The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  And then he is gone.

  Chapter 32

  Ellis kicks off his damp, heavy boots and leans back in the chair, the heat of the kitchen fire easing his aching limbs. Steam rises from the boots, the leather so cracked and sodden that when he pulls them on each morning his legs are leaden, and each night he is aware of the itch and stink rising from between his toes.

  ‘You must be tired.’ Dority Garrick stands at the kitchen table, laying out trenchers and bread. He cannot get used to her presence in the old woman’s place. At least Agnes does not bother him with chatter.

  ‘I’ll hang your things to dry,’ she says. ‘I can’t let you catch a chill when we’re all depending on you. Have you clean clothes?’

  ‘Later,’ he says, resting his head on the chair-back and closing his eyes.

  While Mercy, Garrick and Agnes are gone to Halifax, to sell lambs at the last fair of the year and bring back supplies for the winter, the care of the flock falls to him. He has spent a rain-lashed day out on the fell. She has been gone only three days yet he feels her absence as a nagging ache in his centre, a space where she should be. He curses himself for such a failing but, at the same time, finds himself encouraging it, allowing the sensation to grow and fester in his chest, like a canker, because it is the only thing he has of her that belongs to him.

  Sometimes he longs for the days before he knew her. He remembers it as a time of solitude and peace before this serpent began to twist within, this double blade that sharpens with each day, though he knows that is not a true memory because he has never known serenity, not the sort that godly men speak of, only the false impression of it found at the bottom of a bottle.

  ‘You must be hungry for some supper,’ Dority says, carving hunks from a dark, dry loaf. ‘I expected you back at midday.’ Her tone is unmistakable: she is annoyed with him.

  He rubs his eyes and props himself up, watching as she prepares three trenchers of bread and cheese, then goes to the door and calls Sam’s name into the hall beyond.

  There is no answer, other than the chaos of rainfall and the wind whistling down the hall’s dead chimney.

  After a few minutes she gives up and returns, collects two of the trenchers and brings them to the hearth where she places one in his hands. She drags a stool across the flags and sits, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. ‘He’ll come when he’s hungry,’ she says.

  They eat in silence, accompanied by the sound of rain driving against the panes, as it has done for a week or more. Every so often a drop splashes down the chimney, making the fire hiss and spit. The bread is heavy, made with bitter rye, crumbling between his fingers, but it is better than nothing.

  When he is sated he sets aside the trencher and leans back once more, listening to the crackle of flame, the gentle rustle of Dority’s skirts as she moves, the creak and groan of the house. He picks out the regular beat of footsteps from above. He glances at Dority and sees she is listening, head cocked, eyes following the sound to and fro.

  ‘How is my boy doing?’ she asks, when the footsteps stop.

  He shrugs, takes a swig of ale. She thinks it is Sam she hears, but he doubts that.

  ‘I’d hoped he might be happier here,’ she says. ‘I’d hoped you might be a friend to him, but he seems as sad and lonely as ever.’

  ‘He does not much like me,’ he says.

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘The truth is more complicated.’ She puts down her trencher, her supper barely eaten, and dusts the crumbs from her lap. ‘He finds it hard to trust people. Lord knows, that poor boy has had his share of troubles.’

  His irritation rises. ‘I know something of his losses, Mistress Garrick, as I know something of yours, but I don’t see how I can heal them. As his mother, surely you should be the one to do that.’

  She stares at the floor, face pinched. ‘I’ve tried – of course I have – but I’m not able.’

  ‘I cannot be a father to him. He has a father already.’

  She folds her hands in her lap. ‘Mercy cares for Sam a great deal. I thought that might mean something to you.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  She stares at him for a few moments, as if trying to read something in his features, then stands, collects the trenchers and returns to the table. ‘Why are you still here at Scarcross Hall, Master Ferreby?’

  He says nothing.

  ‘It can’t be for the coin, because I know too well there is none. It can’t be for the love of the work because it is gruelling and tiresome. I can’t believe that you’ve nowhere else to go, because a man like you will always find a bed somewhere. So, why do you stay?’

  He shrugs, wishing she would leave him be.

  She sighs, exasperated. ‘You might fool the rest of them, pretending you care for nothing and no one, you might even fool her, but you don’t fool me.’

  He’s surprised by her temper and finds his own rising to meet it. ‘My choices are no business of yours.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but the welfare of this family is. I’ve lived too long beside them to keep silent.’ She turns to him. ‘Let me tell you one thing. Mercy Booth may pretend she cares for nothing but her flock, but she’s as much a liar as you. If the two of you can’t see the truth in each other then you must be blind. But I don’t think you are blind, Master Ferreby, any more than she is.’ She comes towards him and jabs a finger at his chest, feline eyes sparking. ‘I know there’s a heart beating in there and I see for whom it beats. It takes a brave man to own his heart. But I think perhaps you’re a coward. Are you a coward?’

  He stands, towering over her, tumult roiling in his chest. His fists clench. He could strike her now – it would be just punishment for speaking so plainly, for touching so raw a truth – but some small part of him wants to fall at her feet and confess all.

  Alarmed, she steps backwards and reaches out a hand to steady herself on the tabletop.

  ‘You think you know me,’ he says, failing to keep the jagged rage from his voice. ‘You think you see the truth. But you know nothing of me. You know nothing of the truth.’

  Before she can respond a great howl echoes through the hall.

  ‘Sam,’ she says, faltering, turning to the door. But the howl has become a guttural moan, low and deep, not the sound of a child.

  Ellis is through the door before her, running across the hall to Booth’s study. Flinging open the door he sees Booth knelt at the hearth, cradling one hand to his chest and, with the other, trying to smother the flaming edges of a piece of paper. He looks a madman, grey hair flying, eyes bulging and wild with panic, baying like a wounded animal.

  Ellis crosses the room and stamps on the paper, the fire quenched by his damp woollen stockings. Dority runs to Booth and flings her arm around his shoulders. ‘Master Booth! What have you done?’

  Booth shrugs her off and rocks back and forth, clutching at his hand. Even by the dim light of the fire, Ellis can see a cruel red welt creeping across the palm.

  Ellis bends to take up the paper. The corners crumble to ashes on the hearthstone.

  ‘Do not touch it!’ Booth says, but Ellis ignores him. The document is charred, only a few words remaining, and he cannot make out what it is that Booth has tried to save from the fire. In one corner, untouched by flame, there is a ruddy smudge, the colour of dried blood.

  ‘Leave it be! Do not touch it!’ Booth says again. ‘Oh! Will they never let me rest?’

  ‘Come now, Master Booth,’ Dority coaxes. ‘Let me see your hand. Did you burn it?’

  He turns on her. ‘Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child! You think I don’t know my own mind. But I do. I do. I’m not mad. They’ve come back, don’t you see? After all this time. They’ve come back.’

  Ellis steps forward. ‘Let Mistress Garrick help you, sir.’

  Booth
looks at him and some flicker of confusion passes across his face. He grimaces, as the pain takes hold.

  ‘Please, Master Booth, let me help you,’ Dority says.

  Booth tries to rise from the floor, legs weak as he leans heavily against her.

  ‘What have they done?’ he asks, as she helps him to the chair beside the fire and encourages him to sit. ‘Why will they not let me be?’

  ‘A light, please, Ellis,’ she says.

  Ellis goes to the desk where a candle burns, but is stopped short by what he sees there.

  The desk is scattered with papers as usual, spilled across boxes and inkpots, an empty pewter cup dribbling liquid like a slug’s trail. But the papers are all marked with dark red stains. On some there are smudges or spots but, here and there, he sees the distinct shape of a small red handprint, no bigger than a child’s, as though someone has run their hands over everything, searching for something. He looks at the burned scrap he holds, at the same russet stain.

  ‘The candle,’ Dority says urgently.

  He grabs it, and when he turns back, Booth is watching him. ‘You see?’ Booth says. ‘Who else could it be? Who else could have done this?’

  ‘Please, let me look at your hand,’ Dority says, wincing as he unfurls his palm to reveal an angry scarlet burn. ‘We must cool this with milk. Ellis, will you fetch some from the buttery?’

  Just then Sam appears at the door, ashen and wide-eyed.

  Booth falls silent.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Sam,’ Dority says. ‘Master Booth has had an accident, but all is well.’

  Booth stares at the child with a weird calculating look. ‘Did you do this, boy?’ he says.

  Sam says nothing.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Booth pushes himself up from the chair, ignoring Dority’s pleas, and gropes for his stick. ‘Where have you been?’

  Sam stares at the floor, jaw working as if he would speak, but no sound comes out.

  ‘I said, where have you been?’

  ‘Answer Master Booth, Sam,’ Dority says.

  ‘Come closer, boy.’

  Sam takes a few uncertain steps.

  Booth goes to the desk where he picks up a document riddled with ruddy handprints. ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘Sam wouldn’t dare—’

  ‘The boy can speak for himself, woman.’ Booth draws himself up, casting off the decrepit old man that Ellis recognises, seeming suddenly younger, broader and more fearsome. Then he bellows, ‘Come here!’

  Sam flinches and looks to his mother.

  ‘Do as Master Booth says, Sam,’ she says, cowed.

  Sam does so, stopping just a few feet away from Booth.

  ‘Show me your hands, boy.’

  Sam hesitates, eyes darting to Ellis and back to Booth.

  ‘Here, in the candlelight. Show me your hands.’

  Slowly, Sam splays his fingers, palms up, a child’s hands, small and uncalloused, the skin of his fingers stained a brownish red. Ellis knows that his own hands are the same – remnants of the ochre raddle that marks the backsides of all the tupped ewes on the fell. He knows that, no matter how hard you scrub, it takes weeks to fade.

  There is a moment when he could speak up, when he could stop it, but he does not. He watches as Booth roars, raises his cane and swipes it hard against the boy’s head.

  Then Dority is screaming, tugging at Booth’s coat as he rains blows across Sam’s back and the boy crumples to the floor, covering his head with his hands.

  For a few seconds Ellis is elsewhere, staring at his own reddened palms while the awful sounds of violence come to him from a distance, dredged up from memory – another place, another time, another small, helpless boy.

  Dority’s cries bring him back to himself and then he is pulling Booth away, pinning his arms by his sides, his own strength proving the better of his master.

  Dority falls to her knees, protecting Sam with her body, wailing his name over and over. The child has not cried out once.

  The strength of fury seems to go out of Booth. He buckles in Ellis’s grip, drops his cane and stands panting and exhausted until Ellis releases him.

  Sam uncurls and, pushing Dority away, climbs to his feet, unsteady, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose. Dority, trembling, reaches for him but he steps back and shakes his head, wiping the blood across his cheek in a grotesque smear.

  He stares at Booth and his eyes are cold and sharp as shards of ice.

  ‘Oh, see what they’ve made me do,’ Booth whispers, looking at Ellis with horror. ‘Lord, forgive me. See what they’ve made me do . . .’

  He reaches out his burned right hand towards Sam. ‘My dear child, forgive me . . .’

  But Sam just stands there. He looks at each of them in turn. Ellis is shocked by the malice in his stare, as if all Hell’s fury burns behind his eyes. Then he turns and walks out of the room.

  ‘Fetch him back,’ Booth says, pleading. ‘Fetch him back at once.’

  But by the time Dority has struggled to her feet and followed Sam out into the hall all she finds is the yard door unbolted and a splash of blood upon the step.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Two guineas is my final offer.’ Owen leans back against the settle and takes a long drink from the tankard the tavern girl has just placed before him. Foam clings to his moustache. He wipes it away on his sleeve. ‘Do we have an agreement?’

  ‘They’re worth four times that,’ Ambrose says.

  ‘They’re only worth what a man is willing to pay, Garrick, and I am that man.’

  ‘Master Owen,’ I say, trying a smile. ‘These lambs were bred on good hill country from strong stock. They’re hardy and healthy – our very best. They’ll do well on your land and, in a year or two, the ewes will make good breeders. We’re offering you a reasonable price.’

  He snorts. ‘If they’re your best, why would you part with them for any less than their worth? It makes a man suspicious. There must be some reason you wish to be rid of them.’

  I don’t answer. He knows my hand is forced.

  ‘Only a fool would purge their stock of the best new breeders. I always said women have no head for this business.’ He gives Ambrose a conspiratorial wink. ‘Best stay where they’re most useful, do you not think so, Garrick?’ He has a purplish sore at the corner of his mouth. Every so often he worries at its yellow crust with his tongue. He does so now; my stomach turns.

  ‘It’s no use trying to win Ambrose to your view, Master Owen,’ I say. ‘I’m mistress of Scarcross Hall and your business is with me.’

  He smirks into his mug, gaze sinking to my chest. ‘I don’t do business with maids,’ he says. ‘Especially those who would make themselves the image of a man.’

  ‘Then perhaps I’m wasting my time,’ I say, standing, but Ambrose catches my wrist and tugs me back down.

  ‘We didn’t come here to argue, Owen, but to strike a bargain with you,’ he says. ‘Let’s all calm our tempers.’ He shoots me a warning look. ‘I’m sure we can come to an agreeable figure. Your offer is too low. What say you to five guineas?’

  Owen laughs. ‘I say you’ve not been listening to me. You’ll accept my price and be thankful for it. I saw what happened at the auction. No one else will buy from you. You’re trying to hide it but I know you’re desperate, and a desperate man cannot make demands.’

  Though my blood boils, I know he speaks truth. We would not be here, in this dank, back-street tavern, sharing ale with ragged farm lads and pox-ridden drunks like Owen, if the day had not been a disaster.

  All morning I stood by our pen, with forty lambs jostling and bleating for the fells, waiting for the buyers to come. And some did, leaning over the fence, shooting curious glances my way, looking me up and down and sucking their cheeks at the sight of my breeches and boots. A few of the younger ones came just
to stare. But none stepped into the pen to check for rotten teeth or fly-struck fleeces. No one asked my price. Even those I’ve known since I was a girl – those who used to pet and spoil me – did not wish me good day or ask the reason for my father’s absence.

  I’ve been coming here all my life and these people know me. Why would they act as if I’m a stranger, no longer one of them? As the day draws on, my suspicion grows – a hard, heavy millstone in my chest.

  Perhaps I should have seen the signs when we were given a pen on the edge of the common, far from the flocks of wealthier stockmen, or when the first two inns we tried claimed they had no room for us.

  Was I ignorant to suppose that word would not have spread so far? In the marketplace I see faces from villages and farmsteads near Scarcross Hall, neighbours I know from Pastor Flynn’s congregation, people who will listen to Henry Ravens and his spiteful wife. Since the altercation outside the church, I’m sure Henry will have taken every opportunity to fuel the rumours in order to deflect suspicion and blame from himself. And gossip will spread down valleys and along roadways faster than the plague.

  When time came for the auction and the teller called out the name of Scarcross Hall, there was a hush – silence except for the bristle of whispers and scuffling as men turned away. No one will buy from me today.

  So, Ambrose and I are forced here, to this stinking den of scoundrels and thieves, to find someone willing to take the lambs off our hands. I cannot take them back. I cannot return without coin and the supplies we need. We will not come through the winter without them. I cannot face the crestfallen, despairing look on Father’s face. Our survival falls to me and I must not fail.

  Owen sits back, pursing his lips. He knows he has the better of me. A roll of white, lardy flesh, with coarse black hairs, like spiders’ legs, protrudes above his breeches.

  ‘Is this your doing?’ I ask, though I can guess the truth. ‘Have you poisoned others against us for your gain?’

  ‘My dear girl, you credit me with more guile than I have.’

  ‘Then tell me, what are people saying?’