small slashes, one in each pouch. He bends and pulls out the stones one at a time with his teeth, slicing away the sinewy strings that bind them. He tastes blood, spits onto the floor, then dips his fingers into the salve pot, feels the rich, waxy fat under his nails, and smears it on the wounds. The thing is done.
He sets the creature upright, checks it over, releases it. It staggers sideways, bleating, and collapses to its knees, where it sits, panting hard.
Mercy is watching him intently. ‘Say thank you, Sam, for a job speedily done.’
Ellis picks up the stones and holds them out to the boy. ‘They’re small but it’ll bring you luck to have the first of the season. Get your ma to fry them with a little fat and parsley.’
The boy takes them shyly, examines the pale, veined globes in his palm. Ellis feels the need to reassure him. ‘And I have something else for you.’ He reaches into his pocket and brings out a coin. ‘I’ve rarely seen such a steady hand, even on a grown man, and you should be paid for your work.’
The small gold disc glints in his palm. He means it as a token, an offering of friendship, but the boy recoils.
‘Where did you get that?’
Her tone leaves no room for doubt: he has made a mistake.
‘I found it. Up there, in the hayloft.’ He points upwards to his berth.
Confusion shivers across her face. ‘When? When did you find it?’
‘The night I arrived. I thought someone must have lost it long since.’
She snatches the coin from his hand. ‘It belongs to my father.’ She’s angry, her usual cold composure shattered.
The boy begins to cry.
‘I didn’t take it, if that’s what you think,’ Ellis says.
‘Sam, did you—’
But the boy turns away, gathers the lamb into his arms and bundles it back into the blanket.
‘Keep a keen eye on the wound, Sam,’ Ellis says. ‘Tell someone if you see aught amiss or if he does not rally.’ But the boy is not listening. He’s already halfway out of the door and making for the house.
She stays, staring at the coin in her hand. ‘Show me where you found it,’ she says.
He points upwards again. ‘Just beneath my bed, there.’
He watches her climb the ladder and hears her move overhead, shifting his things about. He waits until she comes down.
‘You should have given it back when you found it,’ she says, as she leaves, tossing him a blameful look.
He doesn’t respond. Perhaps he should have returned the thing but he had thought it worthless, fool’s gold, a trinket. He cannot fathom the strength of her reaction, her anger. He understands her sheep better than he understands her, he thinks, as he cleans the fresh blood from his blade.
Chapter 7
He does not like Henry Ravens. Too full of bragging and lies.
John Bestwicke, though, he has time for. The old shepherd has proved himself the equal of the younger men today, matching them in strength, outranking them in experience. And he knows when to shut up.
All day Ravens has been baiting Ellis, getting in his way and taunting him with knowledge of the flock, as if they must work in competition. They are similar in height and girth, and would probably make a fair match in a fistfight. Ellis thinks about this, about how much he would like an excuse to land a well-aimed swing at Ravens’s good-looking jaw. But he dare not risk his place here, and Garrick is not a man to take kindly to bickering among the workers.
He just wants Ravens to be quiet, so he can ask the important questions. But Ravens has been swigging from a bottle of sour-scented liquor – unshared, he notes – and is interrupting Bestwicke’s train of thought.
They’ve passed the time since nightfall gathered around the brazier, talking mostly of sheep, of the Booth flock, of Garrick’s qualities as lead shepherd and of the work that is to come. Both Ravens and Bestwicke are local men and work for Garrick every summer, coming up to the fells in spring, staying for washing, clipping and the hay harvest, and returning to their homes when the work runs dry, or when Garrick tells them to go. There’s no work through the winter, Bestwicke says, and it’s best not to stop up on the moor past harvest time – the hardship and loneliness can drive a man mad.
They are interested in him, in where he’s from and where he’s worked, but he keeps his answers short and vague until the questions stop. He learned long ago that if you keep quiet, people soon lose interest; most only want a reason to talk about themselves. Bestwicke is one of them and that’s exactly what Ellis wants.
‘Old Sutcliffe was head man before Garrick,’ Bestwicke tells him. ‘Must be ten years since he passed, maybe more. Garrick was young when Booth gave him the job and some from the village refused to work under him. But I’ve always got on with him. He’s one of us. He’s been working this flock twenty years, just as long as me.’
‘He must have been a boy when he began.’
‘Aye, and the mistress just a girl. I remember her, running about, skirts muddied to her knees, but she had the way of the flock even then. Born to it, I’d say.’
‘She’s always been the filthy sort,’ Ravens says, and is ignored.
‘Was she born here?’ Ellis asks.
Bestwicke shakes his head, the brazier casting shadows across his face, adding crags upon crags. ‘You’d think so, but Bartram Booth came out from Lancashire some time during the wars. Brought the girl with him.’
‘Just him and the girl? No mother?’
‘Just the Applegarth woman – she’s been here as long as I remember.’
‘What brought them here?’
‘Now, lad, that’s a question with a hundred different answers. Some folks said Booth was running from the law, others that his business had gone bad because of the fighting. Lord knows, we were all running from something in those days. There was even a story that he’d been cast out from some godly sect, and came hoping to set himself up in a New Jerusalem, but none of that came to pass. Must be thirty years ago. It’s all forgotten now.’
‘Which do you think true?’
Bestwicke shrugs. ‘So long as I get what I’m owed it’s not my business, and he’s always been a fair master. But, for what it’s worth, I think Booth bought up the Hall and the land because no one else wanted it. He saw a good chance and took it. He’s a canny sort.’ He takes a swig of ale. ‘It’d been empty a good while before that. Stories, you know . . .’
‘Ah, here we go!’ Ravens laughs. ‘He loves a tall tale, don’t you, John?’ He gives Bestwicke a slap on the shoulder and stands. ‘I’ve heard this a dozen times . . . and I need a piss.’
Ravens walks unsteadily to the far side of the door, unties his breeches and pisses into the night. Ellis can see the arc of it glittering in the firelight. It makes his fists twitch.
But he doesn’t want Bestwicke to lose his thread. ‘What stories?’
‘People talk – you know how it is. Rumours get passed down over the years. Some of the lads still won’t stop up here at night – prefer to find shelter in the valley or go all the way back to the village rather than pass by the crossroads after dark.’ He takes another drink and smacks his lips. ‘There’s been tales told about this place for longer than anyone can remember. My own pa was one of them wouldn’t pass by without saying a prayer – swore the land was cursed.’
‘Cursed?’
Bestwicke lowers his voice. ‘There are stories go back long before our time, but the one I was raised on, the one you’ll hear in the taverns, is of the man who built the Hall – a rich merchant from Halifax, with his wife and child. Must be a hundred years ago or more. There’s been a farmhouse up here for much longer – but that old place had its own share of troubles and was long abandoned, so he tore it down, built the grand house
you see now. He was set on making a fresh start. Wouldn’t listen to the warnings.’
Ellis thinks of the house, alone and incongruous on the edge of the moor, the folly of it.
‘But the first winter after the family moved up here was a rough one. The master sent all but the wife and child to take shelter in the village, but he wouldn’t leave, no matter how they begged. The storms were so savage and the snow so deep that no one could get in or out for months. When the melt came, they found all three of ’em dead. Dead for weeks, they said, though the cold had kept ’em from rotting where they fell.’
‘What had happened?’
Bestwicke shakes his head and sniffs. ‘Ah . . . you’ll find as many versions of that tale as you will folk willing to tell it. Some say they starved to death, some that a fever took ’em. Others say the man was driven mad and murdered his own kin. Strangest thing was, each had a gold coin in their mouth, as if someone had come along and put ’em there. Those that found ’em swore to it.’
Ellis recalls the cold glint of gold in his palm, the conflict of anger and fear in Mercy’s eye. He feels suddenly, inexplicably, troubled.
‘Poor souls didn’t know what they were in for,’ Bestwicke goes on. ‘They brung the bodies down by the coffin path. Buried ’em at St Luke’s and tossed the coins into the grave – you can still see the stone, just there, on the north side of the church.’ He flaps a hand in the direction of the valley. ‘People have come and gone since then, but Bartram Booth is the only one that’s stuck. They say there’s something up here, something evil, older than the Hall itself, or even the farm before that. They say the house should never have been built, that the land has some ancient curse upon it. But I’ve been coming up here these fifty years and I’ve seen nowt more than boggarts.’ He pauses, leans forward, serious. ‘I remember the Hall before Booth came. Abandoned, falling to ruins. A lonely spot, sure enough. Us local lads would drink a pot or two and dare each other to set foot inside, and I did so, often enough. The place had a queer feel to it, but I never saw aught to scare me. If Old Nick was ever at work on these moors then Bartram must’ve scared him off. Made it clear from the start: he’d have no such nonsense in his household or among his workers – banned us all from speaking of it, especially when the young mistress was about. You wouldn’t think it now, but he was quite a fearsome man back then, with a black scowl that scared the ladies.’
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 5