by Sarah Rayne
Julia lay on a velvet sofa. She wore a pale green gown, and in her hands was a piece of embroidery – what they call crochet, I believe. Soft, light cloth and thin fluffy wool, and long pointed needles for the crafting.
She did not get up. She looked at me with a tiny frown, and said, ‘Mr – Mr Burlap? Forgive me, I don’t think . . .’
Her words – her tone – struck against my mind like bruises and white hurting lights jabbed at my brain. I thought: she doesn’t remember who I am. She’s forgotten that she ever even met me.
But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I sat opposite to her, but I leaned forward and took her hand in mine. Soft, silken little paws she had. But she pulled them free, and sat up a little straighter.
‘Mr Burlap, I think you had better leave.’
I snatched her hand again, but perhaps I was clumsy, for she said, with real anger, ‘Mr Burlap, this is intolerable. Please leave at once. If you had any thought of—’
I said, ‘But didn’t you have some thought of . . . Weren’t you suggesting this all those times you came to watch my work?’
‘How can you think that!’ she said, and her voice was no longer the die-away tone of an invalid. Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘How can you think I would be interested . . . in that way . . . in a . . . a workman! A country bumpkin – a yokel.’
She stared at me, her eyes furious. And the lights stopped being pinpricks and became huge ballooning globules, monsters that exploded in my mind, each one sending exquisite agony reverberating through my entire body. My heart pounded with a painful insistent rhythm . . . Just like the other one, said the rhythm. Just like that other slut, that Jezebel . . .
I snatched at the stupid handiwork she had been holding. I think I said, ‘I’ll show you,’ and I grabbed the steel hook so that the threads unravelled. She made an ineffectual attempt to retrieve them, and somehow that fired my hatred even more. She was faced with violence – someone who might rape her for all she knew – but she had more thought for saving her frivolous crochet.
The door opened slightly and a small voice said, ‘Mamma? How are you today?’
I moved almost without thinking, darting into the concealment of the screen behind Julia West’s sofa. I almost knocked it over in my haste, but I managed to right it, and in doing so realized I could see through it into the room. There were two small tears in the screen – a prudent housewife would have mended them long since, but of course the likes of Julia West would not bother with such matters. The slits were at eye-level and through them I was able to see the boy sit on the edge of a chair, looking uncomfortable but clearly going through a ritual. How was mamma today? he asked. How were the pains? He had worked hard at his lessons, and practised his music.
I heard this, and I thought: it’s going to be all right. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’ll go away in a few moments.
But then Julia leaned forward and grasped the boy’s hand.
‘Esmond,’ she said urgently. ‘Esmond, find papa. Tell him . . .’
I thought: she’s going to tell them. She’s going to tell them I’m here – what I did and what I said. That was when I realized I was still clutching the steel needle, and that the screen was within inches of the sofa – within inches of the back of her neck.
The feeling when the steel needle went through the tapestry screen and dug into the base of Julia West’s neck was the most extraordinary sensation I have ever known, or will ever know. I was twenty feet high, invincible, I held the power of the world in my hands, I held the strength to mete out death to the living . . . I watched her sag, and I felt – I actually felt – the life drain away from her.
The boy was puzzled. He backed away from the sofa, clearly unsure what to do. And then he saw me. I don’t mean he saw me completely, but his eyes met mine as I stared out from behind the screen. His expression changed, I saw sheer terror in his eyes, and I knew I had to silence him – I had to . . .
God knows who or what he thought I was, but I said, quietly, ‘Esmond.’ And then, just to be sure, I said, ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’
He knew, all right. He had come to the site with his father once, and he knew me. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘Esmond, you must never speak of what you have seen in this room. You must make a solemn promise. Never speak.’ I paused, then, because I had to be sure, I said, ‘If you do, something terrible will happen to you. You understand me, Esmond? Never speak or something terrible will happen.’
He said, in a frightened whisper, ‘Yes. Yes, I promise.’ And ran out of the room.
I was out from behind that screen at once, and darting through the French windows. Esmond would have gone for help, and I had to be away from the house. If I ran around the side I could get to the carriageway and be hidden from view by the shrubs.
That was what I did. I went all the way around without anyone seeing me, but there was one bad moment, and that was when I went alongside the other window of Julia West’s room.
Esmond saw me. Ralph West was in the room by then, and he was bending over his wife’s prone body, but Esmond looked up and our eyes met. I hesitated, then laid my finger over my lips. Never speak of it . . . He nodded, and I ran the rest of the way, and keeping to the cover of the trees, went down the carriageway and out onto the road.
Safe. Once again I could feel myself safe.
Except I was not safe at all. Because at the end of that year, with some stupid sentimental idea of being nearer to his dead wife’s family, Ralph West bought the Acton land. And since he had been pleased with my work on his factory, and since I was there in Caudle Moor, he commissioned me to build a house.
Which meant Esmond would see me again. And would recognize me as the man who murdered his mother.
I’m not proud of what I did to Esmond West. But I had to be sure he would never tell anyone he had seen me kill his mother, you see. His father sometimes talked about how Esmond never spoke, but I later heard that doctors were consulted about the affliction. Not just our own Dr Brodworthy, but clever doctors from cities. What they call specialists. It seemed to me it was only a matter of time before Esmond would break that silence and tell how he had seen me that afternoon in Julia’s sitting room. Even if he could not speak, he might write it down.
While we worked on Stilter House Esmond sometimes came to the site with his father. I’d see the boy looking at me and I’d know he was remembering.
And then my own father – stupid, stubborn old fool – got to know Esmond. He actually invited him to the almshouse and took him to the forge. He talked to Esmond and encouraged the boy to write his thoughts and draw his pictures. And I knew – I knew – it was only a matter of time before Esmond would open up to this kind old Mr Burlap who took him to interesting places in the village. Esmond would write about his mother – about her death. My father had let that business with Isobel go – I had not, after all, actually killed Isobel, and I had been led along by Anne-Marie. But the death of Julia was a different matter entirely. My father would never let that go.
One night, when Ralph West and the servants were occupied, I got into the house through the garden door – I knew every twist and corner of that house, of course. I took Esmond from his own bed and I carried him out to the old game larder. He did not struggle; I think he was surprised more than anything. Perhaps he saw it as an adventure – there were several children’s storybooks in his room, and I think he may have thought he was being taken into one of the books’ exciting journeys.
I cannot write of how I killed him – I cannot. I can only say I took one of my mallets, and that a child’s skull is vulnerable, and that it was quick, truly it was quick. He dropped at once and he wouldn’t have known what hit him; he would have tumbled from full awareness into the deep darkness of unconsciousness and death. I have to remember that. I still remind myself of it in the night, when I feel my mind spiral down into that black chasm, and when the doubts come to taunt me and the dead stand at the end of my bed a
nd hold out their imploring hands . . . Julia West – yes, she’s there, the false double-faced creature. And Esmond, who posed such a terrible threat to me . . . And Isobel, my Jezebel with her painted porcelain skin and her voice like warm honey.
But I must keep to the facts, so I’ll write that after I dealt with Esmond, (‘dealt with’ – oh God, I still feel that crunching blow in my own head at times) it was easy to call openly at Stilter House as if by arrangement, with estimates for Ralph West. To appear suitably horrified at the news of Esmond’s disappearance, and to join in the search. Kind, anxious Mr Burlap, wanting to help. Taking over part of the gardens on his own account, concerned that the two servants did not stray into the old outbuildings and trip on unsafe bricks or masonry . . . ‘I’ll search that part – you stay safely on this side of the grounds.’ I made very sure that I was the only one who went into those outbuildings that night, and all the nights ahead.
When the search had died down, I crept through the gardens at midnight and removed the body. It was a harrowing task, but what I had done before I could do again.
Isobel walked with me as I carried the small heap that had been Esmond West to the same spot in the grounds, and dug the small grave, and covered the body over with earth and leaves. She was wreathed in darkness and wrapped about in shadows, but I know she was there.
That night when I buried Esmond next to Isobel must have stripped something from me – some armour – for when I talked later to my father about the West family, I knew he saw through all the pretences and the deceits I had spun over the years. He was remembering what I had done to Isobel, and perhaps he was suspecting I had been part of Esmond’s disappearance. There was a good deal of talk about that in the village – local people searched the lanes and the meadows for days on end.
It infuriates me that my father says I must write this account, but I’ve done as he asked, and it’s all written down, and I shall sign and date it, as he asked, then take it along to the almshouses. My mother won’t be there; in the middle of the afternoon she’ll be busy-bodying in someone else’s house and my father will be on his own. I know what he’ll do. He’ll lock this statement away in the Japanned box where he keeps his few papers, and he’ll say that it makes an end to the matter.
But I’m the one who’ll make the end to it, and the end is not what my father will be expecting . . .
And when I look ahead to the years left to me (I am no longer young, but I am not so very old), I do not think I can remain silent forever. I think there will come a day when I shall be compelled to accept the punishment due to me.
The final paper in the folder was a cutting from a newspaper. The date was 1901.
JURY’S VERDICT ON FATHER-KILLER
A verdict of Guilty was today unanimously pronounced on Mr Samuel Burlap of Derbyshire, who stood charged with killing his disabled father, Mr Jack Burlap, in May of this year.
Mr Burlap had pleaded Guilty to the charge, declining to give evidence on his own behalf. The Court heard how Mr Burlap had visited his father on what the defence said was a normal family visit – a son calling on his elderly parents.
The dead man’s wife had not been present, but neighbours reported hearing raised voices and sounds of a quarrel between Samuel Burlap and his father, followed by unmistakable sounds of violence, during which Mr Jack Burlap shouted for help. Sadly, by the time they got into the cottage, Mr Burlap lay on the floor with blood pouring from a head wound, and his son standing nearby holding a brass poker, covered in blood. One witness said Samuel Burlap appeared to be trying to break into a small cupboard which it was thought held Mr Jack Burlap’s private papers, but this was never known for sure, and Samuel himself declined to answer questions.
Summing up, the judge said there could be no doubt about Samuel Burlap’s guilt, and that the only possible sentence that could be passed was the death sentence.
Clipped to this were two further pieces of paper, both headed H M PRISON, NOTTINGHAM. The first said:
I, Henry Osgood, Surgeon of His Majesty’s Prison of Nottingham, hereby certify that I have today examined the body of Samuel Burlap, on whom judgement of death was today executed in the said prison; and that on that examination I found that the said Samuel Burlap was dead.
Dated this fourth day of November, 1901.
Signed: Henry Osgood.
The second had the same heading and said,
We the undersigned hereby declare that Judgement of Death was this day executed on Samuel Burlap in His Majesty’s Prison of Nottingham in our presence.
Dated this fourth day of November, 1901.
Several signatures followed.
TWENTY SEVEN
The various papers were strewn over the carpet, and the two low tables were littered with the remains of Chinese food. Beth had stayed up to eat her share of the food, and had finally gone, rather reluctantly, to bed.
Michael reread the execution notices, and laid them down thoughtfully. ‘So that’s what happened to Samuel in the end.’
‘I can’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for him,’ said Emily. ‘He had no real guidance, if you know what I mean. No parents to love him and understand him, or realize what was going on in his head.’ She caught Nell’s eye and smiled a bit sheepishly. ‘I do know I’d find excuses for the devil, though. And I certainly can’t forgive him for Esmond.’
‘Nor can I. Jack did try to forgive him for Isobel, I think,’ said Nell.
‘But Jack was caught up with chasing the ladies, and then with his own tragedy,’ said Michael. ‘It was only later he became really suspicious.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think Jack ever really intended to tell anyone what his son had done,’ said Nell. ‘Even though Samuel seems to have subtly threatened him.’
‘One thing I do find strange,’ said Emily. ‘That belief about the music calling to the dead. It’s interesting, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’
‘Nor have I. Michael, are you having some more wine, or are you driving?’
‘I’m not driving,’ said Michael. ‘Emily and I are sharing a taxi back. So I’ll have some more wine, please. In fact I’ll even get the bottle of white Burgundy from the fridge.’
When he had refilled the glasses, Nell said, ‘While we were in the house I heard Beth talking about the music – about it calling the dead back.’
‘Was she talking to Esmond?’ asked Emily eagerly.
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it was to something that might have been a leftover fragment of Esmond,’ said Nell, firmly.
‘You never will be convinced about ghosts, will you?’ said Michael, smiling.
‘I might allow you Esmond. I do think something of Esmond might have lingered in that house.’
Emily said, ‘Was Esmond trying to pass the music down? Was that the “secret” he told Brad about?’
‘It sounds like it,’ said Michael. ‘Nell will look sideways at this, but I think while Esmond lived in that house he picked something up about the music from Anne-Marie – Ralph seems to have seen Anne-Marie, remember.’
‘What Ralph saw sounds like a kind of replay of Anne-Marie creeping up to imprison Isobel,’ said Emily. ‘I wonder if Esmond might have seen the same thing? He sounds like the sort of imaginative child who’d be receptive.’
Michael glanced at Nell. ‘You saw Anne-Marie as well, didn’t you? But I know that’s another ghost you won’t admit to.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ said Nell. ‘Emily, did Charlotte ever mention Anne-Marie? Or anyone who sounded like Anne-Marie?’
‘No. Charlotte’s ghosts were all quite happy, quite benevolent,’ said Emily, and then, slightly startled, ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever taken part in such a bizarre conversation as this.’
‘It’s quite a bizarre situation,’ said Nell.
‘However it happened, Esmond somehow inherited the belief that music had a power,’ said Michael. ‘And he wanted to pass it to Brad. But Brad went abroad before he could tell hi
m.’
‘So Esmond tried again with Brad’s daughter,’ said Emily, nodding.
‘Yes.’
‘It does make a skewed kind of sense,’ said Nell.
‘There were a lot of lingering fragments of the past in that house,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘Isobel and Anne-Marie’s punishment. Anne-Marie’s belief in the music’s power—’
‘And Esmond,’ said Nell, softly. ‘What are we going to do about that?’
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ Emily broke off.
‘Go on.’
‘If we could . . . well, find where Samuel put Esmond . . .’
Michael said, ‘Christian burial?’
‘I wasn’t going to go that far,’ said Emily. ‘Mightn’t that involve police investigations and all sorts of complications?’
‘I think there’d have to be an inquest,’ said Michael. ‘But I don’t think it would be a very in-depth one, not for such old remains.’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea for Beth,’ said Emily. ‘It would be far better if she could remember Esmond as a slightly unusual boy she met at Stilter House.’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Nell, at once. ‘It would be confusing for her – macabre, even – if she discovered Esmond was murdered over a century ago.’
‘Well then, I was thinking that if we could identify the spot in the grounds and mark it – that place where Beth used to say goodbye to Esmond – I should think that’s where Burlap buried him, shouldn’t you?’
‘What kind of marking? You don’t mean a headstone or something?’
‘Oh, no. But I visited California last year and I saw some wonderful gardens while I was there. There’s a very nice rose called “Nocturne” they have. I don’t think it’s available in this country, but it might be possible to arrange shipping.’