The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Bolton had held out for Parliament, and we were punished cruelly for our rebellion.’

  ‘She was killed by the King’s men?’

  Agnes reaches out, groping blindly for my hand, and this time I take hers. ‘Your mother was found later, in an alleyway. The man who did those things to her must have been the Devil himself.’ She stops and puts her free hand over her mouth. I see agony in her eyes as she remembers.

  ‘And my brother?’

  She pulls her hand away from mine and covers her face. ‘God forgive me . . . God forgive me . . .’

  ‘Please, Agnes, I must know.’

  ‘To this day I don’t know how it happened. One moment he was with me, holding my hand, and the next—’ She stops, staring at her hand as if her own flesh has betrayed her. ‘I searched for him. I searched and searched. God forgive me . . .’

  ‘What happened to him?’ My voice is small, like a child’s.

  She gathers herself and looks at me, eyes full of heartbreak. ‘We never found him. We never saw him again.’

  I search her face for any sign of a lie, but I know she could never invent such horror.

  ‘Your father never forgave me. I never forgave myself . . .’

  I see it laid bare then – the conflict between them, the unspoken guilt and blame, the shared secret, binding them together but keeping them apart for all these years.

  I leave her weeping and climb to my feet. My body feels as if it’s not my own. I feel apart, strangely detached from everything around me, as if I’m not really here, as if I’m drained of blood. I go to the window and look out through the tracery of frost. The sky is white and flat.

  ‘How could you keep this from me? All these years I thought I was to blame for her death . . .’

  ‘I made a promise to your father.’

  ‘Why would he keep it from me?’

  For a while she says nothing, but then, ‘He wanted to protect you.’

  ‘But he lied to me. All my life he lied to me. How could that protect me?’

  ‘He believed it was for your own good. “She does not need to live a life so tainted,” he said. “She will not remember them and so, in time, the loss will be nothing to her.” He didn’t want you to suffer the same grief as he.’

  ‘And did he suffer?’

  ‘Of course he did. He suffered terribly. For a time, he was under a sort of madness.’

  ‘You mean, these last few months – that was not the first time his mind was adrift?’

  ‘No, this was different – a fierce kind of madness brought on by grief.’

  I turn back, eyes resting on Father’s face.

  ‘He refused to believe that Matthew was dead,’ she says. ‘He did nothing but search for him for a year, maybe more. It changed him, consumed him, sent him to the drink, caused him to have these black rages. Then, one day, he came home and told me we were leaving, that he couldn’t go on any longer living with the memories of what had happened all around him. He told me he’d found a place where we could forget. And so we came here. He gave up everything – his business, his friends, his whole life – to come somewhere where there was nothing and no one to remind him. He made me promise I’d never tell you. I argued with him, but he was my master and I had no choice.’

  ‘That’s not true. You had a choice.’

  She nods. ‘You’re right, of course, but I never saw it so. I’ve always done whatever he said.’

  My whole life I’ve felt that something was missing. I’ve sought it in my work, in the arms of undeserving men, in my wavering, heretical faith. There has always been a sense of striving, of seeking to fill a space inside me that could never be filled, even by prayer; an empty chamber, echoing with the guilt of my mother’s death. How could I ever find peace when everything I believed was based on deception?

  ‘So, why tell me now? Why not continue the lie?’

  Again, she studies Father’s face as if she wishes he could answer for her. She looks beaten, worn out. ‘Your father never stopped believing that Matthew was still alive.’ She nods towards the will and I realise I’m still gripping it, so hard that my nails have punctured little holes in the parchment. ‘I expect that’s why he never changed his will, why he never pressed you to marry. He thought of Matthew as his heir, even after I’d long stopped hoping. But in this last year he changed his mind.’

  ‘How so?’

  Her voice drops and she looks unsure, frightened. ‘He came to me, some time ago now, and said he believed that the spirits of your mother and your brother had returned, here, to Scarcross Hall. He said he recognised their footsteps. And the handprints he found, he believed to be a sign from your brother. He thought they were to blame for the things that have happened, that they were tormenting him, calling him to account.’

  I remember the small footprints in the snow, the childlike handprints on the frosted glass, the patter of steps in my own chamber and that tall, pale figure in the fog. I recall the conversation with Pastor Flynn, many months ago, when Father had been so intent on matters of spirit and redemption, and his sudden plan to leave Scarcross Hall. Could he have been right? My mind is reeling with the remaking of my life and I no longer know what to think.

  ‘Was that why he went to the White Ladies? To find them?’

  ‘Perhaps. He said the time would come when he would have to go to them. And you know what they say about the Ladies.’

  ‘But what do you think? Do you believe him?’

  ‘He didn’t want to leave you, Mercy, but he did want to go to her. He always did love her best.’ She swallows deeply and looks at him once more. In her gaze I see everything she could never say – her loyalty, her steadfast devotion to a man who could never love her back. ‘I hope he’s right,’ she says. ‘He’ll be at peace now.’

  But I’m not satisfied. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  She turns back to me. ‘There are more strange things at work in this world than we’ve the wits to understand. I don’t know what your father saw or heard, but he believed it. Take some comfort in that, if you can.’ She looks warily about the room. ‘But me? It doesn’t explain all that’s happened here. This place has its own secrets. Its own soul. I’ve always felt it. I feel it still.’

  As if Scarcross Hall is listening, there is a creak in the rafters above and a noise, as if something is skittering across the slates of the roof. But I’m beyond fear.

  ‘And what of my brother? Do you think he’s dead?’

  Agnes interlaces her fingers and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she looks at me with such pity, such tenderness, that I feel my heart shift.

  ‘Please tell me the truth,’ I say, suddenly breathless.

  She gives a single nod. ‘I tried to tell myself he was in a better place for a long time but, Mercy, when you’ve nursed a child, when you’ve held a baby to your breast, you don’t forget them, even if they’re not your blood. And if they go to God, you feel it when they go, as I did with my own poor bairn. I was wet-nurse to your brother and I’ve never felt that with him.’

  ‘So you think he’s alive.’

  ‘I cannot be sure.’

  She won’t meet my eye. She’s holding something back. ‘Agnes, please, I must know the truth. All of it.’

  ‘I’ve waited and waited, praying for a sign, hoping to be sure. Hoping with one half of my heart that I’m right, and with the other that I’m wrong.’

  I stare at her. There is a strange rushing sensation in my head as thoughts battle one another, each too strange and too terrible to win. They crowd in on me, fragments of truth dancing and taunting like demons, then dropping into place. And before she utters another word, I understand.

  ‘Do you feel it, as I do?’ she whispers, fixing me with sad, anxious eyes. ‘Do you know in your heart?’

  I
struggle to breathe. There is no air.

  ‘I don’t even know if he suspects. God works in such mystery, Mercy. Sometimes I think He’s brought Matthew back to me. Others, I think he’s the Devil himself, come to punish me for what I did.’

  My whole world, my past and my future, seems to swim before me. I’m outside myself, high above, watching as I stumble forward and grab hold of the bedstead, unable to think, to speak, even take a breath. An image comes to me: a small golden key on a leather cord, glinting in the candlelight as I lifted it from beneath Ellis’s shirt. The way he stopped me. Suddenly I know where that key belongs.

  I leave the room without a word, abandoning Agnes with her head in her hands, muttering, ‘God, forgive me . . . God, forgive me . . .’

  I go to Ellis’s chamber, pull his pack from beneath the truckle bed and tip the contents onto the floor. Amid grubby clothes, a box of tobacco, two broken pipes, and a metal flask there is a scrap of fabric, something hard inside. I unfold the cloth and find a leather cord, a golden key. The bow of the key is fashioned into two letters, the arrow-straight backbones and fat round bellies of a double B: Father’s seal.

  I take it to my chamber where I prise up the loose board and lift out the ebony box. It’s still locked, as it has been these thirty years.

  I go to the bed and sit, too afraid to try the key. I could undo all this. I could throw the key down the well or melt it in a blacksmith’s furnace. I could pretend I never saw it. I could cut this moment out of my memory and lock it away, along with all Father’s lies.

  I put the key into the lock.

  It turns.

  A weird unbidden noise comes out of me: a cry of dismay, the revelation of long-held secrets.

  I open the lid.

  Inside I find a tiny portrait, a miniature of a young woman. She’s well dressed in fine primrose-yellow silks but she’s no beauty. Her hair is curled in ringlets, the drab hue of a thrush’s wing. Her face is plain but she’s smiling and her eyes are bright. She looks happy. She looks like me.

  Beneath the portrait are two locks of hair, each tied with a faded strip of crimson ribbon. I lift them out, cupping them in my palm. One is fair and fine, baby-soft, the colour of new straw. I think it is mine. The other is dark and curled, black as peat. This must be my brother’s hair.

  And I am sure then: it belongs to Ellis Ferreby.

  There is a dreadful screaming in my head and all Hell’s fire in my belly. I double over and vomit onto the floor.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Come here, Boy.’ Briggs sits at the table in Betsy’s chamber, a half-empty bottle of spirits beside him. He’s cleaning a pistol, the cloth, powder flask, shot and rammer laid out.

  ‘Did you hear me, Boy? I said, come here.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Briggs puts the cloth down and takes a long drink from the bottle. He fingers the smooth wooden stock of the pistol. ‘I’ve business tonight, but before I go, I’ve need of a woman.’

  Briggs has been back in York three days – three days of liquor and gaming, spending whatever coin he’s managed to steal and swindle in the year he’s been away. Boy and Betsy have had some peace during that year. Betsy is starting to show the signs of her trade, so there is less money from tricks, but the old drab who runs the bawdyhouse is kind and lets them keep the room, provided Boy runs errands for all the girls. So he fetches in the coal, takes the soiled sheets to the laundress, collects the ointments and remedies from the apothecary, cleans the piss pots and makes himself invisible to the customers. In return he eats, drinks and, once or twice in the last year, has spent a night beside Gretchen, in a tangle of sheets and sweat. But now Briggs has returned and, as always, Betsy is only too willing to let him into her bed.

  ‘Shall I fetch Ma?’

  ‘No, not her. Bring me that plump girl – the young one.’

  Boy bristles. He means Gretchen. He hates the thought. It needles under his skin. But he’s used to obeying orders so he goes to find her.

  ‘Briggs wants you,’ he tells her, avoiding the gaze of her clear blue eyes.

  She sighs, pouts, considers. ‘Very well, but he’d better pay up this time. He don’t get any of us for free.’

  She picks up her skirts and follows him back to the chamber. Once he’s delivered her, he turns to leave.

  ‘Stay there, Boy.’ Briggs has finished cleaning the pistol and is loading it. He slides a small black round of shot down the barrel.

  ‘Fetch you something?’

  ‘No.’ Briggs takes the rammer and pushes in the wadding. He slides the stick in and out of the pistol’s mouth, eyeing Gretchen with a knowing, hungry look. ‘Tell me, Boy, do you know what it means to be a man?’

  ‘Leave him be, Briggs,’ Gretchen says. ‘Do you want me or not?’

  ‘Quiet, girl. Sit down.’ He points to the bed. ‘I’m talking to my son.’

  ‘Fine way to treat your own kin – you never even gave him a proper name.’

  ‘I named him after Prince Rupert’s dog. It’s as good a name as any.’

  Boy Briggs. It’s the only name he has. He had another once but he cannot remember it. Besides, it must be his, he has the key around his neck to prove it – small, golden, and carved with a double B – so he can never forget who he is. He knows that now Gretchen has helped him with his letters.

  Briggs puts down the rammer, takes up the powder flask and tips a small measure into the pan. ‘Answer me, Boy. Do you know what it means to be a man?’

  With Briggs you have to be careful. Say the wrong thing and it’ll hurt. You have to watch your words because he likes to twist them and turn them into something they’re not.

  ‘I think so.’

  Briggs laughs, puts the pistol down. ‘“I think so.” Did you hear that, girl?’ He stands and takes a few paces towards the bed, where Gretchen waits. ‘Well, perhaps you need a lesson.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I say you do. I’ll show you. You stay there and I’ll show you what it means.’ He turns to Gretchen. ‘Stand up. Turn around.’

  She does as he asks.

  ‘Now, lift up your skirts and bend over.’

  She gives him a coquettish look over her shoulder and obeys, slowly raising the faded and patched violet satin, revealing the ivory skin of her calves, the dimpled flesh of her thighs and finally her full, round buttocks.

  Boy remembers the softness of her flesh in his hands, the pillowy warmth of her, like sinking into a feather mattress. He feels the rush and swell between his legs and moves towards the door.

  ‘Stay where you are, Boy.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do as I say or she’ll pay for it.’

  He doesn’t know if Briggs means Gretchen or Betsy but he knows that tone, so he waits by the door and tries not to watch as Gretchen bends forward over the mattress and wiggles her cream-cheese arse, showing a glimpse of curled golden hair and pink wet slit. Briggs unties his breeches.

  ‘Are you watching, Boy?’ Briggs takes hold of Gretchen’s hips and pulls her roughly towards him. She lets out a false little squeal of excitement. ‘I said, are you watching?’

  ‘Yes.’ But he isn’t. He’s trying to think of something else, anything else. He shuts his eyes and thinks about the stink of the piss pot in the corner, but he cannot block his ears from the sounds.

  Gretchen giggles as Briggs pulls away and flips her over, pushing her onto the bed. ‘Get on your back.’ He climbs on top of her.

  Boy puts his hand on the latch. He does not want to see this. Cannot bear to hear Gretchen pretend like that – not with him. Does not want to catch the rank scent of the man. But as he lifts the latch he realises Briggs is watching. He’s inside Gretchen but his eyes are fixed on him.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ Gretchen says, putting a hand
to Briggs’s cheek and turning his face to hers. ‘Aren’t I enough?’

  ‘Shut up, wench.’ Briggs puts a hand over Gretchen’s mouth.

  She struggles, half-heartedly at first, as though she’s bored by this game, but then, more violently. ‘Stop it,’ she says, muffled by his thick, dirty fingers.

  Briggs ignores her. He puts his other hand up to her neck and presses against her throat so she cannot breathe. She gasps, hitting his chest, trying to force him away, and still he is inside her, pushing into her.

  ‘Stop it,’ Boy says. ‘Don’t hurt her.’

  ‘What are you afraid of, Boy?’ Briggs says, bringing both hands to Gretchen’s throat and starting to squeeze. She tries to call out, mouth opening and closing, but no sound comes, just a weird, strangled gurgling. Her eyes have gone wide and she kicks her legs, but Briggs is too big and too strong for her.

  ‘Be still, girl,’ Briggs says, teeth gritted, squeezing harder.

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re hurting her!’

  Brigg’s face is contorted in a fierce, rictus grin, eyes burning like a demon. ‘Get out of here, Boy. Get out now!’

  Boy has seen him like this before and he knows it is dangerous. Gretchen rolls her eyes to his and she’s pleading, afraid. Before he can think better of it he dashes across the room and hurls himself on Brigg’s back. ‘Stop it! Stop it! You’ll kill her!’

  In one swoop Briggs releases Gretchen, twists and swings a fist, connecting with Boy’s jaw. It floors him, a hammer strike of pain crashing through his cheek and temple, but he struggles to his feet.

  Briggs climbs off Gretchen, cock dangling from his open breeches, his attention now on Boy. Gretchen chokes and gasps for breath.

  ‘You little turd,’ Briggs says. ‘I’m trying to teach you a lesson and this is how you repay me? Think you can hit me and get away with it?’ He swings again but Boy dodges this time.

  ‘You were hurting her. She couldn’t breathe. You might’ve killed her.’

  ‘And so what if I did? She’s a whore. She’s worth nothing.’ He comes at him again and this time lands a punch in Boy’s gut. It knocks the wind from him and he’s left bent double, struggling for breath.