Chapter 27
These days, sleep takes me like death. I’m exhausted from working in the fields with Ambrose and Ellis as we try to bring in our small barley crop. My limbs are heavy and complaining, hands blistered and raw, and my head pounds so I cannot follow my thoughts. Each night I fall into darkness, only to wake, time and again, thinking I’ve heard a shout, someone crying out in fear, or the crackle and pop of burning wood.
Even though I know the dangers, sometimes I fall asleep before snuffing the candle and when I wake I cannot distinguish shadows cast by the dancing flame from spirit form. I’m taunted by my imagination.
Tonight I’m woken by a whisper. I swear someone has spoken my name.
I lie still, listening, struggling to clear the fog of dreams. Did I conjure the sound in sleep?
Then I hear a step upon the floorboards.
I strain to make out the hush of soft-soled shoes above night sounds, the breath of wind rising on the moor, the stir and rustle of turning leaves. It comes again – one step, then two, then a flurry, the trip of a child moving from the casement to the foot of the bed.
I hold my breath, close my eyes and shrink beneath the coverlet as my blood runs chill. My skin shivers as if doused in icy water. I want to draw my knees up, away from the foot of the bed, curl into a ball and hide my face, but I dare not move. It cannot be Sam this time.
Once more, quick – up and down, up and down – at the foot of the bed.
My lungs begin to ache and a breath shudders out of me. There’s a sudden bluster at the window as the wind drives rain against the panes. In my fear, it seems again that someone whispers my name.
The footsteps move closer, along the side of the bed, so that the thing, whatever spirit this is, comes level with my face. It stops. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. I hear the rasp of ragged breath – perhaps my own, I cannot tell.
I pray, simple words, in earnest: Please, God, save me. Forgive me. Have mercy.
I feel sure that the thing is reaching out towards me – I sense a hand hovering, about to pull the coverlet from my face. A sudden, profound sadness swells in my chest, threatens to overwhelm me. Fear recedes as sorrow matches it. My heart aches.
Gathering all my courage, I draw the coverlet down. I see nothing, blinded by darkness.
Then the footsteps patter away towards the door and are gone.
I lie still for a few minutes, listening to the rain, waiting for my breath to slow and my heart to cease racing. I hear the branches of a tree scratch against a downstairs window, the gurgle as water runs from the eaves to pool in the yard, the creak of timbers as wind buffets the house. A tear leaks from the corner of my eye, trickles past my ear to my neck. I know I did not imagine it this time. I cannot deny it: something is haunting this house. Haunting me.
Eventually I pull the coverlet down. The room is still and dark, shadows pitched in corners. Trembling, I force myself to sit and strike the tinderbox to light the candle at my bedside. But as the light floods the room, I see – there, at the foot of my bed – the old fire screen.
I stare at the hideous thing in disbelief, flooded with fear. All my reason tells me this cannot be – I must be dreaming. But it’s as real as the key to the old bedchamber that still hangs about my neck.
With my heartbeat deafening, I get out of bed and force myself towards it. The painted boy’s eyes seem fixed upon me; his empty stare, his mirthless smile. I shove the thing with my foot, almost expecting to feel the soft, warm give of human flesh. But it’s solid and cold. Desperately, I try to find an explanation. Could Agnes have brought it into my room? Does she have another key to the bedchamber? Or perhaps Sam. I’ve found him playing make-believe with the thing before. Is it possible I was so exhausted that I did not notice it when I retired?
I know, deep inside, that these are vain attempts at comfort. It cannot be a coincidence – the footsteps, now this.
I sink to my knees, staring at the boy’s face. I see the needle pricks in his cheeks that I made myself, the paint cracked and falling away at his temple, the lifeless eyes that seem to stare back. For a brief second I’m convinced there is animation in them: a look of knowing accusation and blame.
I take hold of the screen, my fingers curling around the boy’s shoulders. It is madness but I feel as if he might hold the answers I so crave.
‘What do you want? What do you want from me?’
There’s no reply save the wind, wailing from the moor top.
A sudden noise below makes me start, heart faltering. But this noise is familiar – the sound of Father moving about in his study. All of a sudden I feel like the young girl I once was, the carefree child running wild on the fells, whose tears were all for a scraped knee or a stillborn lamb. I’ve a violent need for the company and reassurance of someone who can make everything good again. I want to be with my father.
I grab the candle, hesitating only a moment, afraid to open the door for fear of what I might find. I force myself onward, hurry past the door to the small room where Ellis sleeps and run down the staircase that leads to the hall. Just as I turn the stairs I catch a glimpse of something outside – a pale figure looking in through the window, moving swiftly out of sight. Fear spikes, sending my heart into frenzy, but there’s nothing to see, save the night pressing at the panes and my own reflection, the white smudge of my nightgown in the halo of candle flame.
As I thought, there’s a light in Father’s study, and I rush towards it, bursting into the room without warning. But it’s not Father I find there, it’s Ellis Ferreby.
He’s bending at Father’s desk, rummaging among the papers, and starts up, shocked and guilty.
My surprise casts other thoughts aside. ‘What are you doing? Where’s my father?’
He says nothing, composing himself, face regaining its customary blankness.
My heart is still pattering hard. I close the door behind me and lean against it, partly so he cannot get out and partly so nothing else can get in. ‘Answer me.’
He turns and tries to slip something into his pocket unseen.
‘What have you there? What have you taken?’
‘Nothing.’
We stare at each other, defiant, unsure who will make the first move. I’m torn, part of me horrified by his trespass, the other frightened and yearning for human company. I want the childish comfort of arms about me and it matters little whose. But I cannot indulge the thought. I’m suddenly aware of my old nightgown, my hair loose about my shoulders, my bare feet and ankles.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘I was looking for something.’
‘If you’re looking for money, there’s none to find.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I saw you put something in your pocket.’
‘I’m not a thief.’
‘Then turn them out.’
He does nothing. He glowers at me as if I’m the one in the wrong, then comes from behind the desk and walks towards me. For a moment I expect him to strike me or take hold of me, and as he comes close I brace myself, but he does not touch me. He reaches past me, turns the key and takes it from the lock. As he does so I catch the scent of tobacco, brandy and sweat. It’s something real, human, and I cling to it.
‘Sit,’ he says, indicating the chair by the hearth.
Breath catches in my throat. ‘What are you doing? Unlock the door at once.’
‘Mercy, please, sit.’
His use of my given name pierces my insides. ‘I could turn you out for this.’
‘I know.’
Though I should not, I cross the room and perch on the edge of the chair, put my candle on the table beside me. I would rather submit than go back to my chamber alone. The room is cold, the fire dead, and I shiver, searching the shadows for I know not what. I’m still trembling like a maid. I take the blanket that’s
folded over the chair back and wrap it around my shoulders to cover myself, the worsted cloth rough against my neck.
Ellis stands next to the hearth, face shrouded in shadow. He studies me, frowning. ‘You seem troubled.’
I do not answer. I do not know how to respond.
He sighs. ‘I’ll tell you what I was looking for, but in doing so I must break a promise to your father. Would you have me do that?’
‘My father?’ Why on God’s earth would my father entrust Ellis Ferreby with anything?
‘Would you have me do that?’ he repeats.
I nod.
‘I was looking for land deeds.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because your father intends to sell Scarcross Hall.’
I think at first I’ve misheard. The idea is absurd. The night’s events have addled my mind. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘He told me so himself, not two nights since.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘He told me in confidence. I gave my word I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘This is nonsense. I won’t listen to lies. I must fetch him. Unlock the door.’ I gather the blanket around me, rise and take up my candle, but he comes forward and puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
‘Please, listen. I came here looking for the land deeds, thinking to hide them till I decided how best to go on. He can’t sell the land if he can’t prove he owns it. It was a poor attempt to buy time.’
He seems in earnest.
I hesitate. ‘My father would never sell Scarcross Hall. It’s everything to him, as it is to me.’
‘You may ask him yourself. He’ll know I’ve broken his confidence, but that’s in your hands now.’
Ellis holds my eye. There’s none of the slippery avoidance I’ve witnessed before.
‘But what reason could he have?’
‘He’s afraid of something . . . afraid that he cannot protect you from it.’
That I can believe. The thrill of fear twines up my spine and makes the hairs on my neck prickle. I recall the strange conversation I had with Father some months ago, how he’d asked if I ever dreamed of a different life, somewhere far from Scarcross Hall. Has he been planning this? Could he have been trying to warn me? But still . . . ‘No. He’d never do that without telling me.’
‘He wants to save you the heartache he knows it will cause, till the deal is done and cannot be undone. I think his mind is . . .’ He searches for the word. ‘. . . I believe he may not be thinking clearly. He spoke of the things that have happened of late. He didn’t say so but it was clear to me that he believes the threat is very real.’
There is a hollow ache in my chest. The fear that followed me from my chamber is joined by another, more earthly and even more daunting. I think of the faraway look in Father’s eyes that I’ve noticed more and more recently, the way he seems lost in memories, the way he talks to me of a past in which I have no part, when he struggles to remember the simple thread of each day. I think of his precarious tempers and the obsessive rumination over the missing coins and the old inkwell, of how he went missing, wandering the fell distracted, the night he found the handprints on his bedchamber wall – the chamber he still refuses to enter. ‘He’s just tired,’ I try to reason. ‘And since the loss of the fleeces, things have been so hard . . .’
‘Why would I lie?’ Ellis says quietly, no hint of deception about him.
How can I trust him? I cannot even trust myself, these days. I barely know what’s real and what’s imagined. And if I could so misjudge someone close to me like Henry Ravens, how can I trust this stranger? But Ellis Ferreby does not seem a stranger to me. I find it hard, now, to remember a time before he came. I’ve a powerful instinct he’s telling the truth.
He crosses the room and picks up several papers from the desk. ‘I can’t find the deeds, but I found these.’
I spread the letters in my lap. The first is from a man I know to be a lawyer, with whom Father deals from time to time. It’s clearly a reply to a request, offering apologies and regrets that he’s unable to visit Scarcross Hall in the coming months. But there’s nothing to suggest a sale. Still, what would Father want with a lawyer?
The second is a set of scribbled notes in Father’s unsteady hand:
Three hay fields
Two of barley
Grazing acres?
Ask Garrick how many lambs this year.
But this proves nothing.
Ellis hands me one final document: a letter from a man I do not know, who signs himself as land agent to Master Pollock, requesting an inventory of Scarcross Hall and all surrounding land. He states that a price for the whole will be negotiated upon receipt. As I read this, I begin to feel sick. I read it over again, holding it up to the light as if the words will change on the page.
‘Your father is afraid of something,’ Ellis says again. ‘Something here, at the Hall. He wants to protect you. He knows no other way.’
I sit, staring at the paper in my hand, unable to take it in. ‘But why would he tell you this?’
Ellis shrugs. ‘I don’t know. He was a little worse for liquor.’
‘My father doesn’t drink spirits.’
Ellis goes to a chest behind Father’s desk. I watch, wordless, as he opens it and draws out a bottle, finds two cups, pours a measure into each and hands one to me. Even before I put it to my lips I smell the sharp scent of brandy. I wonder: what else does Ellis Ferreby know about my own father that I do not?
I drink deeply, my hand shaking. If Father has witnessed the same things as me, I can hardly blame him for trying to protect us. There’s a part of me that understands his reasoning. But I will never agree to this scheme, or sanction his secrecy. ‘He cannot do this. I won’t allow it.’
‘He knows you’ll fight him.’
Suddenly I’m angry. ‘All my life he’s told me that Scarcross Hall is to be mine. It’s mine by right. It’s not his to sell.’
Ellis, perched on the edge of Father’s desk, gazes at the floor. I wonder why he should care so much.
‘You said you were looking for land deeds,’ I say. ‘Why? What is it to you if he sells?’
He takes a drink, stares into the corner of the room, refusing to meet my eye. ‘If the land is sold, and the flock with it, then I’ll have to leave. I find I do not want that.’
‘Why not?’
He refills his cup, then mine, and comes to stand by the hearth once more, staring into the grate as if contemplating invisible flames. ‘When I was a lad, I never lived in one place for long. We moved around, following the camp.’
‘The camp?’
‘The King’s army. I’ve lived my whole life like that, moving from one place to another. I fell into shepherding work as a young man, and as I watched the flocks in my care, I saw how the sheep are hefted to the land, knowing the place they belong, finding their way to that particular fell, that particular grazing, year after year. It’s an ancient knowledge they have without thinking. It’s in their bones. They know the place they belong and are glad to return to it. I never thought to find that. Till I came here.’
His voice has dropped almost to a whisper. I’ve never heard him speak so many words together.
‘That’s the reason I’ll never leave,’ I say. ‘This land, this house, the moor – it’s where I belong. I’ll never leave it.’
He holds my gaze for a moment and for the first time I see the stir of emotion beneath that stony exterior. ‘Even if your father is right?’
I swallow hard, the memory of the evening’s horrors causing my heart to thrill. ‘Even then.’
‘So you must talk to him,’ he says. ‘Persuade him that you’ll do whatever it takes to stay.’
Silence as I consider. I need to think this through carefully. I need time alone. ‘Do you promise you’ll not sa
y a word of this to anyone?’ I ask.
He makes a wry smile. ‘What’s my promise worth when you see it’s so easily broken?’
‘All the same, I would have it.’
He nods. ‘You have it.’
And I know that he means it.
The next morning, as soon as Agnes wakes, I ask her if she moved the fire screen to my chamber. She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. ‘Why would I do that?’
I don’t want to tell her about the events of the night. I’m not ready to speak of the reason for my fright, or my conversation with Ellis, until I’m sure of the truth.
‘Get rid of it,’ I tell her.
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m concealing something, but she doesn’t ask for an explanation. She knows I’ll not speak until I’m ready. ‘What am I to do with it?’
‘I don’t care. Just be rid of the thing.’
And when I return to my room later that day the fire screen is gone.
Chapter 28
He finds the grave in a neglected corner of the churchyard. Brambles have taken root, fed by the richer soil, straggling across lichen-stained gritstone, almost obscuring the inscription. It is in the place where no one goes, on the north side of the church – the Devil’s side – tangled in bracken and thorns beneath the shadowy boughs of a spreading horse-chestnut. The space is set aside for burials that leave a question in the church ledger, the deceased respectable enough to warrant sanctified ground – no criminals, suicides or unbaptised here – but interred by night, with no ceremony. Still, all those years ago, someone had paid for a stone to mark the spot.
Here lieth the body of Thos Falconer
of Scarcross Hall
and
Jane his wife
and
Thos their son
who departed this life
1575
He has wanted to come here ever since Booth told him – wanted to see for himself – but this is the first chance he’s had. The farm and the flock keep him busy from first light till well past moonrise, she and Garrick working each day until they are fit to drop. Between the three of them, with a little help from the boy and the old woman, they have cut and sheafed the barley. The crop is sparse, at least half of it rotting in the field because of the damp summer. They have reaped what they can from the kitchen garden and sown onions and collards and black cabbage. She works alongside the old woman into the night, boiling and preserving whatever can be kept. He spent a whole morning picking apples from the three stunted trees in the walled garden, plucking maggots out of windfalls. The trees do not thrive in this soil, even in the shelter of the garden, and offer up small, bitter fruit.
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 20