He looks at me and puts his hand on top of mine. ‘Well, I’ll forgive you, if you’ll come with me now . . .’
I nod. That is all it takes.
Chapter 14
That Sunday, after the sermon, I wait outside the church door, hoping to speak with Pastor Flynn. Father is making himself ill with fretting, insisting that we have Flynn to pray with us as soon as possible. When I ask him why it’s so important, he calls me a heathen and shuts himself in his study.
The church in the valley is a mean, tumbledown place – a single room with cracked, mildewed walls, stone-hard benches and small high windows letting in thin grey light. The altar is an old trestle covered with tattered grey cloth. Pastor Flynn is a true Puritan, eschewing any kind of adornment or ritual in his church. His sermons are all scripture and forceful warnings about the dangers of ill-living. He’s a sinewy man in middle age with enough vigour still to stir himself into a frenzy every Sunday and bring at least part of his congregation with him.
Father likes his hellfire preaching, but I think he prefers the man who sometimes leaves off his parish duties to sit in the study at Scarcross Hall in a haze of pipe smoke, debating passages of scripture and bemoaning the state of morals in his flock.
Today, during his preaching, he fixes his fiery gaze on me until I have to look away. Sometimes I feel the man knows my sins. I still do not feel the guilt I ought but it does make a queer sensation build inside me. I will myself to defy his judgement – he cannot possibly read my secret thoughts or know of my transgressions – but, inevitably, I always yield.
As I wait, I watch Henry’s wife, Annie, gossiping with some of the women from the village. She’s a thin, stringy bint, with sly eyes and a beaten-down look – old before her time. It’s no mystery that Henry strays. I see her attention wander to her two boys, now throwing stones at a bedraggled roost of crows in the horse-chestnuts, and then to me. There is venom in her stare. This is no surprise: she’s suspicious of every unwed woman this side of Halifax. Still, the sight of her always makes me uneasy. She says something to her friends and they all throw scornful looks my way. I pay them no heed. I’m used to it.
Dority comes up to me, baby Grace swaddled and slung across her chest, dragging Sam by the hand. He is surly and red-eyed. As she releases him he runs off to join Henry’s lads.
‘I swear I’m at my wit’s end with him,’ Dority says, watching him pick up a large pebble and fling it into the branches. It crashes to the ground in a shower of twigs and leaves, narrowly missing one of the other boys. ‘He spent the whole sermon whispering to himself and cried like a babe when I took him outside and spanked his legs.’
At the front of the church, lost in my own reverie of guilt and sin, I’d not noticed this little drama play out. I watch Sam shouting and whooping as a big black bird rises from its nest, his upset forgotten.
‘Ever since that business with the coin he’s been difficult. What did Master Booth say about that?’
I’ve still not returned the coins to my father. I cannot give them back without some explanation; I dare not provoke his precarious temper. I’ll not be the cause of more talk about leaving Scarcross Hall.
‘Oh, it’s all forgotten,’ I lie. ‘Sam should come up to the Hall and see for himself.’
‘I don’t know what troubles him. I can’t make any sense of it. He still swears he knows nothing of how the thing came to be in his bed. But how can that be true? He’s lying to me and I don’t know why.’
The baby starts to whimper and Dority coos and jigs. She looks exhausted, frayed at the edges.
‘Perhaps he’s afraid,’ I say. ‘Father has a temper and Sam has seen it at work. He’s seen how he can be with Agnes and how he shouts at me.’
‘It’s as Pastor Flynn says. If he’s truthful and sorry he’ll be forgiven. Anyway, your father dotes on him, you know that.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I can’t help but feel there’s something more, something he’s not telling me. He was always such a happy, honest boy before . . .’
I put a hand on Dority’s shoulder. The gesture makes her eyes shine wet.
‘I try my best but it feels like I’m losing him and it’s my fault.’ She bites her lip and looks down at the grizzling child in her arms. ‘The baby doesn’t sleep well. Ambrose is out at all hours, sometimes all night with the flock, and there’s so much to be done in the house, with the animals and the crops. Sam’s been avoiding his work, running off without a word and staying away all day. I don’t even know where he goes. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I’m just . . . very tired.’ It’s true – her once-smooth cheeks have lost their rosy plumpness and there are parchment-thin lines feathered around her eyes. ‘I can’t bear to feel I’m losing him. Not after . . .’ She stops, unable to go on.
‘I’ll take Sam home with me today. Agnes will look to him and he can help with the flock. He can stay awhile. It might do him some good. What do you say?’
‘I don’t mean to pass my burdens on to you.’
I hush her. ‘I’ll hear no more. I like to have him around the place.’
Just then Father and Pastor Flynn come out of the church, already deep in debate.
Jasper Flynn looks me up and down, taking in my old worsted skirts, my patched bodice, my darned shawl. Though I must wear these things for Father’s sake, I know my attire is not truly fitting for the mistress of Scarcross Hall. I care nothing for this, but others do, and I feel Flynn’s scrutiny upon me.
‘I trust you’re well, Mistress Booth?’ he says.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Will you come, Flynn?’ Father says, worrying at his neckerchief. ‘I’ll rest better if I see the thing done with my own eyes.’
The man is still staring at me. ‘I’m sure Pastor Flynn has more important concerns,’ I say.
‘Bestowing God’s protection upon the deserving is a pleasure,’ Flynn says. ‘I’ll be happy to hold a special prayer meeting. We can never be too mindful of the Devil’s ways, especially in these troubled times.’
What does he mean? For a moment, suspicions crowd in. Does he know something? What has Father told him?
‘Yes, do come soon, Flynn—’
We’re interrupted by a woman from the village, determined to have the pastor’s attention. As he talks to her he gives little glances my way until I have to turn from his small ferrety eyes, wondering what he has heard that makes him look at me in that way.
I’m up at the White Ladies. It’s midnight. A chalk-white moon sits high in the sky, silvering the clouds. I lie on my back on the Slaying Stone, feeling its rough surface and hard edges through my nightgown. The wind sings through the heather. All is peace and calm.
I sense that someone is here. Someone is watching me. I raise my head. The stones glow a weird furnace-blue, sending moon shadows out across the moor, but I see no one in their cast. I lie back. Now I can hear someone – the crunch of footsteps across frosted ground. I dare not look. I close my eyes and the footsteps come closer. A single hand grips my naked ankle. A chill crackles through me like lightning. I look up into the fierce dark eyes of Ellis Ferreby.
I wake with a start. I’ve thrown off the coverlet, and am shivering with cold. The sheet is wound about my leg. I kick it free, pull the bedding up to my chin and rest back on my bolster. But I cannot dispel the dream so easily. I did not close the shutters and moonlight spills across the floor.
Then I hear a footstep on the boards.
My heart spikes. It comes again – one step, then another, at the foot of my bed.
I stare, motionless, into the darkness, but see nothing. Am I still dreaming?
Then a run of steps, away towards the casement, quick and light; the footfall of a child. I cannot separate my waking senses from my dream world. Fear s
tifles my breath. Pressure builds in my lungs as they crave air. My body prickles all over and yet I dare not move.
Again – a flurry of steps from the casement back towards the bed. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, expecting to feel the touch of that cold hand once more, but whatever it is suddenly swerves away towards the door. The latch clicks and there’s a low creak as the door swings open, no wider than a hand’s breadth.
I force myself to speak. ‘Sam?’ It comes out whispered, ragged, my tongue turned dry. I’m met with silence. ‘Sam, is that you?’
I lie still a few moments, straining for any sound, but all I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I force myself from the threads of nightmare as the world begins to right itself. I find my tinderbox and, with clumsy fingers, strike at the steel until the charcloth ignites. I light a candle and straight away the warm glow chases away the demons. My door is open, no more than an inch. Perhaps I did not secure it. Perhaps the draught has caught it.
I pad across the room, bare toes on cold boards, catching a slight whiff of something burning. I open the door. There is a small chamber next to my own, just big enough for a pallet bed and washstand, meant for a maid. The door to this room stands open. I lift my candle and peer into the shadowy corners, but there seems nothing out of the ordinary so I continue to the gallery.
I see faint light at the door of the old bedchamber. Foreboding rises again, and for a moment I consider turning away, locking my door and retreating to my bed, but this time I’ve enough waking sense to challenge the feeling. Besides, I’ll never sleep now. So I tiptoe along the gallery, my candle sending long shadows ahead, my reflection bounced back at me a hundred times in the mullioned glass of the big window.
As I reach the door, my heart rises and falls with raw panic. But I will not be beaten.
I put my eye to the crack, seeing nothing save the glow and waver of candle flame. But I can hear something: a whisper, a voice. I cannot make it out. Very gently, I push the door.
Sam is there. He sits on the floor at the foot of the old tester bed with his back to me. There is a candlestick on one side of him, flame stretched high in the chill, and on the other, the old fire screen – the child-shaped fiction that was my father’s warning. Sam is muttering to himself. I cannot tell what he’s saying but he does not seem to hear me.
‘Sam . . .’
He starts and turns, eyes wide with shock and fear.
‘What are you doing?’
He stares at me as if he does not know me.
I step into the room. ‘What are you doing in here, Sam?’
His expression is a stew of fear and flight. Furtive, desperate, he glances around the room, searching for something: an excuse? A way out?
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
He shakes his head. He does not want to tell me.
‘There’s no need to be afraid. I’m not angry.’
Then, ‘Don’t tell Pa.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’ I wait, hoping this offering will encourage some confidence, but he stays silent. On the floor he’s placed two piles of pebbles, one before himself and the other near the fire screen. Some sort of game?
‘What are you doing?’
Again, mute silence.
‘Come, you should be in bed.’
Reluctantly, he climbs to his feet, eyes still darting about the room. I follow his gaze but there is nothing to see.
‘Put out the candle,’ I tell him, but he just stands there so I do it myself. I take his hand and lead him away, closing the door firmly behind us.
Back in my room I secure the shutters and leave a candle to burn on the chest. Somehow I cannot stand to be plunged back into darkness. I tuck Sam beneath the coverlet and climb in beside him. His copper-curled head rests on the bolster, hazel-green eyes watery and scared.
‘You know you’re safe here, Sam. You know that, don’t you?’ My own doubt makes the words sound like a lie.
Nothing.
‘Is there something you’re afraid of? Something that’s making you unhappy?’
He shakes his head.
‘Will you tell me what you were doing in that room?’
His lips tighten.
‘Please, Sam.’
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ he says, eyes welling once more. Why is he so afraid?
‘Did you come into my room tonight?’
‘No.’
‘You must tell me if you did. I won’t be cross.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? You must tell me the truth now. You mustn’t lie to me.’
‘I was never in here before. I’m not lying. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?’
I look at him. There is nothing deceitful or cunning about him. He’s just a boy with a troubled past and fear in his eyes. A sad, lonely child. My heart swells with pity and affection. ‘Very well. I believe you. You can sleep now. You’re safe here. No one is angry.’
He blinks a couple of times, then allows his weariness to take over. Of course he’s lonely. He has lost his only playmate. I can understand that. My own childhood friends were few: the shepherds who tolerated a precocious tomboy, Agnes and my farmyard pets. I cradle him against my shoulder and stroke his hair, thinking of the coin found beneath his pillow, praying it does not foretell his fate. After a while his breath deepens and he sleeps.
I know that I will not.
Chapter 15
As the sun sinks, Father calls Agnes, Sam and me into his study to pray with Pastor Flynn. He is insistent, ignoring my pleas to be excused, so we kneel on the worn rush mats, the hard-flagged floor bruising our bones, eyes closed, hands steepled, the very picture of Puritan penitence, while Flynn speaks of sin, humility and the Lord’s protection. Father is placated by Flynn’s presence, so we follow him from room to room, bowing our heads while he prays for us, until we end in the hall, on our knees once more, before the draughty fireplace.
The sun is beginning to set and, beyond the window, the sky is stained scarlet. Shafts of reddish light make the dust motes glow and wash the walls with shifting cloud shadows.
Flynn’s voice fills the space. I kneel, joints aching, annoyed that I’ve wasted the last light of the day. God does not speak to me through prayer learned by rote, or by self-denial and fasting. I’m with Him when I’m out on the moor, when I see His hand at work in life, death and the turning of the world. I have a miserable feeling that, this year, we need more than Flynn’s passionate invocations.
Through half-closed lids, I watch Flynn, arms raised to the heavens, eyes screwed shut, expression somewhere between ecstasy and anguish. ‘“Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my strong hold, my God, in him will I trust . . .”’
A chilly gust climbs in through the broken panes and weaves its way around my neck, bringing with it the scent of burning, charred wood and peat smoke. I glance at Agnes but her eyes are closed too, lips moving in a silent echo of Flynn’s.
‘“For he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter and from the noisome pestilence. He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe under his feathers . . .”’
It’s quiet at first, a rasping scrape beneath the deep timbre of Flynn’s voice; the sound of something dropped and dragged across upstairs boards.
No one moves. Flynn does not falter. A sense of dread flutters in my chest.
It comes again, louder now: that dull thunk . . . a pause . . . the long, dragging scrape.
Flynn raises his voice.
‘“Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day . . .”’
Flynn’s familiar recital takes on new, forbidding meani
ng. I open my eyes and look at Father. He’s rocking gently to and fro, beads of sweat rising on his forehead. Can he hear it too?
Louder still.
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Surely they must hear it. Only Sam has his eyes open, staring into the far corner, smiling to himself as he watches cloud patterns dance across the plaster. Something in his expression is unnerving – knowing, almost triumphant. Is he laughing at us? I open my mouth to speak but a sudden thought stops me: perhaps no one else can hear it. Am I imagining it? I think of the figure in the fog and the sensation that I’m the one being watched, as if the threat is meant for me alone. For the first time, I doubt my own mind. Queasy dismay roils in my belly.
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
I close my eyes and echo Flynn’s words. For once, I’m in earnest.
‘“There shall no evil happen unto thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways . . .”’
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Flynn, completing the psalm, falls silent.
We remain on our knees and I know beyond doubt that we are all listening, waiting, but nobody says a word. The noise has stopped. There is only the wind in the empty chimney, the faint crackle of the kitchen fire and the galloping pulse of my quickened heartbeat. The last light of the sun fades and we are dipped into twilight.
Slowly, quietly, we stand and go on as if nothing has happened.
Later, instead of leaving Sam to Agnes’s care, I tuck him beneath the covers of my own bed. When I bend to blow out the candle he clings to my hand and looks at me with frightened eyes. He’s said nothing of Pastor Flynn’s visit but, of course, it must have upset him. I cannot get the image of his peculiar expression out of my mind.
‘What is it, Sam? Is something wrong?’
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 10