The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'
Page 29
She wipes spittle on the back of her glove. ‘We should turn back soon,’ she says. ‘Before night falls.’
‘There’s a good hour of light yet.’
‘It’ll take us that long to get home.’
An hour of struggling through snow so deep it’s soaked his boots and breeches to the waist. ‘Let me check here, then we’ll go back,’ he says, the conviction building that this place is important.
‘No, it’s useless. I can’t see any tracks,’ she says, impatient.
‘Wait here, then.’
He leaves her, climbs and slides down the bank towards the cottage, landing in a drift. He loses his hat on the way and has to scrabble back up on his hands and knees to retrieve it. Mercy scans the fell, alert, agitated, keen to move on.
The snow is banked high on the windward side and he goes there first. It’s too deep to stand, halfway up to what’s left of the rafters, so he uses his crook to push down further into the drift. The wood goes straight through to stone. He tries again, working his way around the cottage to the gap where the front door once stood. He remembers this place on the night he found Bartram Booth with Silas and Joan Goffe and their ragged brood, and wishes that Booth had never encountered them. Still nothing.
Something tells him not to give up. He’s had feelings like this before, perhaps when a ewe will lamb before her time, perhaps when the flies might strike or when a rogue dog is worrying the flock. It’s a shepherd’s knowledge, more instinct than sense. He had it the first time he saw her, that knowing, deep in his bones.
He makes his way to the far end of the building where a small barn once housed livestock. There is no roof at all here and most of the walls are crumbled away, but two still stand and it’s in this corner that he plunges the crook once more into the drifts. And this time, it meets something soft and pliable that shifts when he presses gently against it.
He moves a few steps along and tries again, meeting resistance, about an arm’s length beneath the snow: there are animals here. He unties the shovel strapped across his back and makes a tunnel. Sure enough, not two feet in, he finds fleece.
‘Down here!’ he calls, beckoning Mercy.
She comes, slithering down the slope, sees what he’s found and, without a word, starts to dig.
They save thirteen sheep, most of them ewes in lamb and all suffering. As each one is released, it wanders away, dazed, to where the others gather against the wall of the cottage.
By the time they are done, dusk is falling. They have no lamp, no dog and no food. There is nothing more they can do. Ellis clears a way to the front door and, with whistles and crook, herds the wretched bunch inside.
Then they set off along the valley, hoping to meet the coffin path and the quickest way back to Scarcross Hall. As darkness falls, the snow starts to come down heavily and they tie themselves together with a length of rope. Mercy is silent for a long time, but he knows what she’s thinking, because he can sense it, as he always can these days, and knows she must be able to feel it too: someone is watching them.
At last they reach home. At the gate in the wall that leads to the kitchen door, she stops. She unties the rope from around her waist and lets it drop. He collects it, unties it from around his own, a weird tug in his belly at their parting.
‘I do believe you,’ she says. ‘I know you wouldn’t hurt Bracken. It’s just—’ She stops short but all the things she won’t admit fill the space: It’s just that I cannot explain the things that have happened, that I do not know who to trust, that I am afraid.
‘I know,’ he says, wanting to reassure her.
She looks at him, questioning.
‘But you do not have to face it all alone,’ he says.
He manages a smile, and this time, he sees something shift in her eyes: desperate hope – gratitude – behind her cold, unfeeling gaze.
Chapter 39
I take Agnes’s chair beside the kitchen hearth and Ellis pulls up a stool. We try to encourage some warmth back into our frozen limbs. Father is safe, nested in the parlour. Agnes has gone to bed. She’s given Sam a draught that will keep him sleeping until dawn, and tells me he’s been quiet ever since, so I leave him be. The house is stilled. There’s no sound from empty chambers, no trip upon the stair, no patter across the boards by unseen feet. Scarcross Hall seems lulled by the blanket of snow and, for once, I’m glad to be indoors.
But the peace only serves to heighten my nerves. Today has been one of the hardest and most dangerous I can remember. Snowfall can hide deathtraps. I’ve known men fall into gullies and suffocate in the drifts or lie broken-backed and frozen, tricked by the ever-shifting landscape they thought they knew. My muscles ache and throb, my hands are chapped and raw, fingers pricking and burning as they thaw. But despite my weariness, my mind is wild as a tempest.
All day I’ve watched Ellis at work, been humbled by his skill, strength and sacrifice, witnessing what he’s willing to risk for me. I was mistaken to think he could have had anything to do with Bracken’s death. I doubted him because I could not face the truth – that her death might be a sign of more to come.
One coin marks the first to go . . .
I think of that first golden coin, found beneath Sam’s pillow, and the boy who has, so far, escaped his brother’s fate. But he’s still weak, a shadow of himself.
A second bodes the fall.
The second coin, discovered by Ellis in the barn. Watching him today, I can hardly believe he’s in any danger. But sturdy health did not help Bracken, or John Bestwicke.
The third will seal a sinner’s fate.
Agnes. Poor Agnes – frightened, frail and distracted, but who refuses to leave my father’s side. I understand why she’ll not think of deserting us – even if the snow had not blocked her path, she’s bound to this place just as I am, if for different reasons.
All day too I’ve been consumed by the question I must ask Ellis and how best to do so. Father’s health is failing day by day. I’m running out of time. I’m certain now that my best chance of a future here rests with Ellis. There is no one else. But I fear he’ll turn from me, as he turned from me before.
Agnes has left a pot of broth warming on the hearthstone, and after we’ve eaten in silence, Ellis leaves the room without a word. At first I think my moment has passed, but after a minute or two he returns, bottle of brandy in hand, fetched from Father’s study. He shouldn’t have taken it, but as he uncorks the bottle and pours two measures into pewter cups the smell is pungent and seductive. I take one gladly as he joins me by the fire.
‘Drink,’ he says, though I need no encouragement. ‘It’ll ease you.’
Can he sense the flurry of my heart?
I feel the heat of the brandy, like hot water flooding my veins, as it warms and loosens me. I do not know how to begin and do so clumsily. ‘Thank you for what you did today.’
A shrug. ‘I did my job.’
‘Not many would work so hard without pay.’
‘What kind of shepherd would I be if I abandoned my flock to the weather?’ He stands briefly, fetches down a box of tobacco from the shelf. I take a pipe and fill the bowl.
‘You’re the best shepherd we’ve had.’
He looks at me with surprise, eyes flashing with something like pride.
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘Even Ambrose cannot better you. How did you know where to dig?’
He’s made awkward by my praise, turning away to kindle a rush light at the fire.
I push, wanting to prise him open, so that I might glimpse behind that inscrutable mask. ‘You sensed it, didn’t you? You knew where to find them.’
He avoids my eyes, lights his pipe, then hands the rush to me. ‘It’s not something I know by words.’
I put the flame to the tobacco and take a long draw, the taste charred, woody, reassuring. ‘John Bestwicke used to speak o
f the shepherd’s nose,’ I say. ‘He told me that a true flock man could sniff out problems at a hundred paces. Not many have the skill, but I think you do.’
‘It’s something like that, perhaps.’
‘Well, I’m glad of it. I cannot do without you now.’ I drain my brandy, reach for the bottle, fill both cups again. The stuff is doing its work, my fingers tingling with returning heat. It makes me bold – bold enough to ask the questions I must.
‘Ellis, I must know – do you plan to leave come the spring?’
He shoots me a look of refusal but I will not let him disappear behind that silent wall again.
‘You told me before that you choose to stay here because you’ve found somewhere that suits you, but till now, you’ve spent your life moving from place to place. It sounds to me as if you’re running from something. And some might say Scarcross Hall is a good place to hide. But things have changed since you first arrived . . .’
He sucks on the thin white stem of his pipe, a fug of smoke blooming about his head.
‘We live apart from the world here,’ I go on, ‘and I know you’re not blind to the things that have happened. We’re alone. Cast out. Shunned by those who should help us. And no man chooses to live alone, unless he has a reason.’
‘You choose it.’
‘I’m born to it. I know nothing else.’
‘And why should I not be the same?’ He looks at me at last and I see something stir in his eyes. ‘Do you wish me to leave?’
‘No. I’m trying to understand what makes you stay, when you know it’s not safe.’
He rests his pipe on the hearthstone and takes a swig of brandy, stares into his cup for a long time, then places it carefully next to his pipe. Without looking at me, he reaches across and puts one hand on top of mine.
Seconds run by and neither of us speaks. My heart grows wild. He’s staring into the fire, but I see the nervous twitch at the corner of his eye and know that this is his way of saying the things he does not have courage enough to voice. I will have to be brave for him.
‘I’ve something to ask you.’
He withdraws his hand, still staring into the flames.
‘Will you stay for good?’
He says nothing.
‘Will you stay as my husband?’
He blinks, still refusing to look at me. No doubt he’s shocked by my boldness but I no longer care. He knows me for what I am and will either love me or despise me for it, but I cannot go on any longer without knowing which it will be.
There is a long silence, disturbed only by the crackle and hiss of the fire. Then he stands slowly, careful not to touch me, and takes a few steps away, turns and plants his palms on the tabletop.
He is going to refuse me. My courage falters. I must make him understand.
‘I must marry,’ I say, the words strange and awkward in my mouth. ‘And my husband will be master of Scarcross Hall. He’ll be master here until our son can take his rightful place as my father’s heir. What you told me about my father’s plans – you were right.’
Ellis nods slowly, though he does not turn back.
‘So, I must have a man who understands how things must be – a man who will be master in name but who will work alongside me, as an equal. I may not be a proper wife – I’m not made that way – so I need a man who knows me for what I am.’
Still he is silent.
‘I’m offering you a great deal. I’m offering you all I have, in return for that understanding.’
At last he turns to me and his eyes are all turmoil. ‘Why me?’
‘Because I think you are that man.’
I push myself up from the chair and go to him. His gaze softens. I read in him the same longing that lives in me. Why does he not take me in his arms? I’ve laid bare my heart, yet he still will not open his. Surely he must see what it costs me to say these things. He must understand that I’m trusting him with so much more than the Hall and the land and the Booth name – I’m trusting him with my most treasured possession: my freedom.
He reaches out a single finger and strokes my cheek. Such a gentle touch for so calloused a hand. My hope takes flight. But then a cloud passes behind his eyes, his brow furrows once more and he hangs his head.
‘I cannot,’ he says, turning away and going back to the hearth where he leans against the mantel.
My heart is squeezed against my ribs and the words come out as little more than a whisper. ‘Why not? What is it that you’re hiding?’
‘I cannot,’ he repeats.
‘Is there another? Are you not free?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Is it because of Henry Ravens? Because I’m not a maid?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. You are the best woman I know.’
‘Then why do you not wish it?’
‘I wish it more than anything.’ He spits the words as if they are a curse. There’s no affection, just anger, as if he blames me for making him want this thing.
I can take no more. I go to him and force him to face me, one hand on each shoulder.
‘What is it? What is it that you cannot tell me? I know there is something—’
I’m stopped short by the violence in his expression. I see the desire in him: a winter storm, raging and hungry.
Before I can speak again he grips my arms and pulls me roughly to him. There’s no tenderness in his embrace, just desperate, ravenous need. His kiss is hard and urgent and steals my breath.
I had forgotten how it feels – lip on lip and mouth on mouth, the liquor-laced sourness of him, the scent of sweat and skin and peat smoke and sheep grease. It is like tasting the moor.
When I hear the crash of shattering glass I think at first it’s the sound of everything falling away – all the walls I’ve built, all the lies I’ve told myself; that I want no one, that I’ve no need of love, that no man can touch my hard, unyielding heart. In that moment, when my soul speaks to his, and his to mine, I see the truth: the thing is already done. And it is beauty and pain all at once.
The sound comes a second time and he pulls away. I’m reeling, breathless, struggling to right myself. I’m speechless, beginning to shake – shocked by the torrent of feeling in me, but then the noise comes again and I’m tethered, pulled back down to earth. It’s unmistakable this time: breaking glass, the musical cadence as it falls and shatters, a hundred discordant notes on stone flags.
He snatches up a candle and reaches the door of the kitchen before me.
The hall is made bright by moonlight on snow. Fragments of glass glint upon the flags. Three panes are smashed in the big leaded window. Amid the spill of glass lie three small pebbles.
The next startles me, like a gunshot. As shards of glass shatter I see the gleam of something metallic spin across the floor.
I start towards the front door, but Ellis catches my sleeve and pulls me back, shaking his head. ‘Don’t.’
Another smash, another shower of glass.
‘I must stop it,’ I say, trying to pull away, but he holds me fast and I know any action is futile. There cannot be anyone outside. The coffin path is blocked. There’s no one about for miles. This is not youths from the village playing a cruel game, or our mortal enemies trying to scare us. A shiver of horror cascades down my spine and I strain to see through the window. Who – what – is out there?
There’s nothing to see.
Another pane cracks and falls, splinters of glass exploding towards me.
A door opens above and Agnes appears on the gallery, in nightgown and shawl, washed ghostly pale, knuckles white as bone on the banister.
‘Can you see anyone?’ I call up to her, but she just stands there, aghast.
Another crash, a waterfall of glass. This time I watch a small round disc roll across the flags till it halts not three feet from where I stand.
>
The door to the parlour slams open and Father appears, barefoot, hair flying, eyes bright with shock. As he takes in the broken window and the mess of shards he looks horror-struck. So I run to him, glass crunching beneath my feet, dodging falling splinters as another two panes are shattered.
‘Come back inside,’ I say, trying to pull him away, but he’s fixed on the window, eyes straining into the dark. He will not move.
‘They’ve come for me,’ he whispers.
‘Please, Father, come away, it’s not safe.’
‘It’s time. They’ve come to take me.’ He turns to me and his eyes are those of another, conflicted with expectation and intense sadness: my father is not to be found there. I cannot bear it.
He pulls me towards him and holds me tight, as he has not done since I was a child. He whispers, so only I can hear, ‘Forgive me, Mercy, but I must go to them. Forgive me . . .’
‘Stop it!’ Agnes cries into the dark space of the hall. ‘For pity’s sake, leave us be!’
As if in answer, there is a volley of three stones and three more panes cascade to the floor.
‘God save us.’ Agnes drops to her knees and starts to pray. ‘“O God the Father of Heaven: have mercy upon us miserable sinners . . .”’
Father releases me and takes up the prayer. ‘“O God the Holy Ghost: have mercy upon us miserable sinners . . .”’ There is another crash, icicles of falling glass, and a small golden coin spins across the flags, landing at Father’s feet. I know what it is and what it means.
He drops to his knees, transfixed by the coin. He looks wild, terrified, on the verge of madness.
‘“From all evil and mischief; from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the Devil; from thy wrath, and from everlasting damnation, good Lord, deliver us . . .”’
The sight of him pushes away any remaining sense. I kneel and join the prayer. There is nothing else to do.
‘“Good Lord, deliver us. Good Lord, deliver us. Good Lord, deliver us . . .’
I cannot close my eyes or bow my head – I’m too afraid, flushed cold with fear. As our voices swell above the moan of the wind, Ellis looks straight at me. I feel his stare as something physical, a brutal wound in my chest.