The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  ‘Is there any reason he would claim this? Anything to cause him such distress? Anything in your family’s history that might explain it?’

  ‘You mean . . . a child?’

  He nods. ‘A child that passed on.’

  ‘No. I was my mother’s first and she died when I was born. Of course, there was Will . . .’

  ‘Yes. A sad business.’ He stands and stares out of the window, pensive. I’m uncomfortable. I don’t want him here, prying and meddling, no matter how well meant his intention. He turns to me suddenly. ‘I’m glad to have this moment alone with you, Mercy. There’s something I must say to you.’ He fixes me with his forthright stare, the way he does in church – the way that makes me feel he can read my thoughts. ‘I’m concerned about your father,’ he says. ‘He does not seem quite himself.’

  ‘He’s been ill. The sickroom does not agree with him.’

  ‘It’s more than that. I understand that he’s had a shock, but I’ve been noting a decline in him for quite some time. Tell me, Mercy, are the things he says really the truth of it? I’m no physician but I see his strength failing, and perhaps his mind too. I would not blame you or Mistress Applegarth for humouring an old man in his dotage, for easing his path, however misguided.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what my father has seen or heard but I can tell you that it’s not wholly imagination. Many people saw that lamb.’

  ‘But have you seen or heard things within this house?’

  Part of me wants to unburden myself, to tell him everything – the unexplained noises, the footsteps, the dead lambs, the missing coins, the figure in the fog – but I fear what will happen if I do. He’ll think me mad, or worse. I say nothing.

  ‘God’s world is full of mysteries,’ he says. ‘Did you heed me, Mercy, when I spoke of sin, just now?’

  I suddenly feel as if I’m six years old, caught stealing sweetmeats from the pantry. I force myself to meet his eye. ‘Of course. Though I don’t believe that any of us is carrying such a burden.’

  He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, noisily. ‘My advice to you is to marry.’

  I’m taken aback. ‘Why so?’

  ‘These problems aside, your father is unwell and a woman cannot manage this place alone. A husband would offer you . . .’ He searches for a word. ‘. . . protection. You need a man beside you . . . and a child, if Scarcross Hall is to be yours when the time comes. You understand that the heir must be male.’

  ‘Father has promised me many times that all will come to me.’

  ‘Your father tolerates your freedom because it has suited him but do not think that he will stray from the accepted path for you.’

  ‘I’ve Ambrose Garrick to help me. Nothing need change.’

  ‘Ambrose Garrick is not the man. You will need another. Another who is free to make you his wife.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I only say this because I care for you. You must prepare yourself. I’ve seen such cases before. It will get worse before the end. I do not wish to see you turned out of your home. A marriage would smooth your path. You are an unusual woman, Mercy, but even you cannot fight the natural order of things.’

  I show him to the door and watch as he mounts his little hill cob and sets off towards the crossroads. The clouds are low. The air is thick and crackles with the threat of a storm. I wonder what he has heard about me to make him say such things. Has Henry Ravens been boasting in the tavern? And what has Father told him? Why should Flynn be concerned with my future? My future is certain, and always has been.

  When I was young, I would walk in my sleep. I would rise from my bed and wander the corridors in my nightgown. To my mind, it was always winter and snow made the moonlight bright and blue. I would walk from room to room in the silent, empty house, making dust tracks with my fingertips on the furniture, feeling the floorboards shift beneath my feet, my breath misting in the chill night air. I was completely alone. Everything was peaceful and still. I would go to the old bedchamber, which in those days was still kept clean and comfortable, and lie upon the mattress. My head would sink into the pillows and I would drift there, secure and content, knowing that Scarcross Hall was for ever mine, and that no one could take it away.

  Agnes would find me there in the morning, stiff and aching with cold, but the feeling would stay with me, and I know in my heart that day will come.

  Chapter 23

  Just as I feared, gossip and rumour run wild in the village. Joan Goffe has moved on, but not before she spread the fear of the Devil. That sly cat has cost us dear. We have to cajole our workers to stay and finish the hay harvest with promises of higher wages we can ill afford. They do stay, but only out of want, not loyalty.

  I see how they look at me now, avoiding my eye, fearful I’ll wish curses upon them. I’ll need them to return to bring in the barley but instead I spend the money on extra wages now, praying we’ll get a good price for the fleeces this year. I hope that time will see the whole thing forgotten, but now, when I go to church on Sundays, people whisper and turn away from me.

  Father decides to fast. I argue with him – he needs to build his strength – but he’s determined. Once he sets his mind to something, there can be no dissuading him, and he is more contrary than ever. For a fortnight he exists on nothing more than thin gruel and prayer.

  His fervour seems to rub off on Agnes. I find her on her knees when she should be churning butter or salting what little meat we can afford. We do not speak of the things that have come to pass, as if to do so would encourage their return. But the weeks pass, the hay is in and, for a time, I’m not plagued by footsteps or strange noises in the night. I keep the door to the old bedchamber firmly locked. There are no more dead lambs. I begin to hope that Father is right and that God is protecting us.

  I’m at the fold behind the barn with Ellis. He’s brought three sheep down from the summer grazing near the White Ladies, all afflicted with fly-strike. We work together, carefully cleaning the wounds, none of which is deep, and burning the maggots. We will keep the sheep away from the rest of the flock, tend them daily, and hope that there are no more eggs burrowed in places we cannot find.

  The flies are usually at their worst in the late-summer heat, when the sun is fierce, but the damp this year seems to have brought them early, and the worse for it. Summer storms make the air dense and prickling, and then there are days of flat grey skies when it feels that the seasons are turning, though it is not yet August.

  I never asked Ellis what he did with the body of the slaughtered lamb. I watched him gather the parts, the guts slippery and crawling with flies, and put them in a sack. People stared as he walked away towards Scarcross Hall, but once Ambrose had forced them back to work, no one seemed to notice his figure in the distance, climbing the drovers’ track towards the White Ladies.

  I watch him now, carefully digging maggots from a fleshy wound in a ewe’s backside with his blade, a firm hand and quiet words keeping her calm.

  ‘Did you burn it?’ I ask.

  He looks up. He knows what I mean. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the bones?’

  ‘Buried.’

  ‘At the stones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was not the work of a wild dog.’

  He finishes cleaning the wound and inspects the sheep’s fleece. ‘No.’

  ‘When you burned it, did you see anything?’

  He picks a maggot from the sheep and drops it into the brazier. ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  He stands, lets the sheep go. She careers away from him into the willow fence of the byre. I can see his mind working. ‘I’ve not seen the boy here of late. Is he well?’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Aye. Garrick’s boy.’

  ‘He’s stopped coming. He has no reason now.’

  Ellis nods slowly.

  ‘Dor
ity says he spends most of his time alone, out on the moor.’

  ‘He’s just a lad. The moor is in his blood.’

  ‘As it is in mine,’ I say. ‘And yours too, I think.’

  He frowns, turns away. Have I said something wrong?

  ‘I’ll fetch the salve,’ he says.

  ‘No, I’ll go.’

  I jump the gate of the fold and make my way towards the barn, wrapping my leather waistcoat tight around me to keep off the thin drizzle that has begun to fall. It’s true – there is something about Ellis Ferreby that is familiar. I see in him a bond with this life that is a mirror of my own. I know so little about him but that does not matter: there is an affinity that comes with shared understanding. I’ve never felt it with Henry, or any of the other men who have come before. It has crept up on me over these last weeks, while Ellis has done as I asked without question and kept his silence. Perhaps his quietness is just reticence. Perhaps, like me, he does not show his true self easily. Perhaps I’ve been too hasty to judge.

  The barn reeks with the fetid smell of damp hay. I’m afraid that our scant harvest will rot and the flock will have to survive on thistles and heather when the snows come. The fleeces are piled beneath the hayloft. If this rain keeps up we shall have to move them inside the house, but I do not want to put them in the old bedchamber this year. Perhaps we could pile them in the hall and light the big fire to keep them dry. Father likes to keep the hall clear, tidy and ready to receive visitors, but what is the point when no one comes?

  I go to the chest where I keep the salve, open it and take out a pot. The scent of the liniment is soothing: honey, tansy and beeswax.

  There is movement in the hayloft above. I’m nervous, these days: any strange noise makes my heart leap.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  It comes again – rustling, scraping – something too large to be a rat.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  I take a few steps back and peer upwards, afraid of what I might see. The face of Henry Ravens appears above the lintel.

  ‘Mercy.’ He makes a lazy smile. ‘So, you’re come looking for me after all.’

  ‘What are you doing here? You should be out on the fell.’

  ‘Ah! John will look after the sheep. He doesn’t need me.’ He stands and swaggers to the ladder. ‘Why don’t you join me? A little tumble in the hay . . .’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  He laughs, shows me the bottle in his hand. ‘As a lord.’

  Anger flares. ‘You cannot behave like this, Henry. I won’t pay you to spend your days in drink.’

  He wobbles and I think for a moment he might topple, but he manages to grasp the rail and begins to climb down, feet groping blindly for each rung. ‘It’s time you and I had some sport. You remember what good times we used to have before he came, don’t you?’ He grapples with the last few rungs. ‘I know you miss me.’

  I glance over my shoulder towards the door of the barn, making sure we are not overheard. ‘I told you, that’s over, and I’d thank you not to speak of it.’

  ‘And I told you, I think not. Come, have a drink with me.’ He offers the bottle.

  I should cast him out for this, but his past threats prevent me. There is too much at stake. ‘Henry, you must stop this or I’ll have no choice but to tell you to leave. If Ambrose knew—’

  ‘Oh, I need not worry about Garrick. He’s your little pet. He’ll do whatever you say. And you don’t want me to go.’

  ‘I cannot pay a worker who does not work.’

  ‘Is that all I am to you now?’ He touches a twist of hair that has fallen loose from my hat.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, pushing his hand away. ‘You are not to touch me again.’

  ‘Saving yourself for him, are you?’ He fixes me with a drink-blurred smile. ‘I told you, I won’t share.’ He runs his fingers down the front of my waistcoat, tries to slip a hand inside to circle my waist.

  ‘You’re not listening. Sleep it off, but this is your last chance.’

  His smile dissolves and is replaced by something darker – a look I’ve seen before: anger mixed with lust. ‘You can’t threaten me.’

  ‘I’m mistress here, Henry. And you must do as I say.’

  ‘They’re already calling you witch down in the village. Did you know that? Should I add whore to their insults? Slattern? Adulteress? What will they make of you then?’

  He grabs my arm, hard this time, so I cannot shake him off. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Refuse me and I’ll do it, I swear. I’ll tell the world what you are. I’ll tell them how you witched me.’

  ‘I said, let me go.’

  He tosses the bottle aside, sending a shower of spirits over the fleeces behind us, then lunges for me, one arm about my waist and the other pressed tight to the back of my neck. He forces his mouth to mine.

  He’s never kissed me before and I’m stunned for a moment while he knocks my hat to the ground and his tongue fills my mouth. He has a sickly, unclean taste of yesterday’s liquor.

  I try to push him away but his grip is tight, fingers digging into my neck. He pushes me backwards, his feet tangling with mine. We fall onto the fleeces.

  ‘Henry, stop!’

  He breathes heavily against my neck – a rasping, panting sound like an animal – then sinks his teeth into the flesh above my collarbone.

  I cry out, curse, and try to push him away but his weight and sudden strength are too much.

  ‘I know it’s me you want,’ he says. ‘It’s me you want, not him. Say it. Say it’s me.’

  He climbs on top of me, pinning both arms to the ground, knees digging into my thighs, grinding bone against bone.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  He leans forward so his face is next to mine, the scratch of stubble against my cheek. ‘You can’t send me away. You can’t do that. I’ll tell them what you really are, whore.’

  He grips my jaw and looks me in the eye. There’s a desperate fury in him that frightens me. ‘Say it. Say you’re a whore. Say you want me.’

  I struggle to raise a knee, a foot, anything, but I cannot move. I say nothing and it angers him more. His hair falls forward into his face, spittle drooling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Say it – or you’ll pay.’

  Instead, I spit into his face.

  He makes a wild roar and begins to tear at my clothes.

  ‘No! Stop!’ I shout, but he’s too lost in rage to heed me. His hands are at my belt. I pummel his shoulders but he takes the blows, spitting out curses. He tears at my breeches so they come loose. He moves to pull them down, begins to fumble with his own. As he releases my arms I raise a knee and kick out, landing a blow to his chest. He reels backwards, loses his balance a moment and that is all it takes. I lash out again and the heel of my boot connects with his cods. He yelps and doubles forward on top of me. I struggle and manage to wriggle out from beneath him but he grabs my ankle and pulls me back so my cheek scrapes across the floor.

  Rage wells in me, fuelled by his threats, his poison, and the disgust I feel at myself. I twist and kick his hands away, climb to my knees. The first punch is true, my fist landing on his jaw so hard that my knuckles crunch. He reels, but then smiles, a horrid mirthless grin, as blood trickles from his split lip. I don’t even see him draw his own fist back but the blow makes bright light flare behind my eyes. For a few seconds I’m stunned. He takes his chance, flinging himself on top of me so I’m belly down, face pushed into the dirt. He tugs at my breeches and, with the tear of stitching, pulls them down. But I’m not beaten yet. His head is at my shoulder and I reach behind, fingertips finding flesh. I feel the firm wet give of an eyeball. He cries out, clutching his face and I take the chance to heave him off me. Disoriented by drink, he slumps to one side. I get to my knees and stay there, catching my breath as I see a figure appear at the door.


  Ellis is across the floor before I can warn him off. He grabs Henry’s shirt, pulls him to his feet and drags him into the centre of the barn. He does not wait for explanations or excuses, but throws a powerful punch that catches Henry in the gut.

  Henry takes the hit, a mean, unrepentant grin spreading across his face. He throws himself, full body, at Ellis and they tumble to the floor, rolling, sprawling in a tangle of flying fists.

  I’m on my feet, stumbling forward, but I don’t know how to stop this. The two of them are well matched, and even though Henry is disadvantaged by drink, they push and punch with bloodied knuckles, grasping at hair and limbs, landing blows. Both become panting, desperate things. I’ve seen Henry lose his temper many times but he’s never tried to hurt me, or force me before. Still, the sweating, grunting brute I see now does not surprise me. But I never imagined that such violence would lurk inside Ellis. He is a thing possessed, wild and savage – I think he means to kill Henry.

  He soon has the better of him, sits astride his chest, hands at Henry’s throat.

  Henry splutters, face turning red, eyes beginning to bulge.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, but Ellis is deaf to me. His face is contorted in hatred and rage. I’ve never seen him so before. How can this murderous, feral creature be the same man I spoke to just minutes before?

  Henry is choking, tongue lolling. He rolls his eyes to mine and I can see he’s terrified.

  ‘Stop it! You’ll kill him!’

  I grab Ellis’s shoulders and try to pull him away. For a moment he resists, but then releases Henry with a frustrated cry, climbs to his feet and staggers a few paces. Henry rolls onto his side, coughing up blood. Ellis goes back to him and pulls him to his knees. He drags him by the hair to the door of the barn and shoves him roughly onto the ground outside.

  ‘You touch her again, you’ll not live,’ he says, towering over him, a boot on his chest to keep him down. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Henry gives up and curls into a ball, moaning, vomiting bile and blood.

  ‘You nearly killed him,’ I say.