The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  ‘Everything would change. Scarcross Hall would not belong to me.’

  ‘Mercy, I cannot change the law. I do not have that power.’

  Pastor Flynn’s warning comes back to me. I’d not heeded him at the time, but he was right: Father will not break his covenant, even for me.

  And as if Father can read my thoughts he says, ‘What of Jasper Flynn? Now there’s a godly man who knows your disposition, and who has been a good friend to our family. To have a man of God in the house, surely that would bring great peace of mind.’

  I think of Jasper Flynn with his thinning whiskers and weasel’s face. The thought of his skeleton fingers upon me makes me shudder. ‘Father, I do not want to marry Pastor Flynn.’

  But there is a new light in his eye. ‘Yes, a man of God. What better protection could there be?’

  ‘Father, listen to me. I’ll not marry Jasper Flynn. I don’t wish to marry at all.’

  ‘I’ll speak with him. I’ll write at once and ask him to come. Will you send Ferreby with a letter?’

  ‘For God’s sake, listen to me. I don’t want to marry Jasper Flynn – I want Scarcross Hall to come to me. I want to take your place as master here, as you promised.’

  He shakes his head and fixes me with a determined stare. In it, I see traces of the forceful man I recognise, the father I once obeyed without question. ‘That dream is one you must give up. This has come as a shock to you and I’m sorry for it, but you must see I’m driven by my duty to protect you. It’s my one remaining wish to see you secured before I go. If you are so determined to stay at Scarcross Hall, I will do everything in my power to make sure you are safe. A suitable marriage would be the best way. The only way.’

  ‘You speak as if there is urgency.’

  He lowers his voice. ‘You know as well as I, all is not well here. I’ll not speak of it now, I’ll not invite it, but you’re right. I fear my time here is coming to an end.’

  ‘Why would you think so?’

  He straightens and takes a deep breath, then searches the face of the house, eyes lingering at the casement of the old bedchamber. ‘Will you grant an old man his final wish and do as I say, so that I might go to my grave with some hope of peace?’

  Yet another dismal thought presses in. ‘Is there more? Something you’re keeping from me? Are you unwell?’

  ‘Will you promise me?’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Answer me, Mercy.’

  I see he will not be pressed. ‘If I were to agree to consider it, would you forget the plan to sell?’

  ‘I will pray on it, child. I will pray on it.’

  There is a small, young part of me that yearns to obey him, but I’ve not been that child for a long time and the keen blade of betrayal still cuts. ‘I cannot make any promise . . .’

  ‘Very well. I shall give you some time to consider. I will pray on it, Mercy, and you must too.’

  And with that, it is clear the conversation is over.

  By the time I reach the kitchen I’m fuming. I find Agnes and Sam bringing in a fresh pail of milk. Bracken skitters across the flags to her spot before the fire and settles there. Agnes reads the fury on my face.

  ‘Set it down in the buttery, Sam,’ she says, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only a man could cause that black scowl, so which one is it?’

  I sit down heavily in Agnes’s chair. ‘Father. He’s lied to me, betrayed me.’

  Her eyes roll skyward. ‘Those are strong words, Mercy. That man may be troublesome but he cares for you. He cares for us all.’ She wipes her hands and follows Sam into the buttery. I listen as she shows him how to scoop the curds from the old milk into the muslin, ready for pressing, my thoughts racing.

  I dare not tell her all I know, about the letters and Master Pollock, because she will worry herself to sickness. So I stoke the fire angrily, a cauldron of water hung above beginning to steam. Bracken watches me.

  Agnes comes back, goes to the table and begins to slice onions and carrots, putting them into a bowl beside her, ready for the pot. ‘Don’t fret,’ she says. ‘Whatever he’s done, it’ll be forgotten by morning. He cannot hold on to a thought for long.’

  ‘This is different,’ I say. ‘He wishes me to marry. He tells me that Scarcross Hall must pass to a male heir, so I must provide one.’

  I expect shock but Agnes just nods slowly.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘It was about time he told you.’

  Agnes too? Am I the last to know? ‘My God, why did you never tell me?’

  ‘It was not my place, Mercy. Not my secret to tell.’

  ‘My whole life, you’ve both lied to me. He promised me I would inherit. Why did you let me go on believing it?’

  She says nothing.

  ‘So, if I’m to have any hope of keeping what should be mine, I must find a man to marry. What choice have I? You have trapped me.’

  Agnes darts a look at the door to the buttery. ‘Would it be so bad to have a new master about the place?’

  ‘There should be no master but me.’

  ‘You would still be mistress. That need not change, if you pick the right man.’

  ‘That’s what Father said. He doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Then at least in that we agree.’ She eyes me sideways as she chops the vegetables. ‘Did he have someone in mind?’

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. ‘Jasper Flynn.’

  At this she snorts. ‘Oh, that man knows little of women. And you? Do you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘No.’

  She waits awhile, studying me, then stops and puts the knife down, suddenly serious. She glances again towards the door of the buttery where I can hear Sam at work, muttering to himself.

  ‘Mind you pick carefully. Choose a local man, someone born and bred here. Do not even think of a stranger. Hearts are broken that way.’

  ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘I know who it is you think on. Not him, Mercy.’

  Her forcefulness surprises me but I don’t need to ask of whom she speaks. ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘You know nothing of him.’

  ‘I know more than you.’

  Her nostrils flare. ‘He’s not the man for you.’

  I think of the promise Ellis made me, the feeling revealed in his eyes. I will not be swayed from what I know to be true. ‘Why do you dislike him so? Ever since he came here you’ve taken against him.’

  She turns back to the vegetables, her mouth tucked in a thin line, and begins to hack at them viciously. ‘Your father may not know women, but you know even less of men.’

  ‘And you do, I suppose? A barren old spinster who has devoted her whole life to a man who does not love her back.’

  She looks as if I’ve slapped her.

  My venom is interrupted by an almighty crash from the buttery. Sam cries out. I leap from my chair and cross the room, Agnes at my heels.

  A second crash – the sound of pottery shattering on flagstones.

  The buttery is a mess, swimming with spilled milk, the churn overturned, the curd pot splintered across the stones. A jug lies in pieces, belly rocking back and forth, small beer foaming amid the blue-white flood.

  Sam is crouched against the wall, hugging his knees, face as pale as the milk. ‘I did not touch it,’ he whispers. ‘I did not touch it.’

  As I stand there, aghast, taking in the waste, my quarrel with Agnes forgotten, there’s a strange scraping sound behind me. I turn back just in time to see the bowl of cut vegetables slide across the tabletop, as if pushed by an unseen hand, tip and smash upon the floor.

  Bracken is on her feet, hackles up, teeth bared.

  Agnes grips my arm, eyes fearful. ‘See?’ she says. ‘The Devil thrives on
discord.’ She drops to her knees, skirts soaking up the pooled milk, and begins to pray.

  Chapter 30

  The bench is as cold as stone. The chill creeps through his breeches to numb his bones.

  The church is cool at midsummer, set on the north side of the valley, under shadow of fell and scar, but now, with dark patches of damp seeping across the limed walls, and wind moaning through missing slates, it is as cold as an ice cellar. He cannot imagine how it will be, come deep winter. Surely the congregation will perch on hoarfrost and kneel in snowdrifts.

  He has never been one to attend church often, finding his own place of prayer on the slopes and summits of northern hills, but now he is part of the household, Booth insists upon it: I will not have a heathen under my roof.

  So he takes up a place on the pew next to Mercy and shivers with the rest of them through Pastor Flynn’s hellfire sermons.

  He sneaks a look at Booth now, seated between Mercy and the old woman. His eyes are closed, lips moving in fervent prayer. Agnes is staring at Flynn, hands clasped in her lap, the wattle beneath her chin wobbling as if she is chewing cud. She never speaks to Ellis if she can help it, but he does not care. He is not concerned with her. Her place in the Booth household may exceed his, but he’s becoming certain this will change in time.

  Next to him, Mercy shifts in her seat. He feels the brush of her thick worsted skirts against his thigh. He cannot get used to the sight of her in women’s clothes, white cap covering her hair, her shape enveloped by a thick woollen cloak. She looks like every goodwife in the place, demure, plain and ordinary. He hates it almost as much as she does. She is not like the rest. She is better than them.

  She looks sideways at him, catches his eye, the corner of her mouth curling. Her eyes flit to Flynn, then back, rolling in mockery. He smiles too, wanting to reach out and take her hand in his.

  These moments of shared understanding are becoming frequent: a look, a smile, a single word. They are sinking into an ease that he has never known with any woman, not Betsy and not Gretchen. At times, he catches himself thinking of how things might be between them, if circumstances were different. That confusion rises in him now and he squashes it down. Not here. Not now. Not with that man watching.

  Flynn eyes him with disdain and mistrust, as if he has found a rat nesting in his mattress. He knows that look – the look that men give each other when they first meet, sizing each other up like dogs – and has already cast his own judgement: men who claim to be so godly usually have something to hide.

  He notices how others look at him too – the exchanged glances and comments behind hands. He knows what they are saying. Who is the usurper who dares sit in the front pew with Bartram Booth of Scarcross Hall? Where has he come from, this nobody, with neither family nor wealth? What claim has he on Mercy Booth? The thought is darkly amusing.

  Today, though, he feels their interest keenly: it has a different timbre to it. As the Booth party had entered the churchyard, a thin woman had thrown them a scowl and herded her children out of their path. Henry Ravens’s scrawny wife had turned her back as Mercy passed. The family who most often sit behind them chose an empty pew – one of many, he notes – at the back of the church, leaving only space across which whispers rustle like the crisping leaves on the birches.

  After the sermon the congregation lingers in the churchyard as usual. The only chance that many have to meet with their neighbours, it is usually a wasps’ nest of rumour and gossip, but today there is a hush, as if they are waiting for something. Ellis stands near the door, watching as Mercy greets Garrick’s wife and takes her bundled baby into her arms. He idles over and is met by the first warm smile of the day.

  He likes Dority Garrick, just as he likes Ambrose – in spite of himself.

  ‘Master Ferreby,’ she says, beaming at him. ‘Ambrose tells me you’re to see out the winter with us. How glad I am to hear it.’

  He raises a finger to his hat, nods acknowledgement.

  ‘Well, you must come and break bread with us once more, if Mercy can spare you. Or perhaps you could come together, if Master Booth could manage alone . . .’ She trails off as Mercy gives her a hard stare.

  ‘We were talking of Sam,’ Mercy says, ‘and finding some real work for him on the farm. I say we could use him. What do you think?’

  Before he has the chance to answer, Jasper Flynn interrupts. He tips his hat to the women, ignoring Ellis. ‘Mistress Booth, may I speak with you?’

  Mercy hesitates, smile dissolving. Ellis sees something – apprehension – pass behind her eyes. ‘Of course.’

  She hands the baby back to Dority, the small pink thing squirming inside its wrappings, and is led away, towards the old graves. Ellis watches all eyes follow, the crowd of villagers, Henry Ravens and his wife among them, and, standing apart from the rest, Bestwicke’s son, hat in hand over his father’s grave.

  ‘So, what do you think, Master Ferreby?’ Dority asks. ‘Might there be some use for Sam up at the Hall? I know how hard you’re all working. I barely see my Ambrose these days.’

  ‘Surely that’s for your husband to decide.’

  ‘He’s not a large boy for his age but he’s plenty of spirit. Too much, perhaps . . .’

  She looks over to where her son is standing, alone, scuffing his feet in a pile of leaves.

  ‘We’ll be bringing the flock down from the moor this week. There’ll be plenty of work to stem his boredom.’

  ‘You’ve hit upon it.’ She jiggles the baby, who has started to whine. ‘He needs direction. Guidance. Someone to take him under his wing.’

  ‘He has his father. There’s no better man.’

  She smiles, and he’s struck again by how pretty she is, how small and girlish in comparison to Mercy. ‘He doesn’t listen to his father. You know how boys can be. Ambrose was the same when he was young.’

  Ellis looks over at Mercy. She and Flynn are turned away. He sees the man reach out and touch her shoulder but she shrugs him off and moves apart. He can see only her profile yet he can read the anger in her stance – feels a stab of it as if it’s his own. He can sense vitriol building among the villagers. He picks out Ravens among them, sees him speak to those nearby, though he cannot catch the words. Annie Ravens’s expression is brooding, black as coal smoke.

  ‘The truth is, Master Ferreby,’ Dority goes on, seemingly oblivious, ‘Sam has turned a little wild of late, and ever since that poor lamb of his was found, he’s been impossible. He ignores all his tasks about the house, disappears for hours on end and won’t tell me where he goes. Nothing I say makes any difference. Indeed, I’m at my wit’s end.’ She looks to the grizzling child in her arms. ‘And I’m afraid for him, spending hours out there, all alone, after everything that’s happened . . . Some time at Scarcross Hall and a guiding hand from someone other than his father might be what he needs.’

  She looks up at him, hopeful, and Ellis nods, but he is not listening. He’s watching: watching the rest of the congregation watch the conversation between Mercy and Flynn. Small huddled groups turn their backs as Agnes and Garrick guide Booth towards the cart, and help him up onto the seat. It’s clear that Booth’s strength is failing but no one comes forward to assist as he struggles. Instead, daggered looks are sent their way.

  At last, Mercy and Flynn shake hands and she starts back towards them, grim-faced. As she passes, Annie Ravens rushes forward.

  ‘You’re found out, witch!’ She raises a hand to strike a blow, but Ravens catches her, pulls her back.

  ‘Not now, Annie. Not here.’

  Mercy is stunned into silence as Annie begins a weird animal shrieking. ‘I know what you are! I know what you did!’ She fights against her husband, clawing as if she would scratch out Mercy’s eyes.

  Ellis leaves Dority open-mouthed and strides to Mercy’s side. He tries to stand between her and Annie, but Mercy, gathering herself,
shoves him roughly aside. ‘Whatever you have to say to me, I’ll hear it.’

  ‘Witch! Whore! I know what you are! I know what you’ve done! Henry told me everything!’

  He sees a flicker of shock in Mercy’s eyes.

  ‘The pastor told me what you’ve been saying,’ she says, raising her voice to be heard above Annie’s rage. ‘And it’s lies. I did not kill my own sheep or burn down my own barn. I’m not the one who killed John Bestwicke. Ask your own husband who should pay the price for that!’

  It’s the first time she’s expressed Ellis’s own suspicions, but everyone knows what she means. There is a ripple of shocked muttering. It rushes back to him: the dreadful heat of the flames, the choking smoke, the stark, urgent fear of that night. He feels the tinder of anger, sees it mirrored in Ravens himself.

  ‘You’ve no proof,’ Ravens says. ‘And I’m not the one accused.’

  ‘We all know it’s you! It’s your fault!’ Annie cries. ‘We all know what you are! We don’t want you here.’

  Ellis’s fists curl. One hand moves to the hilt of his knife. He could do it now. He could finish what Ravens started that day in the barn. He knows it would not serve him, but the urge is powerful and seductive.

  Jasper Flynn steps forward, pulpit voice raised above the throng. ‘I’ll have no violence at my church!’ A restraining hand outstretched towards Annie. ‘I’ve done as you asked. Now go home, all of you. I’ll hear no more of this.’

  Annie spits and growls like a dog, tethered by the pastor’s wrath.

  ‘I said, go home!’

  Ravens whispers something in his wife’s ear and, reluctantly, she sinks back against him, allows him to drag her away. The man must know that he cannot afford more questions to be raised.

  Mercy turns and walks quickly away, eyes stormy, sending a quick glance in Ellis’s direction – a call to heel. He stands for a moment, sure to catch Ravens’s eye, then follows.

  ‘We must leave, now,’ Mercy says, reaching Dority, who stands, shocked and horrified. ‘Tell Ambrose to bring Sam up to the Hall tomorrow, if he’ll come.’