The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  Once more the thought of Mercy, in her white nightgown, creeps to the fore. His mind is playing tricks on him: he has driven himself mad with the blows. He has seen marsh lights before and recognises the cool blue glow: the souls of those drowned in the bog, the lonely ones who crave the company of the living. He shivers, gripped by the conviction that someone else is here: someone or something. But then he sees a small bundle of rags, lying on the ground, at the foot of the Slaying Stone.

  ‘Sam!’ He stumbles forward, almost blind, praying for sure footing.

  Sam is curled in a hollow beneath the stone. He could be asleep but when Ellis shakes him, his eyes roll and his teeth chatter. He is drenched, waxen and mud-streaked, cold as death.

  ‘Sam!’ Ellis shakes him hard. ‘Sam! Wake up!’

  There is no response – the boy is insensible – but Ellis feels the slightest beat at his chest, hears the rasp of feeble breath.

  He gathers Sam in his arms and stands, head throbbing, struggling to see his way back to the path as blood blinds him. He waits for lightning, which seems to take an age to come. He edges away from the Slaying Stone, feeling dread build and a cold, malevolent eye on his back, until he is filled with a desperate urge to run. But to run would be to die, so he waits and waits until the sky is suddenly bright and he sees a furrow amid the heather that might be the path. He steps out towards it, across this Devil’s land, into the black night.

  Winter

  Chapter 35

  I take a strip of damp linen and gently wipe the film of sweat from Sam’s forehead. His cheeks are mottled with scarlet spots, his breathing shallow and thick. He does not seem to know me.

  ‘What cure have you tried?’ Agnes asks.

  Dority gazes out of the bedchamber window, hugging herself. She looks deathly, face blanched, bruise-hued shadows blooming beneath her eyes.

  ‘He was so cold at first that we just tried to warm him. When the fever began I gave him vervain and feverfew. I tried vinegar on the poultice, but nothing seems to make a difference.’

  Agnes nods. ‘You’ve done all you could. I’ll find something more to ease him.’

  Ambrose, kneeling on the floor beside the bed, clutches Sam’s small, clammy hand. He’s not moved since we arrived back at Scarcross Hall. ‘Shall I go for help? There’s a healer sometimes visits the village.’

  ‘I need you here,’ Dority says. ‘Please don’t leave me again.’

  ‘Then Ferreby will go.’

  ‘No. The man you speak of is a charlatan and I won’t have him here. There’s no one in twenty miles can give my boy better care than Agnes. Besides, we’d be wiser sending for Pastor Flynn.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Ambrose says, squeezing Sam’s hand as if he’ll never let go. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

  But, of course, we are all thinking of it.

  ‘Why did you put him in this room?’ Agnes asks, echoing my thoughts. ‘We never use it. We keep it locked.’

  ‘Ellis had a key. He thought it best to keep Sam away from the rest of the house, away from baby Grace, and the master, in case of contagion.’

  ‘Ellis has keys?’ Agnes glares at me, but I haven’t the patience for questions.

  ‘Who else should I trust? I couldn’t leave them with Father.’

  ‘I’m sorry if we did wrong, but we can’t move him now. He’s too weak,’ Dority says. ‘And don’t blame Ellis. If it were not for him . . .’

  ‘Where is Ellis now?’ I ask.

  ‘Checking the flock. He’s been worried about them, after the storm. And he’s done all he can here.’ She inclines her head to indicate the changes about the room.

  The trunks and boxes have been pushed up against one wall, the rusting farm equipment is gone and the floor swept clean. The fireplace smoulders, though the unused chimney sends the smoke back into the room. The broken shutter has been nailed up with a cross-hatch of boards. The split bolster has been replaced with clean linen I recognise from Father’s bedchamber.

  ‘He did all this?’ I ask, remembering Ellis’s words the last time we were alone in this room: Whatever visits here, whatever its intent, you cannot keep it at bay with a locked door. God knows I have relived that night enough times to understand his intention now – his attempt to face down whatever evil lurks here.

  ‘He’s been our guardian angel,’ Dority says. ‘I don’t know what I would have done had he not been here.’ She covers her face with her hands so we cannot see the tears well. Ambrose stands, goes to her and wraps her in his arms.

  ‘I’m here now, girl,’ he whispers into her hair. ‘I’ll not leave you again.’

  She leans into his chest, seeming to shrink against him, and gives vent to the despair that must have been growing inside her these last two days.

  I know it’s wrong, but I feel a stab of jealousy. I cannot imagine how it must have been for Dority waiting for us to return, not knowing whether she would greet her husband with yet another tragedy, but what consolation it must be to have him back, to have someone to share her woes.

  For many years I’ve assumed I’d never have such a thing. I’ve shared parts of myself with Agnes, and with Dority, and in my younger years I would have named Father my closest friend, but there’s no one in this world knows the whole of me. I’ve shared my pains with God alone. I’ve whispered to the wind, let the rain take my tears, dried my eyes on the fleeces of my flock and never let anyone see how I’ve felt the lack of a true friend. I have not dwelled upon my loneliness. I never allowed it: I made my choice and must live by it. But the trials of these last months have stirred a craving I thought long dead.

  ‘I’ll prepare something for the boy,’ Agnes says, ‘and look in on the master.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ambrose says, over Dority’s shoulder.

  But as Agnes reaches the threshold, Sam stirs. Dority is beside him in an instant. He turns his face towards her and blinks slowly.

  She places a palm to his forehead. ‘Sam? Sam, can you hear me?’

  He blinks again, eyes vacant.

  ‘What do you want, my love? Ambrose, fetch water. He must drink.’

  Sam seems to focus briefly on his mother’s face before his gaze wanders upwards and beyond her, to the wooden canopy of the bed.

  Then he squeezes his eyes tight shut, a wail erupting from somewhere deep inside, a noise I’ve never heard from him before, more akin to the keening of foxes in the night. He tries to toss the covers aside and pushes his mother away, as though he cannot bear the sight of her.

  ‘My darling, please be calm,’ Dority says, trying to stroke his forehead, trying to soothe him, but he kicks and moans while I stand by, helpless, a cold hand squeezing my heart.

  He struggles for some minutes, while we tend him with gentle words, compresses and water, but nothing gives him ease. Eventually he’s spent and falls back into deepest sleep.

  Dority is aghast. ‘What’s wrong with him? Why does he not know me? Why is he afraid of me?’

  ‘His brain is fevered,’ Agnes says. ‘He does not even know himself.’

  But I’m sure we are all thinking the same thing. It’s not his mother Sam fears: he just does not want to die in the same bed as his brother.

  I find Father seated on an old worn blanket on the floor by the fire in the parlour. He has one of Agnes’s shawls draped around his shoulders. The air is stale with the stench of peat smoke, tallow, week-old sweat and an overflowing chamber pot. Bedcovers are caterpillared across the floor and the remains of a meal – a dry crust and flecks of crumbling cheese – are scattered where someone has upturned a plate. Two leather-bound books, treasures usually kept safe on the shelf in the study, lie open haphazardly. A pile of papers spills from the sideboard. A glance suggests most of these are covered with scrawled black ink and some have been screwed up and tossed aside.

  Father is staring at the fire,
whispering to himself. He seems not to notice as I slip inside and close the door.

  ‘Father?’

  He turns red-rimmed eyes towards me. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he says, as if he’d last seen me an hour since, and I’d not been gone near a week.

  I cross the room and crouch beside him. ‘Come, let me help you to a chair.’

  ‘No . . . I’m comfortable here.’ He shifts a little as if to prove it and gives me a weak smile. I’m taken aback by how frail he is. He looks so shrunken and old, skin grey and papery, eyes bloodshot and sore, as if he’s not slept. The change in him, so marked in these few days, is painful to see.

  He looks back at the flames. ‘Come, rest with me awhile, child.’

  I sit cross-legged next to him and, for a few minutes, let myself bathe in the warmth of the fire and the peace of the room. I notice there are no creaks or pattering steps from above, no chill air or sense of otherness; the house is quiet, as if, like all of us, it is waiting to know Sam’s fate. When Father reaches over, takes my hand in his and closes his eyes, I do the same, imagining for a moment I’m that little girl again, suspended in silent prayer. How I wish that could be true. I’d like to lay my head on Father’s shoulder and tell him about the horrors of the last few days, let him comfort me, let him make the world a safe place again. But I know it’s impossible. That man is gone.

  ‘Of course, Dority told you what happened,’ he says, after a while. ‘She told you what I did.’ He sounds calm, no sign of the temper or fretting I’ve come to expect.

  ‘Yes, she told me.’

  ‘How is the boy now?’

  ‘He’s very ill, Father.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He nods slowly. ‘I’ve been praying that God sees fit to save him. “Take me,” I say, “not the boy. It’s nothing to do with him.”’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looks at me with such sadness. ‘Ah, Mercy. For all your years you’re still an innocent. It’s my own fault, I suppose, keeping you to myself all this time, away from the world. I just wanted you to be safe, you see. I wanted to make a life where nothing could harm you.’

  ‘I’m no innocent, Father. You’ve taught me well. I know the ways of the flock, the land and the work. What more do I need?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been selfish. I’ve been thoughtless. Well, soon you will be free of me, free to do as you choose.’

  ‘Please don’t say such things.’

  ‘No doubt you’ll be glad to be rid of me, rid of a father who has failed you yet again.’

  ‘You haven’t failed me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I have.’ He lets my hand drop. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

  My heart sinks. I’m not sure I can stomach more bad news.

  ‘Yesterday Pastor Flynn came to see me. We prayed together for poor Sam. And afterwards we spoke of you, my dear.’

  I’ve been waiting for this day to come. I gather myself, ready to argue against a marriage to Jasper Flynn.

  ‘I’m afraid he did not agree to my proposal. He gave all the usual flatteries, of course, but he declined to ask for your hand. He said . . . he said that, given the current situation, it would not be in the best interests of either party. What did he mean, Mercy? Why would he refuse such an offer?’

  I say nothing as this sinks in. Jasper Flynn, knowing the rumours, and some small part of the truth of them, has chosen to keep the goodwill of his parishioners over a future as master of Scarcross Hall. I’m sure, for him, the choice was clear. I am not a suitable wife. I cannot help but feel a great swell of relief and not a little gratitude.

  ‘Is he afraid, do you think?’ Father goes on. ‘Afraid of the things we’ve told him? As a man of God, surely it’s his duty to offer comfort and protection, not turn away in our hour of need. I cannot understand it.’

  ‘I’m sure he has good reason,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I could not persuade him, and it seemed he could not wait to leave. And I thought that man was my friend. So, you see, I’ve failed you even in that.’

  ‘I don’t see it so. You must not blame him. It was too much to ask of any man.’

  ‘But what are we to do now? Will you find another to marry, as I ask? You must act soon, my dear, before I’m gone. That time is drawing near. You must act soon or I’ll have no choice . . .’

  And with those words, the relief of my reprieve is quashed by the threat of losing Scarcross Hall. ‘Father, please don’t talk of that.’

  ‘I must find a way to protect you, Mercy. It’s all my fault, you see – what’s happened to Sam and his family. What’s happened to all of us. I’m to blame and therefore no one else can make it good.’

  ‘You’re not to blame. No one thinks so.’

  ‘Oh, they do. I see it. I see it in Dority’s eyes. If the boy dies, it will be my fault. The Garricks already know how it is to lose a son – there can be no greater pain – and they must have someone to blame.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will in time. We must all face up to our failings in the end, whether in this life or the next. And it’s so clear – how I’ve made one error after another. I see it now, though I did not see it then. I just hope you can forgive me, child.’

  ‘Why are you talking like this? Are you unwell?’ But his eyes are clear, free of the confusion that has become so familiar.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’

  I think of the paltry collection of coin in my purse and of how I’m the one who has failed. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘You are too good to me, Mercy. You put on a brave face to the world but you have a sweetness that reminds me of your mother. Any man would be blessed to have you by his side.’ Then he shakes away his wistfulness. ‘Enough maudlin talk. Tell me about the fair. Did you see my old friends? What news is there? Was the sale a great success?’

  There is hope in his eyes. I cannot bring myself to crush it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the Booths are not beaten yet.’ He reaches over and squeezes my hand. I feel the slow crawl of guilt at the lie but, God forgive me, I do it to save him pain. The truth weighs heavy on me. If only my purse did the same.

  Later that night, when Ambrose has gone to the cottage to tend the livestock and Agnes is dozing, exhausted, before the kitchen hearth, I sit up with Dority at Sam’s bedside.

  ‘You should sleep,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll stay with Sam and wake you if there’s any change.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t leave him alone, not for a moment. I can’t risk it.’

  I know what she’s thinking. She was not there when Will breathed his last. I was the one who sat with him that night. The Devil has a way of tricking the living and she doesn’t want to tempt him a second time.

  I put my hand on top of hers. ‘God won’t let him go. He’s too precious to us.’

  ‘But if it were not for Ellis we would have lost him already.’ She pauses, swallowing tears. ‘Oh, Mercy, I’ve not seen a storm like it in years. He risked his life to save my boy.’

  My throat tightens as I think of Ellis Ferreby. I’ve not forgotten my humiliation at his hands, the crushing of my hope that night in this very room. I’d been so sure of his intention, so certain of his response. I still burn with shame to think I was mistaken. Ever since that night I’ve avoided being alone with him and he’s been surly and silent in return.

  I had thought that my journey to the All Hallows fair would be a respite from the regret that torments me, but instead I found his absence a physical thing – an ache in my chest, as if I’d cracked a rib. I saw his features in other men, in one the fall of his dark hair, in another the long stride of his gait, in a third the broad stretch of his back, and I longed for one of them to be him. In years past I’ve joined the merrymaking and taken my solace with men
now nameless and faceless to me, but this year, there was no one on my mind but him. And I hate myself for it.

  Dority is watching me. ‘He’s a good man, Mercy. A little rough, granted, but there’s a decent heart beneath.’

  I say nothing but she puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘I see the burden you carry and you should not have to do it alone. You have Agnes, but Agnes is old. You have Ambrose and me, but we cannot be here always. And your father . . . Well, your father is not the man he used to be. A good husband by your side would be a comfort and a helpmate.’

  Jasper Flynn’s refusal crosses my mind. ‘Men don’t marry women like me.’

  ‘You always say that but it’s not true. It’s only because you’ve kept yourself apart. You still have strength and youth for a family, should you wish it. Besides, he loves you, Mercy, I’m sure of it.’

  I’m tempted to put her right but somehow I can’t bear to disagree with her, not now. She always sees the best in people, always finds hope for them, even when her own is torn to shreds.

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Why else would he stay?’ she says. ‘And he almost admitted it to me, before all this.’

  ‘Then why does he not speak up? Why does he not come to me?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you.’ She pauses. ‘But, Mercy, what’s stopping you? I know you. It’s not in your nature to hold back if there’s something you truly want.’

  Again I feel a surge of shame at the recollection of Ellis’s rejection. I cannot tell her I’ve already tried with him and failed, as I seem to fail so much now. Though somehow her hope is infectious. I want to believe her. He turned away from me that night, but perhaps there was good reason. My head tells me one thing and my heart another.

  ‘Don’t waste this chance of happiness, Mercy,’ she says, looking at Sam. ‘You may not get another.’

  She glances back at me and I see the memory stir behind her eyes. She looks away, back to her boy, chastened. She knows the reason I have kept myself apart all these years. She knows I had my chance of happiness and she stole it away.