The Body at Auercliff

by Amy Cross

  “Is that right?” Daddy asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow as he turns to Martin.

  “Absolutely,” Martin stammers, not entirely convincingly. “I mean... I tried my best.”

  I can't help giggling as I see the way Martin's standing to attention, almost as if he thinks he's in the military.

  “What happened to your hand?” Daddy asks.

  “I cut it.”

  “How?”

  “In the kitchen. Don't worry, I had Martha take a look at it, it's quite clean and correctly bandaged.”

  “It is, is it?” He frowns. “You should be more careful, Verity.”

  “Yes, Daddy. I shall be, Daddy.”

  “And make sure Martha checks the wound regularly, in case it gets infected.”

  “I shall, Daddy. I promise.”

  “And I don't need to be worried about what the pair of you have been getting up to, do I?” he continues. “There's nothing I need to know about?”

  “Of course not,” I reply, flashing my sweetest, most innocent smile. “Daddy, you know we're just having a little fun. Auercliff is so utterly huge, and I honestly don't think anyone could ever explore it fully. I just want to get a taste of our family's history. That's all.”

  He eyes me with a hint of suspicion.

  I broaden my smile, before glancing at Martin and seeing that he's standing completely straight, and perhaps even holding his breath. It takes all my self-control to keep from bursting into fits of tears.

  “Well mind that you don't get up to any mischief,” Daddy says finally, turning and heading back to the doorway. “And for God's sake, don't break anything.”

  “Where might we learn more about the history of the house?” I ask. “I mean, going back a century or more.”

  He turns to me with a frown. “Why are you suddenly so interested in all of that? Just yesterday, you said you didn't give a stuff about history.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Huh.” He takes another puff on his pipe. “It's not a good thing to change your mind too often, Verity. It's a sign of poor intellect. You must endeavor to stick to your opinions and beliefs.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Well, there are some useful books in the library, although no-one has ever written a definitive history. Take a look behind the armchair in the far corner, I think that's where Roger keeps the volumes that cover the history of the local area. They're bound to mention Auercliff.” He pauses for a moment, clearly still a little suspicious. “Are you sure you're not up to anything?”

  “I'm sure, Daddy,” I reply. “I suppose perhaps I'm just becoming a little more mature and interested in grown-up things. Is that bad?”

  He mutters something under his breath as he turns and heads out of the room.

  Taking a deep breath, I feel a shiver pass through my chest as I smell the sweet tobacco smell. God, I can't wait 'til I'm old enough to smoke.

  “Why are you friends with me?” Martin asks suddenly.

  Turning to him, I feel genuinely shocked by the question.

  “If I'm so boring,” he continues, “then... Why do you always wake me up at the crack of dawn so we can do things together?”

  Stepping over to him, I place my hands on his shoulders. For a moment, I'm actually close to tears.

  “For one thing,” I tell him, reaching up and touching the ridge between my mouth and nose, “you've never made fun of my harelip. And for another...”

  I pause, trying to think of a good answer.

  “I could go off and be friends with ten other people right now,” I continue, “or I could stay here and be really, really good friends with you. And I choose you.”

  “Are the girls at school really so mean to you about your lip?” he asks.

  I swallow hard, not really knowing what to say.

  “Come on,” I mutter finally, forcing a smile as I grab his hand and lead him through to the front door. “We can't waste time like this.”

  “What are we going to do now?” he asks helplessly, although he makes no effort to hold back as I drag him across the hallway.

  “What do you think?” Turning to him, I hold up the rusty knife for him to see. “I want to know where this came from, and why it ended up buried near the river. I've got a feeling there are some secrets buried in our family history.”

  “So we're going to look at the books in the study?”

  “Oh Martin,” I say with a smile as I lead him out into the bright sunlight. “You poor thing. No, we're going somewhere much better!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Higher!” I hiss, struggling to keep my balance. “Oh Martin, what's wrong with you? Aren't you very strong?”

  All I hear from below is a faint gasp, so I focus on reaching up and grabbing hold of the edging that runs around the top of the mausoleum's walls. We're out in the forest and I've finally managed to persuade my rather cowardly cousin that he should let me stand on his shoulders, so I can finally get up and investigate the hole at the top of the mausoleum's southerly corner. Unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to me that Martin would be quite so unsteady, and I'm be practically tipping over every few seconds.

  “You're being awfully distracting,” I mutter, gripping the bricks as I peer at the hole. “Martin, be a sport and do try to hold still.”

  “It'd help,” he gasps, “if you'd... try not to... sway...”

  “I'm not swaying!”

  “You are!”

  “Oh, well now you're just making excuses!”

  Realizing that there's absolutely no point arguing the point with him, I take a moment to steady myself and then I reach into the hole in the mausoleum's wall and start pulling out sprigs of ivy that seems to be growing from inside. It's rather horrific to think of the ivy's roots somewhere in the mausoleum's dark interior, and I can't help wondering whether the plant is getting some of its nutrients from the bodies that are resting on the shelves. Certainly the ivy's green leaves seem much greener than other leaves nearby. Still, I have to get a better look, so I spend a couple of minutes pulling out more and more ivy, while keeping my feet more-or-less steady on Martin's shoulders.

  “Any luck?” he stammers finally. “And do try not to drop all that ivy on my head!”

  “Sorry,” I say with a smile, as I unhook Daddy's flashlight from my belt. I switch the lamp on and then shine it through the hole, hoping that I'll be able to see all the way inside the mausoleum, but all I see is more brickwork. It's almost as if the people who built this thing didn't want future generations breaking through. I blame Daddy. If he hadn't hidden the key to the door so well, I'd be able to unlock the bloody thing and take a quick peak.

  “Anything?” Martin asks again, sounding increasingly breathless.

  “Bugger all so far,” I mutter, tugging on the bricks and finding that several are loose.

  “Watch the language, Verity. You don't want to accidentally say something naughty around our parents.”

  “Don't I?” I tug on one of the bricks, and suddenly it comes loose, slipping from my hand and dropping to the ground.

  “I say,” Martin stammers, “what was that?”

  “What does it look like?” I ask, already shining the flashlight into the hole again.

  “It looks like a brick!”

  “Well, then there's your answer. I think...” Tilting the flashlight a little, I still see nothing but more bricks inside. “How thick are these bloody walls?” I mutter. “All I want is to get a good view.”

  “And what will you learn from that?” he gasps.

  “I already told you! I'm investigating the family's history.”

  “You could always just ask your parents, and mine too!”

  “If one wants to know the history of a family,” I reply, rolling my eyes, “one never starts by asking the family itself. One cannot be quite so naive, Martin.”

  “But Verity -”

  “And I'm quite certain there's something rotten in the past somewhere. I mean, that knife
didn't just appear out of nowhere!” I try pulling another brick loose, although this one is much harder to dislodge. “Stop swaying so much, Martin!”

  “I'm not!”

  “You are!”

  “Not this time! Maybe you're just dizzy.”

  I open my mouth to tell him he's being a bloody fool, but suddenly I realize that perhaps – for once – he's right. I freeze for a moment, and I definitely feel as if the whole world is starting to pivot around me somewhat, and my vision briefly seems rather foggy. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore the fact that I feel nauseous, and I focus instead on digging out another brick. The job isn't easy, especially with a bandaged left hand, but I'm damn well not going to give up, and finally I pull the brick out and toss it down to the ground.

  “Hey!” Martin yells. “You almost hit me!”

  “Whoops,” I reply with a smile, leaning closer to the hole and tilting the flashlight. I wipe sweat from my brow. “This is infuriating, I can't -”

  Suddenly Martin's shoulders drop from beneath my feet. Letting out a gasp, I grip the roof of the mausoleum and just about manage to hold on, although my fingers are already slipping.

  “Sorry!” he calls up to me. “I lost my -”

  I let out a cry as I fall, landing on top of Martin and sending him crashing to the ground. Landing with a heavy, frame-rattling bump, I immediately roll off and end up staring straight up at the sky, trying to catch my breath. I feel as if my entire skeleton jerked through my meat when I hit the ground.

  “Ow!” Martin stammers. “Verity, you could have really hurt me!”

  I immediately start laughing, even though I know it's rather beastly of me to be so amused by our misfortune. Sitting up, I feel a faint pain in my chest, but it's clear that I survived the fall without suffering any serious damage. After a moment, however, I realize that I can once again hear a faint scratching sound. I stick a finger in each ear, to check that there's nothing nasty in there, but the scratching seems to be deeper, as if it's coming from inside my skull.

  “I do wish you'd be more careful,” Martin mutters as he sits up next to me. “I was doing my best, I promise! I suppose I'm just not very athletic.”

  “No,” I reply, turning to him with a smile, “you're not. But that's old news.”

  “Well, I -”

  “Or perhaps I'm just heavy,” I add, before spotting a crack running through one corner of the mausoleum, right down at the very bottom of the wall. “Hello,” I mutter, crawling over and taking a closer look. There are various weeds growing out of the crack, and when I pull one of them out, I find that it has a long set of roots that must have extended several feet underground.

  “So now what?” Martin asks, getting to his feet. “I really don't think we're going to get a chance to see inside this thing, Verity. At least, not until someone needs to be put inside, and hopefully that won't happen soon.”

  “We could try swiping the key,” I suggest, pulling out more weeds.

  “No chance. That's kept safe. Only my father knows where it is.”

  “Yes, but he's hardly a world-renowned genius, is he?” I point out, finally getting to my feet. I stare at the side of the mausoleum for a moment, before stepping closer and banging my fist on the wall. “Hello in there!” I shout. “Dear ancestors, we just want to come inside and learn all your secrets! Is that so much to ask?”

  “Careful!” Martin hisses, pulling me away.

  “Or what?” I continue, unable to stifle a laugh. “Are you worried one of them might wake from the dead and knock back?”

  We stand in silence for a moment, staring at the mausoleum, almost as if we do expect to hear some kind of communication from within.

  “If I were dead,” I say finally, “I would try to come back and deliver some kind of message. Just to let everyone know that there's something beyond.” I pause. “No, I wouldn't try. I'd find a way to do it!”

  “I'm sure that would have happened by now,” Martin replies. “If it were possible, I mean.”

  “And who's to say it's not?” I ask, with a faint smile. “Perhaps the others just never had the motivation. But I swear to you, Martin, hand on heart...” I place my hand on my heart, just to make a point, and for a moment I feel rather uncharacteristically solemn. “If I should die before you, I shall do everything in my power to come back and let you know that there's life beyond the grave. I shall find a way, no matter how difficult or how testing it might be. Perhaps I shall appear to you as a shimmering specter, or perhaps I shall only be able to manage a whisper in your ear, but I shall do something.”

  I feel a shudder pass through my body for a moment, and slowly I turn to see a hint of fear in Martin's eyes.

  “And if you hear nothing from me,” I continue, “then you shall know that either communication is impossible, or there is simply nothing left of the soul after death. Nothing but nothingness for all eternity.”

  I watch him carefully for a moment, and I can see his fear growing. Finally I turn back and look at the mausoleum, and I think of all the dead, still, silent bodies of our ancestors that are resting on the other side of this wall. I suppose one day Martin and I shall be slotted into place among them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Sir Charles Switherington and his wife, Lady Catherine,” I read out loud from one of the old leather books I've managed to find in the library. “They were the occupants of the house between 1837, when they married, and 1851, which is when Catherine died. Crikey, she wasn't very old when she popped her clogs. Charles followed twenty years later, leaving the house to Grandpa Jonathan, who then married Grandma Elizabeth and had your father and mine.”

  I turn to another page.

  “We know nothing extraordinary happened while our parents were growing up here. So maybe something happened during the era of Sir Charles and Lady Catherine.”

  “Maybe,” Martin mutters, sounding bored.

  I'm in the very farthest corner of the library, behind one of the old armchairs that have been left dotted around the room. From this position, I can't really see Martin at all; peering around the chair's edge, I can just make out my cousin's legs dangling from the side of the desk. Frankly, his legs look as bored as his voice sounds, and they're gangly too. It's hard to believe that I thought he could support me earlier.

  “Now,” I continue, running my hand along another line in the book, “Sir Charles and Lady Catherine mostly did away with the staff of the house, they only kept -”

  “Does this really matter?” he asks suddenly, jumping off the desk and coming over to me.

  “Martin -”

  Before I can finish, he pulls the armchair aside, causing the legs to scrape against the floorboards. Looking up at him as I'm uncovered, I can't help smiling.

  “You seem awfully uninterested in this whole endeavor,” I point out. “You don't have to spend the whole day with me, you know. I think I shall be perfectly alright in here by myself.”

  “You're shiny,” he mutters.

  I frown.

  “Are you sweating?” he asks.

  “It's a little warm in here.”

  “No, but...” He tilts his head. “You're really sweating a lot.”

  “Well you're a charmer,” I mutter, wiping my brow and noticing, for the first time, that my hair feels a little wet and matted. “It's nothing,” I add.

  “I think you should show the knife to someone,” he replies.

  “Why?”

  “Because!”

  “Because what?”

  “You're being difficult on purpose, Verity!”

  “It's my knife now,” I tell him. “I found it, and I risked my neck to pull it out of the mud. It's clearly old, I doubt very much that anyone still alive has any recollection of knowledge of it whatsoever.”

  “It's dangerous.”

  “Only if it's in the wrong hands. Why? Do you think I might do something dreadful with it?”

  He sighs again, and I can tell he's getting close to his wi
t's end. As fun as it is to drive Martin crazy, however, I don't want to push him all the way over the edge. All things considered, he's still the only entertainment in this dull old house.

  “Fine,” I mutter, sliding the book away before getting to my feet, with the rusty knife still in my hand. I still feel a little dizzy, but I simply force a smile. “I'm not giving up, though. I'm going to find out the truth about this knife, even if it kills me.”

  ***

  “Pass the gravy, Reginald, would you?”

  Chewing on a slice of beef, I watch as Daddy reaches the gravy boat over for Uncle Roger to take. I can't help smiling as I note how civilized everyone is at the dinner table. No-one even dares chew too loudly, in case they fall foul of one of the ten billion rules of dining etiquette. Sometimes, I think the whole of Auercliff is going to disappear up its own backside.

  “Has anyone ever been murdered here?” I ask suddenly, putting on my most innocent face as I break the silence.

  Daddy freezes mid-chew, staring at me as if he can't quite believe what I said.

  “I thought you weren't going to ask them?” Martin whispers, kicking me under the table.

  “I changed my mind,” I tell him, not lowering my voice at all, before turning first to Daddy and then to Mummy. “I looked in the books in the library, but they weren't much help. I suppose if there had been a murder, it would be the kind of thing one would want to keep out of the official family record. Still -”

  “Verity,” Mummy says, interrupting me as she wipes her mouth on her serviette, “please, this is the dining table.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Verity, please...”

  “It's a simple-enough question,” I continue, enjoying the sight of Mummy squirming. Figuring that she won't be much help, I turn to Uncle Roger. “I bet you know,” I tell him. “Auercliff is so old, someone must have been murdered here. It'd be rather odd if there hadn't been a knifing or a shooting or -”

  “That's enough!” Daddy says firmly, glaring at me. “One more word out of you, young lady, and you'll be sent to your room for the rest of the evening with nothing more than bread and butter. Is that clear?”