The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  ‘What’s happened?’ Dority asks. ‘What does Annie mean?’

  But Mercy does not reply.

  She says no more until they are away from the church, following the coffin path out of the valley. It had taken some time to reassure Booth, who had seen the whole altercation from his perch in the cart, but is now settled, grumbling quietly to Agnes.

  Mercy walks beside Ellis. The road is wet, turned to mud in places – slow going for the old carthorse – but at last they pass the crossroads and gain the higher ground.

  He waits while she broods. He does not expect thanks for his poor attempt to protect her and knows better than to press for confidences but eventually she turns to him.

  ‘No doubt you’re wondering what the pastor wanted with me.’ She glances ahead to make sure her father cannot hear. ‘You’ve probably guessed – we’re no longer welcome at church.’ He can hear the suppressed rage in her tone, notes the clenched muscles in her jaw. ‘The villagers are demanding that Flynn banish us.’

  ‘For what reason?’ Though he does not really need to ask.

  She snorts. ‘I’ve known these people all my life. We’ve given them work and charity, and now they abandon us. Now, when we need them most. There’s nothing godly about that.’ She is silent awhile. Her cheeks are flushed but he cannot tell if emotion or exertion is the cause, or just the whip of the chill October wind.

  ‘Flynn says there’s been trouble brewing ever since summer, and worse still since the fire. They say there’s a witch at work at the Hall. They say that the old curse is rising again and we’re to blame, that we’ve summoned it. Some of the wives came to him, demanding that he bring in the law. They think it’s one of us. They think it’s me.’ She looks at him. ‘Tell me, why would I murder my own lambs? Why would I burn down my own barn? Why would I destroy my own livelihood? Dear God, how am I going to calm Father now?’

  He is not surprised to hear it. He has been waiting for something like this ever since the day Sam’s lamb was found dismembered in the hay field. He recalls the woman, Joan Goffe, and her spiteful accusations – her fear spreading to others, quicker than mice fleeing a blazing hayrick. In her absence, Annie Ravens has done a fine job of fanning the flames.

  ‘What does Flynn say about it?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve never much liked that man but he’s been a friend to my father all these years and it seems he’s a friend still. He’s quieted them for now. He refused to bring in the law without proof and, of course, they can prove nothing. But they agreed to let the matter drop only on the condition that no one from Scarcross Hall attends church. So, we are to be cast out, made guilty, sentenced without trial.’ She pauses a moment, allowing the cart to go on ahead. ‘He knows it’s all lies. He knows we need God’s grace now more than ever. As our pastor, he should speak up for us, but he’s weak. I never knew it before. He’s a cowardly man. To save his own position he’s chosen compromise over justice and truth.’

  ‘But you shook hands with him.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘For Father’s sake, he’s agreed to hold a private prayer meeting once a week at the Hall. We’ll tell Father that it’s for the good of his health. It’ll not be long before we cannot bring him in the cart – the path will be too bad – and he can no longer manage the walk. I’ll not tell him the real reason.’

  Ellis knows why. She will not give Bartram Booth any more reason to sell.

  ‘I’ve attended that church every week for my whole life. I’ve known these people since I was a child. Does that mean nothing?’

  ‘They’re afraid. Folk will always look for someone to blame.’

  ‘They’re wrong about us, but they’re right to be afraid,’ she says, looking ahead to where Booth sits in the cart. Ellis wants to console her but he does not know how. He feels guilty, knowing he can never give the answers she craves.

  For a time she walks with her head down, dragging the hem of her skirts in puddles, the damp creeping almost to her knees. Then she looks up to the crest of the moor where the White Ladies are just coming into view, the rugged stones pale on the skyline, heights pointing to Heaven, roots buried Devil knows how deep.

  Chapter 31

  The smell of sheep grease is a comfort, something real and constant. The wiry texture of lambs’ fleece, grown thick and coiled tight, underbellies peat-stained russet brown after a summer on the moor, as familiar as the fell itself.

  As always, I find escape in my work, savouring the strain of muscles as I struggle to keep a beast still enough to apply the grease, the aching back, the chapped fingers, the mix of sweat and steaming breath in the cold autumn air. I welcome the golden leaves on the willows, the October scents of rot and peat smoke. I try to put aside the creeping fear that plagues each sleepless night, the ominous sense of dread when morning comes, and lose myself in the work.

  We brought the sheep down from the high moor two days ago. They knew it was time. We found them huddled under peat hags against the driving rain, grey and ragged among the last of the purple heather. Now they are scattered over the low fields.

  Ambrose and Sam have the task of gathering and sorting the sheep: this year’s new lambs that need greasing, the shearlings, the older ewes that will go to tup, the wethers that need to be checked over before they can be turned out for the winter and the ones we are forced to sell.

  Ambrose and I pick out the best, the ones with the fullest coats, good teeth and a strong, square stance, hoping for the highest price. It might seem senseless to sell our best new lambs – the future of the flock – but we have no choice. Without this year’s fleeces, we need the coin the best animals will bring. It’s the only way we’ll last the winter.

  Sam is given the task of bringing the lambs into the small pen we use for greasing. He’s been taught how to check them carefully for signs of foot rot and fly-strike, separating any that might be ailing. He works quietly, sulking and dejected.

  For the last week he’s slept in my bed. I want him close. Last night, when I climbed beneath the coverlet, he was so still and silent I thought him sleeping, but he was watching me with big, tear-filled eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, as he turned away and curled into a tight little ball. As I stroked his hair he flinched. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. Nothing can hurt you here. I’ll make sure of it.’ The lie choked me.

  Each night I’ve lain awake, waiting and listening for that light step upon the boards, praying that whatever spirit visited me does not do so again. I’ve a sense that while Sam sleeps in my bed it will stay away, and I’m become superstitious – selfishly so – in keeping him by my side.

  Eventually he turned back and let me cradle him in the nook of my arm. In the morning there was a patch on my nightgown where his tears had dampened the linen. He has shadows beneath his eyes, as if he too has barely slept.

  Ellis works with me and we take it in turns to hold and grease the lambs.

  ‘Sam, send in the next.’

  Sam is idling by the gate, staring into the distance. He turns slowly and shoots a petulant look towards Ellis. Then he opens the gate and wrestles another sheep into the run.

  ‘Have you checked this one?’ Ellis says, but Sam does not seem to hear. He’s staring up the fell-side towards the moor top.

  Ellis shakes his head and begins picking leaves and clods from the lamb’s fleece. ‘If the boy hasn’t the wits for the work, is it wise to keep him here?’

  ‘He can do the work,’ I say, taking the sheep’s head between my knees to hold it still. ‘He just finds it hard to trust strangers, and you’re still a stranger to him. He’ll come round in the end.’

  Ellis is silent awhile. When he’s satisfied the sheep is ready he dips his fingers into the grease pot, scooping a fistful. ‘Who is William Garrick?’ he asks.

  I glance back over my shoulder at Sam and lower my voice. ‘Where did you hear t
hat name?’

  ‘There’s a grave in the churchyard.’

  ‘Then you know that William Garrick is dead.’

  Ellis bends to the work. I can tell he wants to know more. I’ve not spoken of it for so long, even with Dority, but I think Ellis should know, now he’s one of us.

  ‘He was Sam’s twin brother.’

  Ellis doesn’t seem surprised; he must have guessed as much. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘An accident. Ambrose doesn’t like anyone to speak of it.’ Again I glance at Sam to make sure he cannot hear, but he’s working now, checking over the next lamb. ‘No one knows what really happened.’

  ‘Was the lad alone?’

  ‘No. The twins went out on the moor one afternoon and didn’t come home. Dority thought they’d stayed at the Hall, as they often did, so they weren’t missed until the next day. We sent out men to search and they were found up at the White Ladies. Will had fallen and broken his back. He died three days later.’

  Ellis nods towards Sam who is now dragging another reluctant sheep into the run. ‘What does he say about it?’

  ‘He’s never spoken of it. Not once. He didn’t say one word for a full month after Will died.’ I don’t like to think of that time. Before the accident, the twins were inseparable. Dority called them her red devils, for the tomcat-orange hair that was so like their pa’s, but she stopped afterwards, in case it tempted Fate. Sam was like a ghost, silent and watchful, a shadow of himself, haunting us while his father tried to work away his grief and guilt. Ambrose barely slept that season and was present for almost every lamb as if by birthing so much life into the world he could stave off his own loss. Instead, it salted the wound.

  Ellis is silent for a time, seemingly focused on his task, but I know he’s adding poor Will’s fate to the list of bad things that have happened at the White Ladies. I watch his hands – strong hands, working hands – tending the sheep with gentleness and patience. Unbidden, an image comes to mind of those hands on my body.

  Then, quietly, he says, ‘The guilt of such a thing is a heavy burden for a young boy to carry.’

  ‘Yes. We all feel the burden of it.’

  ‘Why should you? The child was not yours.’

  ‘He died at Scarcross Hall. We did all we could for him but . . .’

  Ellis straightens, finished with the lamb, and gives me a forthright stare. ‘The bedchamber that’s kept locked. He died in there, didn’t he?’

  Of course he would guess. I’ve heard him, wandering the corridors by night, as sleepless as me.

  ‘You’ve heard it, then? The noise?’

  He nods but says nothing. I know what he’s thinking, because the same thought plagues me, though I dare not put it into words: Is the spirit of William Garrick returned?

  I think such things in the dead of night, as I wait and listen. I’ve an urge, now, to tell him everything, to confess my fears. They say a burden shared is a burden halved. But it seems to me the more I give credence to this thing, the worse it gets, as if by speaking of it, acknowledging it, I give it power. So I say nothing more, and Ellis does not press me. I fold and pack the longing away, along with all my other unspoken desires.

  That night, the noise begins again.

  Sam is asleep beside me, chest rising and falling, one foot twitching. I pull the coverlet up over his ears, hoping he will not wake.

  I lie still and listen to the lament of the wind as it finds its way through cracked panes, beneath doors and down chimneys, and the Hall’s answering creaks and groans. And there, alongside the familiar night sounds, the rhythm I’ve come to dread: the dull thunk, the dragging scrape.

  I hear the click of a latch and a rasp as a door opens nearby. The glow of candle flame lights the inch beneath my chamber door. I watch the shadows as Ellis steps out of his room and pauses, a single floorboard creaking as it bears his weight.

  Does he know I’m awake? I feel sure, somehow, that he’s waiting for me and the feeling causes a blizzard in my chest.

  So as not to disturb Sam, I slip silently from the bed, pad across night-chilled boards and open the door.

  He’s dressed hurriedly, in breeches and undershirt, and holds a candle lantern. He says nothing.

  I step out of the room, closing the door behind me, and for a moment we stand, looking at each other, listening to the rise and fall in the dark.

  Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  I take the key to the bedchamber from around my neck and hand it to him. His fingers curl around skin-warmed iron and he gives a determined nod.

  I’m already shivering as we skirt the gallery, but I do not know if the cause is cold or fear. I cannot bring myself to look out into the black night so keep my eyes fixed upon Ellis’s back, as if his company alone will ward off any danger. I am braver with him than alone.

  As we reach the chamber, the sound ceases. The silence seems heavy, the sudden absence unnatural.

  Ellis presses an ear to the door. I do the same, so we are face to face and I feel his breath on my cheek. The blood beats in my ears, wave upon wave, but I hear no more.

  He moves away first, then puts the key in the lock.

  The mechanism is stiff, scratching and clunking as it turns. It seems loud and I cringe but there is silence from within.

  I hold my breath as Ellis lifts the catch and opens the door.

  He steps inside, holding the lantern high.

  The room is exactly as I left it. Dust has settled in the spaces where Agnes pushed boxes towards the chimneybreast, and part of one of the wooden shutters has rotted and fallen away. It smells of must and mould, the faint density of sheep grease and an acrid, familiar scent of burning.

  The bed is empty, drapes pulled back, coverlet scattered with wisps of fleece and curls of flaked paint from the bedstead. One of the bolsters is split, feathers spewing.

  ‘Is this where the boy died?’ Ellis says, indicating the bed.

  I nod. He holds the lantern up over the coverlet, inspecting it. He sniffs the air. Then he makes a slow circuit of the room, peering behind boxes and tilting the lamp into dark corners, just as I have done so many times before. At the chimney, he squats and retrieves the talisman that Agnes put there. He stares at it for a moment, then crushes it in his palm, dry twigs snapping.

  ‘Fear breeds fear,’ he says, coming to stand by me. ‘Such trinkets belong in the fire.’

  ‘Agnes does what she can to protect us.’

  ‘Sticks and twine will not help.’

  ‘Pastor Flynn says that the spirits of the dead can return only if God allows it. Those not sent by God are tricks of the Devil.’

  He looks around the room. ‘And you think this is such a trick?’

  ‘I don’t know. But . . . Annie Ravens is right. That woman, Joan Goffe, she saw it too. Everything that’s happened these last months has the taint of evil about it. There’s something here. Something that wants us gone. I feel it. You feel it.’

  He does not respond.

  ‘Agnes thinks we should find a popish priest to cleanse the house. She says they have a particular gift.’

  ‘What would your father think of that?’

  ‘He’d never allow it.’

  ‘Agnes is afraid.’ He unfurls his palm and shows the crushed talisman, drops the twigs to the floor and kicks them beneath the bed with his bare foot. ‘Fear will not help.’

  ‘Then what should I do?’

  He looks at me with surprise. ‘You ask my advice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever visits here, whatever its intent, you cannot keep it at bay with a locked door. You must not give in to fear. You must confront it.’ He holds up the lantern so its light is cast across his face. ‘At times, it pays to hold a candle to the Devil.’

  And for a moment,
fuelled by the intensity of his gaze, I am strengthened. I am bold.

  He reaches out towards me, as if to touch my shoulder. His hand grazes the linen of my nightgown then drops back to his side but I feel the sensation as if he has brushed my naked skin. I see something pass behind his eyes: a yearning that reflects my own.

  It is all the sign I need.

  I take the lantern from between his fingers and place it on the floor. I turn back to face him and put my hands flat against his chest.

  He looks down at my fingers as if surprised to find them there and for a few seconds we are fixed like that. Then, his hands come up to cover mine, pressing them close until I feel the cadence of his heart beneath warm, firm flesh. My own is soaring like a skylark’s song.

  He closes his eyes but does not move. He does not wrap his arms around me or bring his lips to mine. He does not reach for my body, as Henry Ravens would have done.

  His stillness causes my courage to falter and, as it begins to slide away, I catch at the tail of it, slipping a hand from beneath his and placing it gently against his cheek. I cradle his face, his beard soft as fleece in my palm. I run a finger along the flesh of his earlobe. His lips part and I touch my thumb to his mouth, feel the damp heat of his breath.

  I slide my fingertip down to the small thumb-sized hollow at the throat that cradles the pulse of lifeblood. I notice a cord about his neck, a thin twine of old leather, much like the one upon which I carry the key to the chamber. Curious, I begin to draw it from beneath his undershirt and catch a glimpse of fine golden metalwork before his eyes snap open and his hand clasps mine, preventing me from lifting it further.

  He stares into my eyes – his are all confusion – and I think he will lower his mouth to mine but then the familiar shadow descends and he becomes taut and brooding once more, cold as first frost.

  He pushes me away roughly, as if I’m suddenly abhorrent to him, turns and goes towards the door. There he pauses, twisting back, though he does not look at me.

  ‘I cannot,’ he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as if they are nothing.