The Dead of Winter

by Chris Priestley

  I could see the route Jerwood and I had travelled at night. The road – or more properly the track – was a long, straight and narrow causeway, with a ditch running alongside. I had an urge to leave the house that instant and march away. But where to?

  What I had taken to be a heath, I now realised was in fact a bog: an endless mire full of hummocks capped with grasses and sedges, cow-parsley stalks and teasels, their leaves and seed heads rust-brown and black, shimmering here and there with the blue embers of a lingering frost. A flicker of light would gleam in this dead scene as the sky was reflected in the frozen ponds and creeks that filled the hollows and crevices of the marsh.

  I was amazed at how far I was able to see. My view had been constrained to the point of blindness by the dark the night before, but the land was so flat and empty that it may as well have been obscured by a thick veil of mist for all the information the clarity afforded.

  That said, there was something exhilarating about being able to see so far without any kind of interruption, either natural or man-made. For there was not a single other sign of human habitation for miles about and it was only at the far horizon that the scattering of spindly trees formed themselves into anything approaching a wood.

  After a life spent in the confines of London, this gift of a view was both exciting and dizzying in equal measure. This house seemed horribly exposed, somehow, as if whatever ill winds might blow, there was only one place for them to strike: Hawton Mere.

  This fearsome openness made my thoughts return to the distressed woman on the roadside. Seeing the bleak environment the house stood in made her predicament seem all the more awful and made me wonder at her eventual fate.

  My memory of the woman had condensed and compressed itself into nothing more than the startling flash of her face in the lantern light and her desperate lunge out of the surrounding gloom as we sped past.

  What had happened to bring her out in that state on such a night and why would she shun our assistance after appearing to beg for our help? Why would she hide? And, just as importantly, who was she?

  As I was turning these thoughts over in my mind, there was a knock at the door and a maid came in. I blushed a little, standing there in only my nightshirt, but the maid seemed not at all concerned.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, putting a jug of hot water on the washstand and walking over to the fireplace. ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Not too badly, thank you …’ I said, waiting for her name.

  ‘I’m Edith, sir,’ she said.

  Edith brought the fire back to life with practised ease and stood up, brushing the front of her dress. ‘Breakfast is served in the dining room, sir,’ she said before performing what I took to be a curtsey and leaving.

  I washed and dressed and left my room and felt a little foolish when I realised that I was not at all sure of which way to go. I had been so tired the previous evening when Jerwood had accompanied me, and my foggy memory suggested only a maze of stairways and passages. I had no choice but to make my own way, and so I wandered off in what I felt must be the right direction.

  As I was walking along a tunnel-like passageway, devoid of windows as it was and narrow, the thick walls billowing in and out, I heard a hammering noise, as if a door knocker was being rapped a long way off, as I had done at dinner the previous evening.

  Two more steps and the sound grew in volume. That is to say, it grew in strength and power, for it was not that I heard it more clearly but that I felt it more strongly. It vibrated up from the floor and when I touched the wall it trembled rhythmically at the sound.

  I found the effect disconcerting, and it added to the apprehensiveness I had felt since leaving my bedroom. I had the strongest sensation that I was being followed, a sensation not entirely allayed by my turning about every few steps to see if I might find somebody there. For although I never caught sight of a soul in those corridors, the act of looking only increased my sense that there was someone there, forever just out of sight.

  Then there was a bang behind me. A door that I had just passed had been opened and slammed shut. When I retraced my steps the door was still vibrating on its hinges and the latch still rattling. The door was ajar and I pulled it open in time to hear the hammering noise clearer than ever. There was a short flight of steps leading down from the door and another, smaller, even darker, corridor curving away from the foot of them.

  I peered in, but my curiosity was stifled by the feeling of anxiety that grew in intensity as I stood there. Then I heard another three bangs distinctly.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out.

  There was no reply. The sound came again and I winced. It was as if it were inside my head. I moved through the doorway and walked down the steps. There was no one there, nothing to see.

  The corridor I was now in didn’t lead anywhere. I could make out an arched doorway at the far end, but it had been blocked up years – possibly centuries – before.

  The darkness was encouraged and enriched by the wood panelling that lined the walls at either side. It was as high as my shoulder and as black as ebony. It was grim and gloomy, but no more so than anywhere else in the house, and yet once again I had that urge to run – to run and never stop until I was miles away from this place.

  I was turning to go back up the steps when I heard another short volley of knocks. This time the sound seemed to be coming from beyond the panelling. I leaned forward and tapped a panel and it sounded with a distinctly hollow rap. The wall was evidently not solid behind it.

  ‘Hello?’ I called again.

  There was no response but I felt sure that there was someone there – in whatever space lay beyond that panel. I had a growing dread of that place. The air in the passageway seemed fetid and poisoned and I was about to turn and get back to the main body of the house when something touched my shoulder and I cried out, leaping away. I turned to see Jerwood standing there.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Michael,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’

  I slid down the wall to sit on the stone floor and catch my breath.

  ‘There’s some kind of secret chamber behind that panel,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, there is. It’s a priest hole,’ he said, and seeing my look of confusion continued, ‘It dates back to the sixteenth century and the reign of Queen Elizabeth. This was the house of a Catholic family and they hid Jesuits here – agents of the Pope in Rome. Those were harsh times. Capture would have meant bloody torture on the rack and a slow and gruesome execution.’

  ‘It’s a fearful place somehow,’ I said, looking back at the panel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jerwood. ‘I rather think it is. How did you find it?’

  ‘I heard banging, sir,’ I said. ‘It sounded like it was coming from inside.’

  ‘Banging?’ said Jerwood, frowning. ‘But I was only yards away and I heard nothing at all. Besides, I don’t think it could be coming from inside there –’

  ‘Perhaps you think I’m a liar,’ I said, standing up indignantly. ‘But I’m not! I did hear banging and I did see that woman on the road!’

  Jerwood crouched down and examined the panel.

  ‘I apologise for offending you. I do not think you’re a liar, Michael,’ he said. ‘But these panels were painted over years ago. Come and see. The paintwork is intact.’

  Reluctantly, I shuffled over and looked to where Jerwood was pointing. What he said was absolutely true.

  ‘Maybe there’s another way in?’ I suggested.

  Jerwood shook his head.

  ‘There is only this panel as entrance or exit,’ he said. ‘There isn’t even a window. But I suppose it’s possible that a mouse or rat has found its way in there …’

  ‘But I heard banging, sir,’ I said. ‘I promise you. It couldn’t have been an animal. I don’t understand why you couldn’t hear it, but I didn’t imagine it. I swear.’

  I was less confident than I tried to sound on this score. There was something strange about the way I heard the noise. I f
elt as though I had become trapped in a place between dreams and real life, the one merging with the other. Jerwood smiled and patted my arm.

  ‘Calm yourself, Michael,’ he said. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘You do?’ I said, a little relieved to hear it.

  ‘That is to say, I believe that you heard something,’ said Jerwood. ‘But didn’t Hodges say something about the plumbing? Could it not have been the pipes banging?’

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Jerwood held up a finger.

  ‘Could it not at least be possible that the noise was made by the plumbing?’

  I had to concede – reluctantly – that it was possible.

  ‘This place has a particular significance to Sir Stephen and I don’t think it would be wise to mention these noises to him,’ said Jerwood. ‘When I have more time, I may tell you about it. He may tell you himself when he knows you better. But you can see how fragile his nerves are.’

  ‘What is the matter with him?’ I asked.

  Jerwood took a deep breath.

  ‘Sir Stephen has been a troubled soul for much of his life,’ he said. ‘But his late wife made him as happy as I think he is capable of being. Her death was a heavy blow to him. Grief can harm the best of minds, Michael.’

  Here he looked at me and reached out to lay a hand tenderly on my shoulder.

  ‘I would ask you to do me the favour of not mentioning this,’ he said. ‘I have my reasons, believe me, and I will tell you them at some later date. But for now I would simply ask that you say nothing about the priest hole. Can I rely on you?’

  I was taken aback and more than a little moved by Jerwood’s friendly tone, and, after a moment, I nodded my assent. In any event, like a dream, the noise and the hearing of it was already becoming so vague in my mind that I could no longer cling to it with any surety.

  ‘Good man,’ said Jerwood. ‘Come – let’s go to breakfast.’

  Chapter Seven

  I ate breakfast with little enthusiasm. I had never wanted to come to this place at all and now that I was here I could think of nothing but escape. I felt as though I had walked into a fog of mystery and whispers.

  I wondered about the strange banging I’d heard and what Jerwood could mean about the priest hole having ‘special significance’. Could it really be the plumbing? I couldn’t get the image of the woman on the road out of my head either. There was definitely something going on here. I could feel it in every fibre of my being. Jerwood was keeping something to himself. But what? Any immediate possibility of finding out was quickly extinguished.

  ‘Michael,’ said Jerwood, sitting back in his chair. We were alone in the dining room. ‘I have to leave Hawton Mere this afternoon for a few days. There is some urgent business in London I must attend to.’

  ‘You’re leaving me here on my own?’ I said, dropping my knife with a loud clatter on to the plate.

  Jerwood smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m touched that you will miss me,’ he said. ‘I had thought that you might be glad to see me gone.’

  I smiled at this myself. Before that moment I would have thought the same, but, friendless as I was, Jerwood was my one link to the world outside of this dreary place and the one person with whom I felt, in some small degree, comfortable.

  ‘Will you come with me for a walk before I go?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, sir?’ I asked. ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, I thought we might have a look around at the place you saw the woman last night,’ he said.

  I took note of the fact that Jerwood did not say ‘thought you saw’, and smiled.

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘it will do you good to get some fresh air.’

  It was hard to disagree with that, and so I put on a coat and followed Jerwood, who had done likewise, out of the door and into the chill of the courtyard. The air was so cold that it hit my face like a slap, but it was certainly invigorating.

  We walked under the arch of the gatehouse, Clarence barking at us from the courtyard as we passed, and out on to the bridge that was the only route off the little island upon which the old house stood.

  Turning, I saw Hawton Mere standing like a castle, dominating the land all about it. The mighty walls were here and there punctured by windows and topped by tiled roofs. A tower rose up, crowned with a small pyramidal spire which was tiled like the roofs, and a golden weather vane sparkled in the sunlight. Great chimneys stood along the roof ridge like sentinels, smoke pluming from their heads. Part of me held out a feeble hope that we were going to keep on walking away from Hawton Mere and not stop until we got to Ely and the train to London. But after about half a mile, Jerwood came to a halt.

  ‘Look,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what, sir?’ I asked.

  He raised his arm theatrically and pointed to a scarecrow standing beside the road in a patch of sugar beet. I looked at the scarecrow and then back to Jerwood, a little baffled.

  ‘Come now,’ said Jerwood. ‘Look again. It was dark, the sleet was in your eyes, you were exhausted …’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said, seeing his meaning. ‘I didn’t see a scarecrow sir. I didn’t see an owl either. It was a woman. She moved. She was calling out. Her face is as clear to me as yours, sir.’

  Jerwood rested his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘And there really is no possibility that you could have been mistaken, Michael? None at all?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I know what I saw. Why will you not believe me?’

  ‘It’s not a question of believing or not believing –’

  ‘But it is, sir!’ I said vehemently. ‘That’s just what it is. If you told me, I would believe you.’

  ‘Yes, Michael,’ said Jerwood with a smile. ‘I think perhaps you would.’ He shrugged his shoulders and shivered. ‘I’m a lawyer. I look to the evidence. I simply cannot understand why someone would ask for our help and then disappear when we stopped to give her the assistance she craved. It makes no sense.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve gone over it in my head a dozen times. But whether it makes sense or not, that’s what happened.’

  I looked back towards Hawton Mere. Even from this distance it seemed malevolent: a monstrous toad waiting to pounce.

  ‘Besides,’ I said, waving my arm at the scarecrow, ‘this is nothing like what she was wearing. I only caught a glimpse of her, but even so, I could tell that she was just dressed in some thin linen shift; that was all.’

  Jerwood had been pacing around, but at these words he stopped in his tracks and turned to me. The look on his face was a little like the expression Sir Stephen had worn in the dining room just before he left us. It was a look of wonderment.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘I said that she was wearing nothing but a linen shift, sir.’ I was a little concerned by his sudden change of tone. ‘She was soaked to the skin, her hair coal-black, all wet and dripping. She was pale, sir: deathly pale.’

  Jerwood turned away, holding his head in his hands and muttering. He gazed back towards Hawton Mere. When he looked back at me, his expression was a mixture of confusion and sadness.

  ‘Why did you not say this at the time?’ he asked.

  ‘I tried to,’ I said. ‘But no one was listening to me.’

  Jerwood glanced this way and that, as though he thought the woman might suddenly appear. A flock of birds flew by, their wings whistling as they passed.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ I asked.

  He looked at me for a long time, his face flickering with thought.

  ‘No,’ he said after a long pause, shaking his head and walking swiftly away. ‘No, I don’t,’ I heard him say again, as if to himself. But everything in his expression said that he did.

  I did not see Jerwood again until lunch, and with Charlotte there I did not feel able to broach the subject. No sooner had we finished eating than the lawyer was readying himself to leave.

  I walked out
on to the road to see his carriage off and as it drove away up the track and away from Hawton Mere, I heartily wished that I was sitting alongside Jerwood. He looked at me and waved and his face bore the same curious expression as on the road that morning. What did he know and why would he not say?

  I carried on up the track as far as the scarecrow. Its ragged dress fluttered in the breeze. Its crudely drawn face stared back at me from its sacking head and I turned away, back towards the house. How stark it looked. How bleak. All human life was hidden from view. Hawton Mere seemed to close in on itself, wrapping its heavy walls all about like a great cloak. I trudged back to the house with a heavy heart but resolved to at least attempt what Jerwood had asked: to accept that this was an ordeal that had to be undergone for the sake of my future freedom. All I had to do was see out the next few days.

  Chapter Eight

  As unlikely as the notion of missing Jerwood may have seemed a day or two before, all the misgivings I had harboured about staying in that house multiplied at his departure. For one thing, dinner without Jerwood was even more awkward, if such a thing were possible. Sir Stephen was still feeling unwell and so Charlotte and I were left alone. But it was as if the lawyer was the only common ground we had and without him we were lost for words.

  Charlotte had apparently exhausted her supply of questions the previous evening and struggled to make any conversation at all. To be fair, she received precious little assistance from me in that regard. We ate the vast majority of the meal in silence.

  That night, to my surprise, I slept soundly and woke refreshed. Sunlight streamed in through my bedroom window and some of my inner gloom seemed dispelled by its touch.

  As I dressed I looked at the portrait of the young Sir Stephen, bathed now in light, and saw clearly for the first time what a strange and dismal figure he was even then, his expression part-way between sadness and fear.

  I wondered to myself if a person could be born with a melancholy disposition, or had something happened to him some time before this picture was painted? Or maybe, I thought, it was simply this house. Too long a time spent in such a joyless place was bound to take its toll on a young mind. All the more reason, I reminded myself, to leave Hawton Mere as soon as I could.