The Observations

by Jane Harris

  Master James shook his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I am not sure that Knox even knew. And if he did he didn’t mention it. All we know is that they were of an intimate nature.’

  ‘So,’ says the doctor. ‘On the one hand, we have a sequence of events in Edinburgh, verified by yourself and other persons of a reliable and respectable nature such as this Knox chappie, in which Arabella behaved in an indisputably bizarre fashion, inexplicable to the extreme and disturbing to those around her.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Events which today she either does not remember or is choosing not to acknowledge. And on the other hand we have the appearance of this supposed spectre in her room, something she not only remembers and acknowledges but moreover she absolutely insists upon the fact of its existence even in the face of rational explanation.’

  ‘The spectre taking the form of Nora Hughes.’

  ‘Aye,’ says the doctor. There was a pause and then he says, ‘Damn the girl—I would to God we had heard the last of her.’

  This was such a strange and unexpected remark that for a moment I was quite taken aback. What the flip were they on about? I hoped one of them would say more. But to my frustration, master James fell to frowning and rubbing his chin whilst the doctor struck a match and spent the next few moments puffing up a head of steam.

  Eventually, he spoke. ‘To my mind, there are three possibilities to consider. Number one, the least likely, that this spectre is real.’

  Master James snorted. ‘Nonsense!’ he says. ‘In my opinion, sir, that is not even a possibility.’

  The doctor held up his hand in protest. ‘I agree with you James. However, we must consider every eventuality in order to dismiss those that do not apply in this case. We both doubt then—we strongly doubt—the existence of a ghost.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Possibility number two, is that Arabella was dreaming.’

  ‘Aye,’ says master James.

  They both fell to thinking and smoking.

  After a moment, the doctor spoke again. ‘She did seem very adamant that she was awake the whole time. When I tried to suggest otherwise she became heated, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Master James nodded. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘She was utterly convinced.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I think I do,’ says master James. He nodded again (rather sadly I thought).

  ‘We are prepared to allow, then,’ says the doctor, ‘that Arabella was awake when she saw this nocturnal visitation. That leaves us, therefore, with the third and final possibility, which is . . .?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  Master James stared at him, stony-faced, then says, ‘Arabella has lost her wits.’

  The doctor blinked in surprise. ‘You are leaping ahead somewhat, James. I merely meant to say that, as a third and final possibility, Arabella conjured this spectral vision out of her imagination and did so with such a degree of success that she has convinced herself of its reality.’

  ‘Yes,’ says master James. Then he says, rather meekly, ‘Does not that mean she has lost her wits?’

  ‘Oh undoubtedly!’ cried the doctor (with what to me seemed inappropriate good cheer, but he had been carried away by his own cleverness). ‘The question is, how deep does the affliction run? Is it simply a temporary lapse? Or is it a permanent case of lunacy? I have books and papers about it. Something moves in the brain, there is a surge of blood perhaps, and a person is transformed, utterly. They see their own hand in front of their face and yet do not know what to call it. They become foul-mouthed and violent, whereas before they were timid. Or they conjure visions that can be seen by nobody but themselves. Lizards, toads or so-called unearthly spirits. Sometimes the episode lasts only days. Sometimes it can last a lifetime.’

  Master James sat there, stricken, his face the colour of ash. His entire body was strained and rigid. I thought at one point that his fingers might crush the bowl of his pipe.

  ‘I can scarce believe it,’ he says, at last. ‘But why has this happened now?’

  The doctor stuck out his lower lip. ‘All that blasted Nora business was last summer, was it not? There may be some delayed reaction. Although how what happened with the girls at the Register Office fits in, I don’t quite know. Perhaps it is all just a coincidence.’ He paused to suck at his pipe.

  Once again, I was burning with curiosity. What Register Office? What girls? And what could he mean by ‘all that blasted Nora business’? Why should it annoy the doctor that his friends servant had walked under a train?

  McGregor-Robertson stretched out his legs and sighed. ‘As for whether this is a temporary phase or something more prolonged, we will simply have to wait and see.’

  Master James was studying him, anxiously. After a moment, he says, ‘You are not suggesting then, we take the step of—of an asylum?’ (He seemed almost unable to bring himself to say the word.)

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Not in the first instance, no. That would be a wee bitty premature. For all we know, Arabella may wake up tomorrow morning, her memory intact, her hallucinations gone.’

  ‘There is that possibility,’ says master James. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  He had been holding himself erect but now he sank back into his chair with relief. And no flipping wonder! In my own anxiety at the thought of missus in an asylum, I had caught hold of the worn green velvet and crushed a portion of it between my fingers.

  ‘Besides,’ says the doctor. ‘The principles used in these places are straightforward enough. Containment, quiet, lack of stimulus. We can apply what we need of them over the next few days or weeks, and then we will see what’s what. There are also a number of remedies we can try out.’

  He stood up, glancing at his pocket watch. ‘I have to go and take a look at old Sammy Sums over in Smoller,’ he says. ‘Apparently there is something growing on his head. Whether it is a set of horns or a boil has yet to be established. When I have finished with him, I shall collect those books I was talking about and bring them up here. We could take a look at them together, eh? They may throw some light on how we should proceed.’

  ‘Excellent!’ says master James, who had also risen hastily to his feet. To my great consternation, he reached out and tugged at the bell-pull. A faint tinkle could be heard from the distant kitchen. It was a very empty sound, followed by a great hollow silence. I shrank back into the shadows and lost my view of the men through the gap in the curtain.

  Master James lowered his voice. ‘I should say, Douglas, that I would be most grateful if you didn’t mention any of this to our friend down at the manse. I am hoping for his brothers support when I come to stand. I fear it would do my cause no good if any of this were to get back to him. The old goat is always sticking his nose in and the less said about whats-her-face the better. We don’t want to stir things up.’

  ‘Fear not,’ says the doctor. ‘I had already thought of it.’

  It was a strange way to refer to your wife, I thought. ‘Whats-her-face’. Or had he meant Nora? But I did not have long to dwell on it for to my horror the bell rang a 2nd time. Again, the faint tinkle could be heard in the distance.

  ‘Tsk! Drat the girl,’ says master James. ‘Where is she?’

  I imagined stepping out from behind the curtain—ta-da!—and announcing my presence. The picture of it was so vivid in my head that I almost thought I had done it. Luckily, master James was impatient. I heard him open the study door, perhaps to peer out and see whether I was coming.

  ‘God knows where she is,’ he says, after a moment. ‘I’ll show you out myself, if you don’t mind, Douglas?’

  ‘Not at all,’ says McGregor-Robertson. ‘By the way, what did you make of Shorts Observatory?’

  ‘Not much,’ says master James. ‘I believe its merits are overstated.’

  I heard them cross the hall and exchange a few final words. Then the doctor left, promising to return later. I held my breath and waited to see what master James would do. At first, there was o
nly silence and I supposed that he must be standing just inside the front door, collecting his thoughts. And then to my relief I heard his footsteps cross the hallway and head upstairs. Ere long I was able to slip out from my hiding place and scuttle back to the kitchen, most grateful that I had not been discovered for if I had it could surely have meant the end of my time at Castle Haivers with missus.

  And I had a feeling that she might need me now more than ever.

  Missus had behaved strangely in Edinburgh, that much was clear, something to do with girls and a Register Office. But what exactly had she done? And was it something to do with her Observations? I was extremely curious to know. As for what the men had said about Nora. Was there indeed a connection between her death and how missus was behaving? I certainly thought so, because of the walk. But I couldn’t see how master James and the doctor would know about it, since missus kept her experiments secret. I had hoped that I might overhear something useful. But all in all what the two gentlemen had said left me betwattled.

  My instructions were not to disturb missus and as a result I did not see her all morning. The doctor returned at about 11 o’clock bringing with him a leather satchel full of books. Master James tellt me to make a pot of coffee and then the two men set to reading and smoking in the study. I had hoped to get a few minutes alone with missus when I took her something to eat at midday but this was not to be. I snuck up quiet as a cat but barely had I knocked when McGregor-Robertson appeared at the threshold and lifted the tray out my hands. Then he thanked me and closed the door with his foot. I didn’t even get a glance at missus.

  The gentlemen ate a cold meal in the study. After they’d finished master James went out to have a word with the farm servants and returned a little later. I was summoned at about a ¼ past one, by a ring of the bell. As I reached the hallway master James emerged from the study to meet me.

  ‘Bessy,’ he says. ‘I need you to go to Bathgate.’

  ‘Sir?’

  If I sounded surprised it was because this was indeed an unusual request as previously I had never been asked to go further than Snatter on my own. But master James may not have been aware of this, for the request was put quite casually.

  ‘Yes, I need some things from the chemist,’ he says. ‘Biscuit Meek will give you a ride. He has to go to town and he’ll bring you back when you’re done. Here is a list of what is required.’ He held up a folded piece of paper but did not yet place it in my hands. ‘Now Bessy,’ he says. ‘Most importantly, I forbid you to speak about what has happened of late with your mistress. If anybody asks, you must say she’s in good health but has been troubled recently by headaches and has been advised to rest.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Don’t talk to anyone about it, not to Biscuit Meek nor any other person. I take it you have been to the chemist before.’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘You have not been to the chemist before,’ he says. ‘You surprise me. Well then. In that case, I presume the employees don’t know who you are.’

  ‘No sir, I doubt it. I have only been to Bathgate once.’

  ‘That is all to the good. Now as far as I am aware we have an account at the chemist, but please don’t charge the items to Castle Haivers or reveal who they are for.’

  He patted at his pockets, frowning. Then he stepped back into the study and I heard him ask the doctor if he had any money on him. After a moment he reappeared with a handful of coins, these he gave to me along with the list.

  ‘Make sure Biscuit Meek does not accompany you to the chemist,’ he says. ‘Get him to leave you at the hotel and then you run along to the shop on your own—it is just around the corner. If he expresses any curiosity about where you are going or what you are to buy, which I very much doubt, tell him your mistress urgently requires some—some—’ He waved a hand in the air, unable to conjecture what order of thing missus might urgently require in Bathgate.

  ‘Some braiding and silk thread?’ I offered.

  ‘Braiding and silk thread,’ he says. ‘Excellent suggestion. And when you return with your packages, make sure that everything is wrapped up and out of sight.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘I take it you have no question you wish to ask me.’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Then off you go. Biscuit is waiting patiently for you outside the stables.’

  Biscuit was indeed outside the stables but he gave no hint that he might have been waiting for me, patiently or otherwise, he was not the kind of man to dance attendance on the likes of me, Oh no! He caught sight of me as I came around the corner of the house but did not look up or acknowledge me in any way, instead he finished tightening the horses girth and then without a word got up onto the cart. Thereafter he sat looking at the horses ears. When I bid him good afternoon he cast his eyes over me without interest—much as if I were an old log he’d briefly considered taking home for firewood before thinking better of it—and then he turned away and resumed his contemplation of the horse.

  Believe you me, I would rather have sat on the cutty stool than share a narrow seat with Biscuit Meek but I had no real choice in the matter if I was to obey master James and so I clambered up beside him. During the course of the journey to Bathgate I did make one or two attempts at conversation but the only thing that emerged from Biscuit’s mouth was fired out in liquid form at regular intervals and lay silently glistening on the road behind us. After a while I gave up trying to engage him and fell to examining the list master James had give me. Camphor, vinegar, senna and paragoric were common enough so they were but some items on the list were new to me such as gum ammoniac, vermifuge powder, ipecac, Rochel salt, flour of sulphur, I did not much like the sound of them. Presumably they were meant for missus. All I could say was they had better not do her any harm.

  This vexed me all the way to Bathgate, to the coaching-yard behind the hotel. There Biscuit stopped the cart and descended in a slithering motion. He pointed fiercely at the ground and spoke two words the first of these being ‘4’ and the 2nd being ‘a’clock’. Thus having indicated the time he expected my return to that very spot he mooched off out the yard. I got down from the cart myself and wandered into the street just in time to see him disappear into a tavern across the way. Whether or not he went there on business for master James, I hadn’t a notion but I cared not a flea turd for the doings of Biscuit Meek.

  The apothecary himself was the only person in the shop. Remembering what master James had said and his pleas for discretion I kept conversation to a minimum by simply handing over the list. Thankfully, the man showed no interest in me whatsoever and made up the order with scarce a word or glance in my direction. A dram of this, an ounce of that, he tapped out powders and poured liquids from large bottles into smaller vials. Then, at my request, he wrapped each item separately and finally made them up into one large parcel. All in all it took only about ten minutes to complete the order.

  Upon leaving the shop I returned to the hotel but there was no sign of Biscuit and almost an hour to wait until 4 o’clock. There was a few lads hanging about, playing chucky stones and throwing me glances. No doubt if I waited on the cart I would not be left in peace for long and so I decided to go for a walk. I left the yard and began making my way towards the main shopping streets where missus had led me the previous week.

  My intention was to look in at shop windows but then I glimpsed the church bell tower above the chimneys and that started me thinking about the graveyard. I was never one for hanging around burial grounds for pleasure. Yet the more I gave it consideration, the more I thought it might be worth visiting Noras grave to have a word with her. Call it superstition. But both me and missus had seen something at Castle Haivers and if it was indeed a ghost (and not a dream or figment of our imaginations), then it might be worth speaking to Miss Perfect. I would lodge a complaint, if you like, at the source. I would raise objections at Headquarters.

  Having decided this, it was only a matter of making my way to the church. T
he bell tower was visible now and then between the rooftops and I found the right street by heading towards it. A few market stalls had been set up outside the church and the place was hoaching with passers-by and carts and gigs. I went in at the church gate and up the steps. Last time I had been there, it was snowing and I’d been intent on following missus so had not paid much heed to the surroundings. Now, the snow was long gone and I was entirely on my own. Without its frosty coating, the graveyard took on a very different aspect. I seen that it was a driech place, the paths foul and mucky, the headstones be-slimed, many of them broken and everything choked with ivy.

  I chose a path and began to pick my way through the quagmire towards the far corner where they put the RCs. Away from the road, the place grew silent. There were no visitors that day besides myself. Not a living thing stirred no bird sang and the only creatures you could imagine rustling in the undergrowth was rats.

  Before too long I glimpsed Noras headstone, the white marble made it stand out amongst the other graves. As I approached, I was startled and not a little disturbed to see that the crocus missus had left at the foot of the grave had been overturned as if by some angry, violent hand. The pot was smashed and the earth (which was, I noticed, the colour of dried blood) lay scattered. The bulb and petals had been stamped into the ground. There was no telling who or what was responsible. Naughty boys could have knocked it over for no good reason, as they are wont. Or a fox could have done it, I had seen similar damage left by foxes in the vegetable garden. It might—just possibly—have been caused by the wind, or by accident. But the sight of this wanton destruction, in those surroundings, made my flesh creep. I glanced around anxious, but only the gravestones gazed back at me.

  The crocus was beyond saving and so I just tidied up a little, picking up the shards of the pot and laying them neatly on the path and then kicking the dark red earth to mingle it with the grass. Afterwards I stood over the grave and tried to direct my thoughts into the ground. It was hard to imagine what lay under there. The coffin had been down there for months and I reckoned that it would probably still be fairly intact but I did not like to speculate what condition Noras body might be in. I tried to picture her whole and fresh, dressed all in white, with her eyes closed and hands clasped.