The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  Ambrose never made a promise to me, but I thought there was no need. It was understood. It was all there in his deeds: the shared dreams, the affinity with the land, the flock and each other, the passion we gave one another in snatched moments out on the fell. I was too young to understand that sometimes words matter.

  On the day he told me he would be married to Dority, an iron cage clamped shut around my heart, barred and locked, and no one else has ever found the key.

  When, after a time, I leave her, I take a candle to bed. I reach the small chamber next to my own and find fingers of candlelight creeping across the boards from beneath the door. I pause in their glow, holding my breath.

  I raise my fist, meaning to tap gently but cannot do it. I stand there, halted by indecision, heart pulsing as if it might burst forth.

  Before I can make my choice the door swings open and he is there, dressed in breeches and undershirt, unwashed, unkempt and looking half wild. There is a new angry, scabbed wound on his forehead.

  He doesn’t seem surprised to find me standing there. My hand drops to my side. Why do I lose all courage when we are face to face?

  He stares at me a moment, with those dark, glowering eyes, then glances over my shoulder to make sure we are alone. ‘Is it the boy?’

  ‘No. I – I wanted to thank you.’

  He continues to stare. I search for something to say, something that expresses what I feel, but fail yet again. ‘Dority and Ambrose are grateful.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says.

  I know that is not true. ‘Is all well with the flock?’

  ‘We lost some in the storm, as far as I can tell. I’ll go out again tomorrow.’

  I nod. ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He stares at me a moment longer, as if waiting for more, then turns and closes the door. I hear the latch fall.

  I go into my chamber where, despite my tiredness, I cannot sleep. Instead, I go to the wall that adjoins his. Like a foolish, pining girl, I press my fingertips against it, then flatten my palm and put my ear to the plaster, imagining that I can hear his night breath and the steady rhythm of his heart, imagining that he might be just inches away, on the other side of the wall, doing the same.

  Chapter 36

  He has good news at last: today is the first day in the week since the storm that he has not found more dead sheep. He has come across them drowned in becks, fallen where they tried to shelter against the folds, three of them yesterday, part buried beneath a collapsed peat hag. He has even found a couple of bedraggled carcasses down on the valley side, as if the rain had washed them there. But he has been out on the fells all day today and found no more. He feels an impulse to share this with her, something that might lift the black mood she has carried since she returned from Halifax.

  He hears voices in the parlour – the room that Booth now rarely leaves – and goes there, thinking he will find her within. The door is ajar. Through the gap he sees the old woman and falters.

  Agnes is standing, backlit by the dimming light from the window, while Booth sits on the chair before the fire. She strokes his shoulder with one hand – a gentle caress of care and reassurance. ‘I can’t believe it’s true,’ she says. ‘You must be mistaken.’

  Booth, agitated, reaches up and grips her wrist. ‘Don’t treat me like a simpleton. I know it’s so.’ He takes hold of her hand and brings it towards his lips, as if he might kiss it. ‘Please, Agnes, you are the only one I can tell.’

  She looks at him, pained. ‘But why now? After all this time?’

  ‘So that I might atone for my sins before the end.’

  ‘What makes you so sure it’s not the Devil’s trickery?’

  ‘I know it, Agnes, in my heart. I failed them, all those years ago. I know that and I’ve never forgiven myself. You remember what Pastor Flynn said? God allows souls to return only to carry out His will. He’s giving me one last chance to make amends. But I don’t know what I’m to do – I don’t know how I can make it right.’

  She sighs. ‘Don’t distress yourself. Be quiet now.’

  ‘But I lost those coins. That was when it all began. I ask myself, did I will it somehow? Am I the cause?’

  ‘You need to sleep.’

  ‘But I cannot sleep. I am tormented.’

  ‘Bartram, please . . .’

  ‘That’s why I beat the boy. God forgive me, I never meant to hurt him. I don’t know what happened. I fear – I fear I’m losing my mind. They are with me day and night. They are driving me mad.’

  ‘Then, please, take the draught. It will help you.’

  He clutches at her sleeve. ‘I dare not. I dare not succumb. They come to me in dreams and ask me to go with them. I don’t want to go, but I fear I must . . . I fear I must.’

  He hangs his head then and she draws him close, cradling his head against her hip and stroking his hair, hushing him as if he were a child. They stay like that for a while, Booth whispering into her skirts, things Ellis cannot hear from his watch post outside the door. He sees Agnes raise a hand and quietly wipe tears from her cheek.

  He knows he should leave. He knows that to observe such a tender, private moment is not his place, but he senses the edges of something – an understanding – and cannot look away. His own heart is hammering, his mouth dry. He’s not sure what he’s witnessing but he knows it’s important, secret.

  Agnes crouches next to Booth and takes his face in her hands. Ellis watches her lips move as she whispers but again he cannot hear. Booth nods. She strokes his cheek with the gentleness of a lover. Then she straightens, slowly, awkwardly, and fetches a small cup from the sideboard. Booth drinks, pulling a face at the bitter taste of the contents, but he is already calmer.

  Agnes drapes a blanket over him, stokes the fire, then waits until his eyelids begin to droop and his head nods.

  As she leaves the room, Ellis presses back into the shadows of the stairwell, holding his breath as she makes her slow, shuffling way across the hall and into the kitchen.

  Then he follows.

  Mercy is sitting at the table, head in hands. The dog, Bracken, is with her, resting her scruffy brown head on Mercy’s knee. As he crosses the threshold Mercy looks up. ‘More today?’

  He shakes his head. ‘We have that to be thankful for at least.’

  She does not respond and he is disappointed. Stupid, he thinks, to pretend that such a small blessing would cancel out the losses of the last week.

  Agnes, grim-faced and frowning, goes to the table and begins slicing a small loaf of maslin, a greasy pat of butter beside her. She cries out suddenly, the knife clattering to the flags. Bracken barks at the sound.

  ‘Can’t you quiet that damned creature?’ Agnes says, trying to stem the drip of blood from her cut finger.

  Mercy guides her to the bench, where she sits, slumped forward, clutching her chest.

  Ellis retrieves the blade, then takes hold of Bracken’s rope collar and drags her to the door. What had Booth said to cause Agnes such distress, such distraction?

  Bracken does not want to go. She whines and scratches as Ellis shuts her out in the cold. As he bolts the door, he catches a whiff of something burning and is reminded of smouldering match, the brimstone taint of gunpowder, the crackle of the barn alight. But there is nothing to see in the gathering darkness, save the fog coming down.

  The cut is not deep and the bleeding soon stops, but the old woman has lost all colour and wheezes as she breathes, one hand pressed to her heart. ‘Forgive me,’ she says.

  ‘You need to rest,’ Mercy replies.

  ‘How can I rest when there’s so much to be done?’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘You can’t put barley in the mill and milk in the churns. You can’t undo what the rain has done to the kitchen beds. How are we to manage through the wi
nter, with no money for meat or grain?’

  Ellis perches opposite. ‘What of the money from the fair?’ he asks. ‘Will that not see us through?’

  Mercy reaches into her waistcoat and brings out a small leather pouch. She unties the drawstring and spills the contents onto the table. A small handful of coins rolls towards him. ‘It’s not enough,’ she says.

  Though he’s never been a trader he knows the value of lambs and those were good stock. She must read the disbelief in his frown because she tells him then, in short, angry words, what happened at the fair. As she speaks of the accusations that hounded them from the town, Agnes stands, waving away Mercy’s protests, and pretends to busy herself by fetching a jug of beer and three cups. She’s unsteady, he notices, pausing to catch her breath. Though she says nothing, he can see she’s hiding pain and not just from a cut finger. The experience in Halifax has clearly wounded more than her pride.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Mercy says. ‘I could not return with nothing, though this is little better. We had no chance to buy supplies, even if anyone would have taken our money.’

  ‘And Garrick agreed to this?’

  ‘I made the bargain, not he. Besides, he has other worries now.’ Her eyes flit above, towards the room where Sam still lies in his sickbed.

  ‘What does the master say?’

  ‘My father doesn’t know.’ She fixes him with a warning look. ‘And you’ll say nothing of it.’

  Agnes returns, placing a cup of beer before each of them. He takes it gratefully and drinks.

  ‘We shouldn’t keep such news from him,’ Agnes says. ‘He’ll know in time.’

  Ellis thinks of the sympathy he observed between them and wonders if Agnes has already shared the news with Booth.

  ‘I won’t be the one to cause him more distress,’ Mercy says, eyes fierce.

  Ellis knows what she’s really thinking – she will not give her father any more reason to leave Scarcross Hall.

  ‘He’s not well,’ she goes on. ‘We must wait till he’s better.’

  ‘But, my dear one, what if he doesn’t get better? He’s not himself. Not himself at all.’ Agnes studies Ellis. He feels the weight of suspicion on him. ‘Did you see it happen? Did you see him strike the boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he in the wrong?’

  ‘It’s not my right to judge another man’s conscience, but it was . . . needless.’

  An unspoken question creases her brow. He feels her eyes rest on him as Mercy speaks.

  ‘It would anger my father if he thought we’d been cheated. He has a temper.’

  Ellis understands the fury that overcame the man’s better instincts – he recognised the demon in Booth’s eyes.

  ‘If he knew what people were saying and the trouble we face, it might cause that rage to come again, and I fear he does not have the strength for it,’ Mercy says, looking to Agnes. ‘No, we must keep watch over him. Keep him calm and rested. Say nothing to disturb him. I’ll find a way to keep us warm and fed.’

  Agnes stands and goes to fetch the bread. ‘More secrets . . .’ she mutters, as she walks away, casting him a mistrustful glance.

  ‘I’ll find a way,’ Mercy says again, under her breath: a promise to herself.

  He slides a hand across the table and places it gently on top of hers. He had not intended to make such a gesture. He simply feels compelled to touch her, to reassure her. The urge to offer himself into her service, to protect her from the world, throbs in his chest.

  Her fingers are cold to the touch. She looks up at him, surprised. Then, as Agnes turns towards them, she snatches her hand away, the thread between them torn once more.

  Chapter 37

  A strange hush descends upon the house.

  Father confines himself to the parlour, surviving on guilt and prayer. Sometimes I press my ear to the door and hear him muttering to himself, bargaining with God. He does not mention Jasper Flynn to me again, though the pastor is true to his word and still visits weekly, when we all gather in the old bedchamber so that Sam might hear the prayers we say on his behalf. Flynn is distant and courteous to me, any old amity lacking, his presence clearly nothing more than duty. I wonder if he too is poisoned by Henry Ravens’s lies. Or can he feel, as I do, the cold hand of death hovering above Scarcross Hall, like a red kite riding the wind, and the sense that we are all suspended, waiting for it to land, struggling to find comfort in the faith he preaches?

  These prayer gatherings are the only time we come together. Father is not the only one to withdraw into solitude.

  Dority stays at Sam’s bedside for almost three weeks. She’ll leave the room to feed baby Grace – fearing contagion forces her to bed her youngest in Agnes’s room – but insists that Agnes or I take her place by Sam’s side while she does so. She barely sleeps and eats little. I watch her already slight frame narrow, the shadows beneath her eyes deepen and her cheeks sink until she takes on the cast of a cadaver. She turns in on herself, all her usual life and energy drained, becoming watchful and silent, cooped up in that room, her world shrunk to a daily round of doses and chamber pots, her one concern the life of her boy. Even Ambrose cannot reach her and, after the first week, returns to the cottage by night, where his own livestock must be tended.

  I begin to fear for her health. With Sam and Father to nurse, we cannot afford another invalid. So, in late November, I insist that she spends a night in my own bed, promising to sit with Sam till morning. I see the fear pass behind her eyes when I suggest it and know she’s thinking of Will and the last time she trusted me to watch over her son, but I reassure her and, though she tries to fight it, I can see how her body craves the rest. After much persuasion, she gives in.

  So, I find myself the nursemaid as night falls.

  Sam is not much changed. The fever still has him in its grip. Though Agnes forces her best remedies and purges down his throat, he’s insensible most of the time, stirring only to cry out or mutter the nonsense of disturbed dreams, his breathing thick and laboured. We feed him broth when we can, but he’s not taken solid food for weeks and the flesh is dropping from him, bones beginning to show through translucent skin. If God does not save him soon, I fear he’ll be joining his brother in the ground. Dority will not survive that.

  After pacing the room awhile, banking up the fire and closing the shutters against the winter chill, I prepare myself for a night of wakefulness, sitting in the high-backed chair in which Dority catches her moments of rest. I listen to the sounds of the household as it settles for the night: Agnes’s step upon the stair as she climbs to her bed, the familiar moan of wind in the chimney, the crackle and hiss of the fire. My body aches with exhaustion. There’s a scratch at the door, a soft whine, and I recognise Bracken, slunk up the stairs from her warm spot by the kitchen hearth. I let her in. What harm can it do? She curls at my feet. I find comfort in her warmth, her gentle snores. Thankfully, Sam is silent and sleeping. And, despite my promises, tiredness overtakes me.

  I wake with a start. Some hours must have passed. The candle has burned down, the wind got up. Bracken is on her feet by my side, teeth bared, making a low growl. She’s tense, quivering, ready to spring, snarling as she does when a fox comes after our hens. I rub sleep from my eyes. ‘What is it, girl?’

  Then I see what has disturbed her – the child-shaped figure that plagued me in the summer is there beside the hearth: the fire screen. In the dim light and flickering shadow, its features take on form and movement, the boy’s expressionless face weirdly menacing above the ruffed white collar and high-buttoned doublet of an earlier age. He seems to stare right at me.

  I’m suddenly alert, gripped by fear and confusion. How can this be? I swear it was not there earlier. I thought the thing was gone – Agnes promised me she would destroy it.

  Bracken growls, jaws beginning to foam. Sam stirs, mumbles something and I push myse
lf up and go to him, forcing down the shock, trying to ignore the cold dread that slides up my spine: the child in my care is the most important thing now.

  Sam’s eyelids flutter and his lips work as he struggles to rid himself of the coverlet. I put a hand to his forehead and it comes back slick with sweat, so I reach for the fresh linen that Dority laid out, douse it in the bowl of cool water next to the bed, wring it out and press it to his forehead, trying to soothe him.

  Bracken barks.

  ‘Quiet, girl,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll wake him.’ But it does not help. She looks from me to the fire screen, barks again, louder this time.

  Sam cries out – a high-pitched wail, laden with fear and sadness – the sound of nightmares. Again, I press the damp linen to his forehead. He begins to thrash about. I try to catch his hands, saying, ‘Sam, it’s me. It’s Mercy. I’m here.’

  Bracken is crouching now, ready to spring, hackles up, but Sam begins to moan and mutter words I cannot understand, jumbled sounds and cries of fear. He fights against me, pushes me away.

  ‘Be still, Sam. Please,’ I beg.

  He opens his eyes but seems to look through me, a different boy, he does not know me. His face is vacant, a death mask. He starts to scream. There is such fear in his eyes, as if he’s looked into the jaws of Hell and seen the Devil himself. But then he fixes on me and his expression alters: hateful accusation, burning blame, as if I’m the cause of his distress. It’s just the fever, I tell myself, but, God forgive me, I’m frightened. I’m terrified of this poor child.

  He starts to kick and shout, beating his hands against the bed, while Bracken barks and snarls. I shout at her to stop but it only makes it worse. She snaps at my boots, teeth sinking into leather. She tugs, growling low, as if she would pull me from the room. I kick her away. Then, from the corner of my eye, I see that the fire screen has moved.

  It now stands about three strides from the fire, between the casement and the foot of the bed. And yet, it is still turned towards me, staring, eyes fierce with that same blameful look I’ve just witnessed in Sam.