The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  Joan Goffe reaches them, sees the mess of bloodied fleece. ‘What evil is this?’ she says, eyes brimming with horror.

  A small crowd gathers, each person gasping and exclaiming, repulsed by what they find. Children push between legs to see. A village lad reaches out to pick up one of the tiny skulls, his hand slapped away by an adult.

  Joan, taut with anger, turns to her husband. ‘I told you – I told you we should never have come here. Didn’t I say this place is cursed?’

  ‘Keep the children away,’ Ellis says, attempting to take charge, but no one is listening. He looks about for someone with more authority. Where is Garrick? Where is Mercy? And then he remembers Sam.

  He sees Mercy climbing over the low wall of the field, Sam running ahead, and goes forward to meet them.

  ‘What’s happened? Is someone hurt?’ Mercy says, clearly panicked, as she nears him.

  ‘No one is hurt. It’s a lamb,’ he says, but he does not know what to say next, does not know how to explain what he’s seen.

  He catches hold of Sam’s arm. ‘Don’t look, Sam.’

  The boy searches Ellis’s face for some understanding. Ellis sees the moment he knows. Sam struggles, tugs his arm free and sprints to the gathering circle. When he reaches it, he does not scream or cry out like the other children. He does nothing, just stands and stares, the muscles at his temple twitching.

  Mercy raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Is it . . .?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  When they reach the body she tries to hide the blow but he sees it. He sees the colour drain from her cheeks and the way she clenches her fists so no one will notice her trembling hands. She kneels down next to Sam and puts an arm around him.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Sam,’ she says, but the quaver in her voice betrays her.

  Sam remains transfixed.

  Joan Goffe is ranting to anyone who will listen. ‘There’s evil at work here. I’ve a sense for these things and I knew it at once. I told my husband. “This place is tainted,” I said. And here’s the proof.’ She points at the dead lamb. ‘He told me to keep my silence, for the master promised us work, but I won’t keep my silence now and I won’t keep my children in such danger.’ She looks about her at the shocked, fearful faces. ‘We’re leaving, and if you’ve a care for your lives, you’ll do the same.’

  Garrick reaches them, quickly takes in the carcass on the ground, the aghast, unnerved expressions of the workers. ‘Wait. Don’t be hasty,’ he says. ‘We don’t know what’s happened here.’

  ‘I know well enough,’ Joan says. ‘There’s devilment upon this land. This is witches’ work.’

  There is muttering among the onlookers. One of the children starts to wail.

  Mercy stands, a hand resting protectively on Sam’s shoulder. ‘I’d thank you not to say such things when we do not know the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Joan says, rounding on her. ‘The truth is plain to see, and I’m not afraid to speak it, not even to the likes of you.’

  Ellis watches Silas Goffe, now carrying the sniffling boy in his arms, turn away with resignation, but his wife is not done.

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ she says. ‘There’s something ungodly at work here. I’ll not wait around for the Devil to come calling.’

  ‘If you leave, who else will give you work?’ Garrick says.

  ‘Work or no work, I’ll not stay here to be witched.’

  ‘Would you rather go hungry? Think of your children.’

  ‘I’ll look to my bairns and you look to yours.’

  She nods towards Sam, eyes alight with fury. They settle on Ellis – he feels her glare as a pinprick behind his eyes – then move on to Mercy.

  Joan appeals to the crowd. ‘I say this as a warning. If you’re God-fearing people you’ll leave this place. This is sure sign of a witch at work.’

  Mercy steps forward. ‘Don’t listen to her. She’s a stranger. What does she know of us?’

  ‘I heard this is not the first such slaying to be found,’ says one of the local men.

  ‘You’ve given your men a pistol. Is that not true?’ asks another.

  ‘I heard the same,’ adds yet another. ‘And you have them keeping watch by night. Why would that be?’

  How do they know? The drink-loosened mouth of Henry Ravens has been at work again, no doubt. Ellis wonders, momentarily, if Mercy has shared their secret with him, and feels a pulse of jealousy at the thought.

  ‘There’s no reason to be afraid,’ Mercy says.

  ‘Then why the gun? What are you hiding?’

  ‘Tell us the truth!’

  Already some of the women are gathering their children about them. One – a woman Ellis recognises from the village – speaks up: ‘She’s lying. We know the stories well enough. We know the signs.’

  There is a murmur of agreement.

  ‘Tell us,’ the woman says, voice wavering in dread of the answer. ‘Is the Devil risen once more?’

  A ripple of horror at the fear made real.

  ‘They are just stories,’ Mercy says.

  Ellis wants to speak, to stop the spreading accusatory looks, but they’re right: she is not telling the truth, not even half of it.

  Instead, it’s Garrick who steps forward. ‘Enough of this,’ he says. ‘Any man, woman or child who wants their pay will stop their mouths and get back to work. There’ll be no more talk of witches or the Devil.’

  The threat quiets them a little. But not Joan Goffe. ‘Ask yourselves, whose land is this?’ she says. ‘Who stands to gain from your labours? Who will profit from your silence?’

  ‘I said, enough,’ Garrick says.

  But she won’t be silenced. She points at Mercy. ‘It’s her. She’s the one. She did this.’

  There is a hush as Mercy steps up. ‘How dare you? You know nothing of me.’

  ‘I know what I see. I knew it the first time I set eyes on you. You have the stink of Satan about you.’

  Mercy’s voice is as hard and brittle as ice. ‘You will leave my land and never return. And if you say one more word against me, I shall have you cast out from this parish. Your children will starve. You’ll find no work, no shelter and no help from a single soul.’

  Joan glares at her, all hatred and spite, the sinews in her neck straining as she swallows whichever curses threaten to fly. ‘I would not stay in this godforsaken place if you begged me.’

  ‘Do not test me. I’ve the power to do it.’

  Silas steps to his wife’s side, the whimpering child still in his arms. ‘Come, Joan,’ he says. ‘We must move on.’

  There is a moment when Joan falters, trembling with anger, but then Silas puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘There are other places,’ he says quietly. ‘Safer places.’

  Mercy turns away and crouches to comfort Sam. As the little crowd begins to disperse, muttering and casting fearful backwards glances, she catches Ellis’s eye and he knows what she’s asking of him. He will take the body of the lamb and he will burn it, just as he did the others.

  Joan turns back to her husband. ‘Get the pay we’re owed,’ she says sharply. ‘And where is Anna?’

  Anna. That is her name – the silent girl who has followed him like a shadow all day. He looks for her. She has done exactly as he asked. She has not moved from the far side of the field, where she has picked up the scythe, as if impatient for him to resume work. She stands, watching them all, a tiny tatterdemalion, dwarfed by the half-moon of the blade.

  Chapter 22

  ‘It is a matter of sin.’ Jasper Flynn takes a large pinch of tobacco, fingers it into the bowl of his pipe and brushes away the stray strands that fall to his lap. ‘And a matter of justice. The souls of the departed do not wander this realm unless God desires it.’

  Father, seated close to the flames with a blanket over his knees, le
ans back. ‘But what do the Scriptures say? And what do you, as a man of God, make of what I’ve told you?’

  ‘Ah, the Scriptures . . .’

  ‘What of Samuel? Did his spirit not appear to Saul?’

  ‘Beware, Master Booth. Remember that the spirit of Samuel was summoned by a witch. Likely it was not the soul of Samuel at all, but one of Satan’s creatures in disguise.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see.’ Father frowns, deep in thought.

  Flynn puts a taper to his pipe and draws deeply, the tobacco flaring. ‘Ah, here is Mistress Applegarth.’

  Agnes greets him, then doles out cups of steaming broth. She offers one to me but it’s too stifling in the room to drink. Father is still recovering from the chill he caught the night he spent on the fell and must have a fire, despite the summer heat. The stench of burning peat mingles with the tobacco fug, making the air dense and oppressive. I long to be out on the hills but Flynn insists he speak with us all.

  ‘What do you make of it, Agnes?’ Flynn asks, as she lowers herself awkwardly onto a stool by Father’s chair. ‘What do you have to say about these unsettling events?’

  Agnes shoots a look of surprise at me and then to Sam, who sits in the corner of the study playing with a box of animal bones. He’s ignoring us, engrossed in his game, trying to fit several of the bones together to form some semblance of a living creature; a macabre puzzle. He’s barely spoken since the discovery of the lamb.

  ‘I’m not sure what events you mean, Pastor,’ Agnes says carefully.

  ‘I speak of the lamb that was found in the hayfield. People in the village have come to me. There’s talk of witchcraft, devilry and heathen curses among my congregation. And now Master Booth tells me that he’s heard unexplained noises about the house and strange marks have appeared on the walls. Have you experienced these disturbances too?’

  Agnes hesitates, looking to me. I see she is as shocked as I that Father has admitted these things to Flynn. I wish he’d told me of his intention to do so because I would have persuaded him otherwise; I know Agnes believes, as I do, that we must keep what has happened between us. The more people who know, the more danger there is of real damage to our chances of a good year at market. Still, it’s done now, and perhaps Flynn can help: he will not want these rumours to spread any more than we do. I nod, giving Agnes my permission to share what she must.

  ‘Yes, it’s just as you say, Pastor. Though the master taking ill is the worst fright of all.’

  Flynn looks troubled. ‘And what do you suggest is the cause of these things?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. But I don’t think it should be discussed in front of the boy.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Father says. ‘He’s old enough to learn the ways of the world, are you not, Sam?’

  Sam looks up.

  ‘Come here by me, child.’

  Sam stands and crosses the room warily.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ Father says. ‘Knows the ways of the flock, just like his father. What have you there, Sam?’

  Sam splays his palm to reveal the small, brittle skull of a newborn lamb.

  ‘He’s fascinated by the workings of the world. A student of nature, are you not, Sam?’

  Sam says nothing but stares at the skull. I notice a film of sweat spring on his upper lip.

  ‘He’ll make his father proud.’

  ‘Stop mithering the boy,’ Agnes says. ‘Sam, come into the kitchen.’

  ‘Please stay awhile, Agnes,’ Flynn says. ‘I want you all to hear what I have to say.’

  ‘Sam, come and sit by me,’ I say.

  He comes gratefully, still cradling the skull, and folds himself on the floor by my feet, leaning against my knee. At the touch of his warm, soft curls I feel a swell of motherly tenderness. I would protect him from this, if I could, but Father is right: he’s old enough to learn the threat of the Devil.

  ‘Teachings tell us that the souls of the dead cannot return,’ Flynn says, taking a slow, solemn draw on his pipe. ‘We die and are received into Heaven – if we repent of our sins and God grants us mercy – or, if we do not, we are damned to an eternity in Hell. Scripture tells us that there is no middle ground, no place for wandering souls, as the papists would have us believe. There is no mention of Purgatory in the Bible.’ He pauses, sucking at the last of the tobacco, then rests the pipe in a dish beside him. ‘But I cannot deny that I’ve heard of such cases before, where some wrong has been perpetrated on earth and the departed cannot rest, cannot make their way to the Lord’s mercy until justice has been served. Could it be that, in such cases, the Lord allows these souls to return? Is it His way of helping us to see justice done? The things you’ve told me today – the strange noises, handprints – do they not suggest a human presence? Perhaps someone who has come to right such a wrong?’

  I understand him but this does not tally with the malevolent presence I’ve felt, the sense of ill will.

  ‘I must ask you all to look to your consciences. Is there some wrongdoing, some sin for which you have not atoned? Secrets work like poison within the soul. But, remember, there are no secrets from God. He already knows all. He knows your sins. I would urge you to confess them and repent.’

  Henry Ravens springs to mind. Since my altercation with him he’s done as I asked and stayed away, but that does not change the sin, or the threat he has hung about my neck. I think of all those nights I wanted him. All these years I’ve not felt as guilty as I should. Then I think of the time, two summers since, when I did not bleed for almost four months. My breasts ached and my stomach churned at the smell of roasting meat. But I’d begun bleeding again and the thing that came out of me was left to rot in the pit beneath the privy.

  Father’s eyes are stormy. ‘You think I’ve brought this on myself? I’ve done all I can to protect this house and those in it. You know that, Flynn. All these years, I’ve kept us safe.’

  I think of how Father has fretted over the lost coins and the missing inkwell, how, ever since they first disappeared, his mind has seemed distracted, unanchored. I’ve not mentioned the coins to him, or to anyone, since I discovered them gone from beneath the boards in my chamber – that is my own secret and I see no sense in making things worse by sharing it. I’ll not be the one to cause more worry. I do not even want to admit it to myself.

  ‘I’m not suggesting you are at fault,’ Flynn says, ‘merely saying that the truth will out, in this life or the next, and if there is some wrongdoing, God will have His justice in the end.’

  ‘You’re frightening the child,’ Agnes says.

  Lost in my own reverie, I’d not noticed that Sam has turned white as the bone in his hand.

  Father ignores her. ‘You know the stories, Flynn, about this place. You know what they say about the White Ladies. They say that sorcerers used to gather there – witches of the worst sort.’

  ‘And they are the Devil’s creatures indeed, Master Booth.’

  ‘Could they have returned? Who else would slaughter that lamb in such a deliberate way?’

  ‘Such questions are being asked, but be cautious before you take that line of thinking. I’d not encourage it. Do you have any reason to suspect a witch at work? Is there someone who would wish harm upon you or your family?’

  ‘You think there was purpose in this?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say, but surely all possibilities must be considered.’

  Father says nothing.

  ‘My father is not a man to make enemies,’ I say. ‘And I see no reason why anyone would wish him ill.’

  Flynn turns his penetrating gaze upon me. ‘Can you all say the same?’

  I think of Henry’s wife and try to hold Flynn’s eye. ‘I know of no one who would do this.’

  Strained silence. I hear Sam breathing unevenly.

  Flynn hangs his head, thinking. It seems to me he’s holding something back. Th
en, ‘My concern now is with the peace and well-being of my congregation. I’ll do all I can for you, but, if you’re convinced the threat is not an earthly one, your best protection is your faith.’

  Father is insistent. ‘But how do we proceed? How do we protect ourselves?’

  ‘Look to your consciences. Many a learned man would say that any apparition is the work of Satan – his creatures, manifested in the image of those we have lost, or the things we desire most, sent to taunt us, sent to tempt us to sin.’

  I think of the presence I’ve felt, the glimpses of a pale figure from the corner of my eye. I shiver, sensing a cold breath upon my neck, despite the heat.

  Father is leaning forward now, one hand pressed to his temple, hiding his face.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Agnes says gently, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You haven’t the strength.’

  He bats her away and looks at Flynn. ‘What must we do?’ he says. ‘What must we do to be rid of this?’

  ‘If Satan is at work here, your best protection is prayer, Master Booth, prayer and penitence. I recommend a fast.’

  ‘And if there is witchcraft at work?’

  ‘Then my advice would be the same.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do to cleanse the house? Have you not the means to drive out any evil that lingers here?’

  Flynn looks offended. ‘I do not perform the Catholic rite of exorcism. You should know that, Master Booth. Prayer and penitence is my advice. God is your best protection now.’

  Before he leaves, Flynn asks to see the handprints. Father has refused to return to his bedchamber since Ellis Ferreby brought him home, so we have set up a truckle bed in the front parlour and he sleeps there.

  Agnes has cleared away the mess and made the bed. I show Flynn the marks upon the wainscot. By daylight they do not hold the terror they did by night. They now have little more density than a shadow. The clarity of the marks is gone too, the outline of palm and fingers no longer so evident.

  Flynn crouches and examines them. ‘Your father seems convinced they are the handprints of a child.’

  ‘Yes. It seemed so at the time, but they’ve faded.’