‘My father does not like to drink, these days, or to ride. He hasn’t taken Sailor out in a year or more.’
‘To visit the pastor, then. I hear they’re friendly.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She puts both hands to her temples, paces back and forth. He watches in silence while, some distance away, a curlew makes its lonely cry.
Then she comes closer, the lantern casting crags across her face. She looks exhausted. ‘Something happened. I think it upset him.’
She bites her lip. For the briefest second he thinks her eyes grow wet, but perhaps he imagines it, perhaps it’s just the moon’s shine, because she shakes her head and is stern again.
He waits for her to occupy the space he creates. Restraint can be more effective than questions: people cannot bear a silence and will tell you their secrets to fill it.
‘You’ve sensed it, haven’t you?’ she says eventually, searching his face. ‘I think you have.’
A hundred thoughts spark in his mind. What does she mean? How much does she know?
‘They say there’s something up here, on the moor,’ she says. ‘Something ancient. Something evil. I never believed it. I never saw anything to make me believe it. But now . . .’
‘The lambs,’ he says.
‘Not just that. If only it were just that. There’s more you do not know.’
Again, he waits. Even in the dim light, he can see real fear in her eyes. ‘I think my father is afraid. Something is plaguing his mind.’
He likes to think of himself as a man of reason, not given to the superstition that breeds among the hill people: it belongs to an older time, a time before the wars changed everything, but he has no doubt that she is in earnest, and she is not a woman given to delusion. He remembers Garrick’s confession. He remembers the bloody bodies of the lambs. He recalls the sensation of eyes on his back and feels daggered claws sink into his innards as his own fear begins to mirror hers. He struggles to push it down.
‘What can be done to find Master Booth?’ he asks, keen for some distraction.
She looks about, as if expecting all the demons in Hell to rise up from the peat bog. ‘I must search for him.’
‘Without a horse he’ll not have gone far.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘What about the flock?’
‘They’ll do well enough for one night.’
‘Do you have the pistol?’
He shakes his head. He had left it hidden in the hayloft. ‘Where might he have gone?’ he asks.
‘As you say, he may have sought refuge with Pastor Flynn. Will you go? Across the moor will be quicker than the coffin path. Do you know the house?’
‘Yes.’ He gathers his hat and crook. ‘And you?’
‘To Ambrose. My father has a fondness for Sam – perhaps he went to the cottage. If not, I’ll circle back to the Hall. I must be there if he returns.’
‘If I find him, I’ll bring him home or, if he cannot travel, I’ll send word.’ He nods a farewell, turns and begins to walk away, but a question stops him. ‘Why did you come here first?’
‘I don’t know. But I was sure he would be here.’
He knows why. If evil is at work upon the moor, then this is the place to find it.
He watches the lantern bob and sway as she makes her way back down the fell towards Garrick’s cottage – a small dot of lambent gold in a landscape washed lunar blue. He can see well enough by the moon as he picks his way across the moor top. He follows an old drovers’ track for a while and knows by the stars that he’s headed east, and will drop down the fell-side into the valley before he reaches the church. As he crests the summit of the moor, he loses sight of her lantern. The heather is alive with the scurry of small, nameless creatures. The moor smells different by night – damp peat and ancient wood, iron, blood and bone. Everything is washed pure. He feels, for a moment, not on top of the world but beneath it – a strange night-time otherworld of darkness and starlight and the fine line between life and death.
She used the word ‘father’. It is a word he dislikes, a word that conjures confusion in him, a feeling he dulls with drink and denial. Any other course is weakness. A man should be strong and hard, without sympathy or remorse. He was taught this by the man who raised him, lessons delivered by fist and blade. As a boy, he swallowed them whole, though at times they made him sick to the stomach, made his body bruise, his flesh split, his heart bleed and then, finally, become a cold, dead thing.
Betsy had suffered with him and, somehow, that had made it all right. She did not have the strength to fight back. By the end, it had all been sucked out of her, drained dry, like a bottle of sack.
He remembers the last time he saw her. He remembers the pistol. He can see the powder keg and the pouch of bullets on the tabletop. His father had been cleaning it, had loaded it, ready to fire.
He remembers Betsy afterwards, shaken and spat out, slumped in the corner, like a hare mauled by a hound. Gretchen too, bruises stippling her throat, eyes brimming with horror. But most of all he remembers the words.
If he ever doubted that words have the power to cut, to slice and maim, he does not now. He carries those words like a wound that will not heal: You are nobody’s son. You are nothing.
He remembers the heft of the gun in his hand.
The first time is the worst.
As he begins to follow the track down the fell-side, he’s surprised to see the faint glow of firelight away to his right. He stops, checks his bearings. It must be coming from the old ruined cottage. Vagrants, Bestwicke had said.
He leaves the path and cuts down the slope, heels sliding as he meets the dew-drenched grass of the lower fell. An owl swoops, snowy underbelly a sudden shock of white feathers.
The light is coming from the ruin. He can see the flickering of a fire through unshuttered windows. Smoke is escaping through holes in the roof. He can hear the low tones of a male voice.
There is no gate or door to rap upon so he creeps to the entrance and peers in, not keen to disturb the kind of men likely to find shelter here.
Bartram Booth is seated on the earthen floor, his back to the door. He’s talking, animated and gesticulating. Around the fire are several figures – not the brigands and thieves that Ellis expects but a family: a man, a woman and four children – the youngest a babe, asleep in its mother’s arms, no older than a year.
They are dressed in rags and have the shrunken, desiccated look of poverty. One of the children, a girl, is poking at the embers with a stick.
‘But you must not do business with the wool badgers in these parts,’ Booth says loudly. ‘If there was ever a bunch of untrustworthy scoundrels, I tell you it’s them. I would not part with my fleeces even if they offered me the best price. No, deal straight with the weavers. Leave out all that bartering and nonsense. Fix a price and stick to it, that’s my advice to you.’
The man is staring, uncomprehending, nodding along.
Ellis steps into the room, into a yeasty stench of old hay and dung. Gaunt, hollow-eyed faces turn to stare at him, but Booth does not notice.
‘A badger might promise you a higher price,’ Booth goes on. ‘But who’s to say you’ll ever see the coin? I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been cheated before.’
Ellis touches him gently on the shoulder. ‘Master Booth.’
‘Well! Good day to you, sir,’ Booth says, as if greeting a friend over a flagon.
‘Your daughter is waiting upon you. I’m come to fetch you.’
‘Have a seat, sir. You look like a shepherding man. Have a drink with us.’ Booth raises a battered wooden cup, slopping thin liquid.
Ellis sees a pan of something by the fire that smells of wild garlic and nettles. ‘We’ve no time for that, sir,’ he says carefully.
‘Don’t worry, there’s plen
ty to go around. Come. Sit. Mistress Goffe, spare a drink for our new friend.’
The woman leans forward to ladle broth into her own cup. She has a pinched, skull-like face, which tells of hardship and hunger, and cold, accusing eyes. She stares at Ellis with distrust. He holds out a hand to refuse.
‘This is Silas Goffe,’ Booth says, flapping fingers in the direction of the man.
The man nods at Ellis, eyes vacant, beaten by ill fortune.
‘And this is his good lady, Mistress Joan, and all his brood, see? And who are you, sir? You are not familiar to me.’
‘I’m Ellis Ferreby, Master Booth. I work for you at Scarcross Hall.’
Booth frowns, bewildered. ‘Ah, yes, Scarcross Hall. Of course . . .’
‘I’m sent by your daughter. I’m come to fetch you home.’
‘My daughter?’
‘Yes, sir. Your daughter, Mercy.’
‘Mercy . . .’ Booth looks at the cup in his hand, then in surprise at the faces around the fire. He laughs, forced and uncertain. ‘Yes, of course.’ He puts the cup down. Ellis notices his fingers are shaking. ‘I’ve trespassed upon your hospitality for too long. Forgive me, Mistress Goffe. I must be on my way.’
Ellis helps him to his feet. Booth, unsteady, leans heavily against him. Silas Goffe stands, wipes a hand on his filthy breeches and offers it to Booth. ‘God bless you for your kindness, sir.’
Booth declines it, but nods. ‘Yes, yes, I shan’t forget. I shall see to it. You and your family shall have work.’
Silas Goffe sinks in an obsequious bow and Ellis hears, distinctly, the woman make a splutter of disdain.
They leave the wretched family huddled by the fire. As they walk away Ellis turns back, just once, and sees the woman at the doorway, watching them go.
Down in the valley they follow the stream to the falls and from there along the coffin path, the way he had first come to Scarcross Hall. Booth moves slowly and offers no conversation. He mutters to himself, seeming lost in thought. When they reach the crossroads, he wants to take the packhorse trail to the White Ladies and it takes Ellis some time to persuade him to wait until morning. He has no desire to revisit the stones tonight. When he asks why it is so important, Booth falls silent and will say no more. But as they go, he talks to himself, and draws a small leather shoe from his pocket, cradling it as if it were made of gold. Ellis catches the names of strangers and the words, repeated over and over: I must find them. I must go to them. The man is surely not in his right mind.
By the time Ellis sees the outline of Scarcross Hall, the sky is brightening to the east and early-morning dew glistens on the fell-side. How differently this night could have ended, he reflects. One wrong step can put a man in the peat bog, leave him sinking and drowning in thick black mire. One slip could send him tumbling into the brook: a broken bone, a stray rock, a body dragged down to the bridge in the village. Such things can end a man. Especially a man like Bartram Booth. The moors are not kindly. They tempt tragedy.
Mercy comes running from the house, eyes fearful and ringed with shadow, telling of a night spent waiting and fretting. Once they are inside and Booth is safe before the kitchen hearth, blanketed, hot caudle pressed into his hands, Agnes fussing, she comes to where Ellis is lingering by the door.
‘Later, you shall tell me all.’ She puts out a hand and rests her fingers lightly on his forearm. Her eyes meet his and she smiles. ‘Thank you.’
And, in spite of himself, he is glad.
Chapter 21
His back aches. His shoulders smart. He pauses, straightens, upturns the scythe and rests the blade at his feet, the sharpened edge, a gleaming iron smile. Sweat trickles and pools in the curve of his back, his rough kersey shirt damp and clinging. ‘Rest awhile,’ he tells the girl.
She looks at him with round, vacant eyes.
‘Fetch me a drink,’ he says, holding out his flask.
She cocks her head, unsure, as if she does not quite understand him. He wonders if she is simple.
‘You see that woman?’ He points to the corner of the field, where Agnes doles out small beer from an earthenware jug. ‘She’ll give you drink. Bring some back for me.’
The girl takes the flask and scurries off, stoatlike, through the tall grass. He’s forgotten her name and she has not spoken all day, but that suits him. So long as she rakes the cut hay evenly, so long as she picks out the ragwort, ryegrass and hemlock that would poison the sheep, he is satisfied. The work is hard but he enjoys the pattern of it, the rhythm of breath, muscle and blade that is almost musical. Without interruption, he has peace and time to think.
He was not surprised when he recognised Silas Goffe and his ragged family among the handful of workers Garrick has employed to help with the hay cutting. He remembers Booth’s promise that night in the ruined cottage and supposes that he likes to be seen as a man of his word, a man of Christian charity. Garrick has put the older girl and the mother to spreading and picking over the grass in other fields while the man and his young lad are given a scythe and put to work nearby. They are a listless, beggarly bunch with little strength. He saw how hungrily the girl tore at the loaf Agnes gave them at midday and felt a pulling in his chest that might have been pity, or at least recognition.
Still, he is making good progress, almost half his section now laid flat, the long grasses fanned behind him in the sunshine, freckled with the rainbow bloom of wildflowers. The girl is making a fair job of it. He shields his eyes from the glare and scans the fields that stretch up the valley side to the lower fell. Above them, on the slopes and crags, the sheep are scattered wide, left to fend for themselves on the higher ground until autumn. He feels bound to these pale, skinny creatures in their new-clipped coats in a way he has not known before, as if his own well-being is now tied to theirs. He is beginning to see how it might be to stay still for a while, to throw in his lot, and is surprised that he feels none of the usual desire to unhitch the shackles and move on.
Garrick has waited almost two weeks for sunshine, but he could not delay any longer. Last night, after one bright day and a fiery sunset, he sent word: they would begin. His instinct was right – it’s the first real summer heat in weeks, and though heavy-bellied clouds threaten to the west, they stay away from the hills. But the earth is damp. The grass still holds rain and will not dry easily. They need a good clear week or two, maybe more, before it can be gathered and moved inside the barn where it will fill the hayloft.
He, Bestwicke and Ravens have already moved their bedrolls, making camp on the dirt floor that feels bone-achingly cold after the comfort of the loft. Ravens has already picked out two small fleeces to fashion a mattress, but the fleeces will be gone soon too, sold at the big summer fair in Halifax.
Other workers are gathered from the village – women and youngsters who leave off their looms and their livestock to bring in a few extra pennies – or from among the travelling labourers who seek work in the wild, desolate corners where farmers are more likely to turn a blind eye.
He notices the two Irish lads, Tom and Nat, have returned and are set to work with Ravens. Garrick’s unspoken punishment amuses him. He’s sure, now, that Garrick does not like Henry Ravens, and cannot understand why the man is still in his employ, unless this is not Garrick’s choice. Mercy Booth is mistress after all.
She is here too, of course, working in a nearby field. He watches her as he rests, noticing the low, clean sweep of her scythe, her steady rhythm, and the strength in her swing. If it were not for her narrow waist and the curve about her hips and buttocks, you would mistake her for a man. He catches glimpses of Sam’s ruddy curls, bobbing behind her as he spreads the hay.
The girl comes back across the field carrying the leather flask. The beer is watery and tastes a little sour, but he relishes it. ‘Here.’
The girl eyes the flask warily, pushing dirty blonde hair away from her face.
‘Drink – you need it.’
Her big eyes sidle from his to the neck of the flask. She sniffs it.
‘What? Do you think I’ll poison you?’
She shakes her head.
‘Then drink.’
She takes the flask and does so, never taking her eyes from his. Strange little thing, he thinks. She can be no more than eight years old but has none of the natural levity of childhood; her grave, suspicious manner seems well beyond her years. He feels a twinge of kinship.
He hefts the scythe, ready to begin again, when there is a sudden shout and a child’s scream close by. It’s the vagrant boy – the younger brother of the girl, with the same muted blond hair and scrawny frame. Ellis watches the shrieking child run towards his father, who drops his scythe and gathers him in his arms.
Ellis turns to the girl. ‘Stay here.’ He hands her his own scythe and hurries towards them. Please, God, don’t let him be badly cut. He once saw a dog swiped in half and has witnessed enough bloodied calves and lost fingers to know the dangers of this work, but not everyone is so experienced, or so careful.
The boy is screaming, battling against Silas Goffe’s grip. Others stop work, stand and shade their eyes, peering towards the commotion.
Joan Goffe is running too, stumbling in bunched skirts, but Ellis reaches Silas first. ‘Is he hurt?’
The child is still wailing and twisting about.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
Silas points to the ground a few feet away.
Almost hidden by the long grass is the body of a lamb – small, with the unshorn fleece of this spring’s newborns. It is lying belly down, legs awkwardly splayed, atop a pile of its own guts. Its head has been removed and placed a few inches away, turned back to face the body, glassy black eyes unmoved by the sight of its own remains. Around the carcass, where the grass has been flattened in a circle, there are several pale objects – the flesh-stripped skulls of other animals.
Despite the sticky heat and his thumping heart, Ellis feels his blood run chill: he recognises the lamb.
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 15