by Amy Cross
“Sorry, Sir,” one of the men mutters, glancing at me with a hint of suspicion, “it's just... Well, we were startled.”
Unable to bear their gazes a moment longer, I turn and hurry up the stairs, panicking so much that I slip halfway and land hard on my right knee. Racing up to the landing, I finally reach the master bedroom and slam the door shut, desperate to keep from being mocked and watched. I can still hear Charles throwing the two idiots out, and Jonathan has begun to cry once again in the nursery, but all I can manage is to step back toward the middle of the room while keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the door.
The whole world is turning against me. Man and nature together, combined to mock me efforts and feed upon my guilt. I am alone. I can trust no soul. And blood is trickling from the wound on my knee, running down my leg and dribbling onto the floor.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“That's her. That's the woman who killed Matilda Granger.”
Stopping in the street, I turn and see several villagers making their way across the green. I know not which of them made that accusation, but after a moment I realize that two other locals are watching me from the doorway of the local pub, the King's Head. Before I can react, I hear a faint scratching sound, although I quickly realize that this is caused merely by the pub's sign creaking in a light breeze.
Still, I can hear a rustle of voices, and I am certain that people are talking about me.
Turning, I look back through the window of the framer's store, and I see that Charles is still discussing matters with the loathsome Mr. Vinter. Still, at least a fresh frame has been fitted rather quickly, and Charles is already making payment, which means we shall perhaps return to Auercliff in the next few minutes.
I should never have let Charles bring me into the village. He suggested it would be good for me to get out of Auercliff for an hour or two, but he was wrong.
Everyone is talking about me.
Somehow, they know about Matilda.
Then again, the alternative would have been to stay alone at the house, and that is not something I could ever contemplate.
Hearing a gurgling sound from the back of the horse-drawn cart, I hurry over and peer inside. Jonathan seems a little disturbed, so I force a smile and reach over to tickle his chin.
“Don't be afraid,” I tell him, although I'm immediately shocked by the frailty in my voice. “Mama is here, and Mama will not let anything bad happen to any of us. You must hush yourself.”
The gurgling continues, but he seems happy enough.
“There's the murderer,” a female voice snarls. “She'll get what's coming to her.”
Spinning around, I see two rough, crude-looking women walking past. Neither of them looks at me, but I am certain that one of them was speaking a moment ago.
“Do you have something you wish to say to me?” I snap.
They stop, turning to me, and their expressions demonstrate great ignorance and stupidity.
“Begging your pardon, M'am,” one of them says finally, “but we were just on our way to the bakery.”
“And then you said something to me,” I remind her.
“I'm not sure that we did, M'am.”
“I heard you,” I continue, stepping closer to them. I feel as if my whole body is starting to tremble, but I refuse to show weakness. After all, everyone in the village should look up to the owners of Auercliff as their superiors. They should not even dare talk to me, or look at me, unless I initiate an encounter. “Perhaps you would like to make your accusation to my face,” I tell her. “Are you bold enough for that?”
“Accusation, M'am?” she replies. “I really don't know what you mean.”
“We were just on our way to the bakery,” the other woman adds. “That's all, M'am.”
“I heard you,” I say firmly, before leaning closer to the first woman and poking her chest. “I heard you, and I will not stand for it!”
She stares at me as if she has no idea what I mean, and finally she and her friend turn and hurry toward the bakery on the far side of the green.
“I heard you!” I shout after them. “I will not tolerate gossip!”
Realizing that I have attracted attention from others in the vicinity, I turn and look around, seeing various faces staring at me.
“That goes for all of you!” I continue, determined to make a stand. “As far as I know, Matilda Granger simply deserted her post and left the area. I can assure you, her departure was quite inconvenient. But there is no mystery, and no gossip to be had here. My husband is loyal and decent, and he would never have demeaned himself by even thinking impure thoughts where that girl was concerned.”
I wait, and one by one the villagers turn away, as if they're not quite sure how to react.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you,” I mutter, “that I shall not tolerate any form of -”
“Hush, child,” a voice whispers suddenly, over my shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You, at least, are perfectly safe.”
Turning, I see no-one nearby, although after a moment I realize that the voice appears to be coming from inside the horse-drawn carriage.
“Don't be afraid,” the voice continues. “You must hush yourself.”
Stepping closer, I can't help noticing that whereas I closed the carriage door a moment ago, now it is hanging wide open. I cannot fathom the idea that someone from the village would have the audacity to climb inside and speak to my child, but as I reach the door and look inside I'm shocked to see a dark-shrouded figure leaning over Jonathan and stroking his chin. And Jonathan, for his part, is smiling and giggling as he looks up at a face that – from my vantage point, at least – remains hidden beneath a dark hood.
“Who are you,” I snap, “and what are you doing in my husband's carriage?”
“Hush, child,” the voice continues, as the hood ripples in a light breeze. “My quarrel is not with you.”
“Get out!” I say firmly, reaching over to grab the intruder's arm. “I insist that you -”
Suddenly she turns to me, and I see Matilda's rotten face staring at me with hallow, sunken features and a smile on her thin lips. To my horror, I realize further that the black cloak around her body is in fact a tattered cloth bag, torn and rippling in the wind, ripped open in several places by the blade of a shovel.
Too stunned to say anything, I step away from the carriage, and after a moment the ghastly figure looks back down at Jonathan and once again strokes his face.
“You shall grow up fine and strong,” she tells him, her neck clicking as she twists her head. “From you, fresh generations shall bloom. And one day, everything shall be put right again.”
“Leave him alone!” I stammer, stepping back and then tripping on the edge of the curb, landing hard on the ground. “Don't touch him!” I scream. “For the love of God, if you've come back to hurt someone, then hurt me, not him!” Tears are streaming down my face now. “Leave my little boy alone!”
With the torn bag still rippling all around her, Matilda turns and looks down at me once again.
“You killed my son,” she says after a moment. “Even before he had left my belly, you drove the blade of your knife into my flesh. It is too late for him, but his blood shall not be denied. And you and your husband shall both burn in hell for your wickedness!”
“No!” I shout, dropping to my knees as tears stream down my face. “Let us be! Please, just stay buried!”
“Catherine!”
Grabbing my wrist, Charles hauls me up.
Turning, I see that he has the re-framed portrait and that he has emerged from the store. A moment later, I realize that several uncouth locals have gathered nearby, as if to stare at my unfortunate position.
“She's in there,” I stammer, turning and pointing toward the carriage. “Matilda is in there with Jonathan. Charles, you have to get rid of her! Whatever you two are plotting, please, you are liable to drive me out of my mind! Are you so cruel?”
“Matilda?” Pushing past
me, he looks into the carriage and then turns to me again. “What are you talking about, woman?”
Forcing myself to go over and peer inside, I see to my relief that Jonathan is quite alone. I glance around, but I have no idea how Matilda's rotten form was able to escape unseen.
“You are losing your mind,” Charles mutters, heading around to the rear of the carriage so he can start stowing the painting for the journey back to Auercliff. “What kind of spectacle do you think you are making of yourself, woman?”
“She was right here,” I whisper, still horrified by the memory of Matilda's dead face. “She was in the carriage. She was talking to Jonathan, she...”
My voice trails off as I realize that there are now twenty or more villagers gawping at me.
“What do you want?” I shout, turning to them. “Do you find something amusing? Why are you all staring at me?” I wait, but still they stare. “Go!” I scream finally, as fresh tears run down my face. “Leave me alone! Leave us all alone!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“And I am afraid I have told you all I know,” Charles continues, his voice drifting through the window from the steps at the front of the house. “Matilda simply left one morning, without leaving a forwarding address.”
Cowering behind the curtain, I peer out and see that the scruffy man from the village is still at the foot of the steps. He arrived just a few hours after we returned from town, asking about his sister.
“She cannot have just vanished,” the man says, with a hint of desperation. “I am the only family she has left in the world.”
“I wish I could help you,” Charles replies, “but I do not think you should worry. From what she said, it sounded to me as if she has picked up a more advantageous position in some other town. Perhaps even in London. I am quite sure she will get in touch in due course, but if she does not, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”
“If you do hear from her,” the man continues, “please tell her that her brother Tobias is searching for her.”
“Of course,” Charles replies. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I am a very busy man.”
***
“No!” I shout, following Charles along the corridor as he heads toward his study. “You can't be serious! There's nothing wrong with me!”
“You need rest,” he replies firmly. “Do not challenge me on this, Catherine. Thanks to the scene you made in the village earlier, I had to deal with Tobias Granger's questions about his sister's whereabouts. Tomorrow I shall make arrangements for you to leave Auercliff for a while and spend time recuperating at a clinic. I am certain that if you stay here, your mind is in danger of unraveling.”
“I'm not going anywhere!” I hiss, grabbing his arm and forcing him to turn to me. “I know what you're doing! You want to get rid of me so you can move Matilda in and have her as your new wife!”
“Matilda?” He stares at me, his eyes filled with shock. “Matilda is dead, Catherine! You drove the knife into her belly yourself, or do you not even remember the murder you committed?”
“Liar!” I stammer, flinching at the mere thought of such an awful thing. “You are conspiring with her, and tricking me! She lives, and she waits in the forest for me to be sent away from Auercliff. Once I am gone, you will have me consigned to a madhouse and I shall never return. That's what you want, isn't it? You want Matilda as your wife, and you want to forget about me as if I am -”
Suddenly he slaps me hard on the side of the face.
“I have done everything within my power,” he says firmly, “to cover up your grotesque crime.” He pauses for a moment. “Then again, perhaps you are right. Perhaps sending you away would be a mistake. If you were to babble on about Matilda's death, you might arouse suspicions, and I would be hard-pressed to explain my role in all of this. It might be better to keep you close.” He sighs, still watching me with suspicion. “I should have turned you over to the police as soon as I found the corpse. I should never have tried to cover up your hideous crime.”
“Jonathan needs me,” I stammer. “Our son...”
“Matilda cared for Jonathan more than you ever did,” he replies. “In the short time since he was born, you have proven yourself to be a craven, terrible mother. At least Matilda showed him some warmth and love.”
“And was it warmth and love she showed you, too?” I ask, filled with anger and panic. “Is that why you invited her into our bed?”
I wait for a reply, but he seems deep in thought, as if he's contemplating some hidden matter.
“You should retire for the night,” he says finally. “I have much to consider. One way or another, this situation cannot continue as it is. I had thought that you would be able to keep your crime hidden, but now it appears your mind is too fragile.” A faint smile crosses his lips. “You surprise me, Catherine. You have many faults, but I never thought that such weakness was one of them. I always felt you to be much stronger.”
“Strong?” I stammer, taking a step back. “I'll show you who's strong! I'll -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that if Charles truly hasn't been plotting against me, the only other explanation is that somehow Matilda Granger has risen from her grave unaided, and is out for revenge.
“Where is the knife?” I whisper.
“Catherine, go to -”
“Where is the knife?” I ask again. “When you buried the body, what did you do with the weapon? Did you bury it with her?”
“Of course not,” he replies. “I believe...” He pauses for a moment, as if this is something that had not occurred to him earlier. “I placed it in the outhouse, so that I could dispose of it at a later date. With so much to do, I have not had time to go back and deal with that matter.”
“Then perhaps...”
My voice trails off as I start to realize what I must do. I must rid myself of that cursed blade.
“Go to bed, Catherine,” Charles says firmly, his voice filled with exhaustion. “Please. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Of course,” I reply, telling myself that I must surely ease his suspicions, so that I might move through the night unnoticed. “I am so terribly sorry about my behavior today. I have been a terrible wife.”
“We shall talk more in the morning.”
“But I just want you to know -”
“I have a headache,” he adds, interrupting me. “Go to sleep, Catherine.” He pauses, before stepping closer and kissing me gently on the cheek. “Everything will be okay,” he whispers. “I promise. I will find a way.”
As I leave the room, I cannot help but feel that I know now what I must do. Charles is a wise and good man, but there are some things only a woman might understand. Making my way through to the kitchen, I hurry out the back door and around to the outhouse, where I find that – true to his word – Charles has left the bloodied knife on a shelf. Taking the weapon in my hand, I examine the blade and see that the blood of Matilda and her unborn child is now caked to the metal. When I try to clean the knife, the blood comes away as little red flakes, and finally I realize that the cleanliness of the foul thing is immaterial.
What matters is that it is hidden from the world forever. Otherwise, I might again see the dead woman leaning over my son's crib.
Hurrying away from the outhouse, I make my way around the side of the main building, intending to go to the forest. After a moment, however, I stop and stare at the dark trees on the far side of the lawn, and I realize that I daren't go so close to the wretched woman's grave. Instead, I slip back into the kitchen and then through to the hallway, resolving to go out the front door so that I might run to the river instead, where -
“Where are you going, murderer?” a voice shrieks suddenly from upstairs, followed by the cries of my little boy.
I freeze for a moment.
That voice was not Matilda's. Rather, it was...
“No,” I whisper. “It cannot be.”
After checking that Charles is still in his study, I make my way cautiously up the main staircase un
til I reach the landing, at which point I head along to the nursery. Reaching the doorway, I stop for a moment and see Jonathan wriggling in his crib, although after a few seconds my dear little boy turns and looks at me. He lets out a few more cries and gurgles, before a frown crosses his face and his features contort into a knot of anger and hatred.
“Where are you going, murderer?” he asks, his voice sounding tight and harsh as it emerges from such a young throat. “I know what you did. How am I ever to love you now?”
“Jonathan, please,” I whisper, stepping closer to the crib. “You are but a newborn infant, you cannot speak.”
“Yet I must tell you how much I hate you,” he replies, “so I have found a way. Murderer!”
“She was going to destroy our family,” I explain as I reach the side of the crib and look down at him. “She carried a usurper in her belly. Can you imagine the shame and misery that would have fallen upon our family, if such a thing had come to pass?”
“You are still a murderer, Mama,” Jonathan gurgles, as he continues to wriggle in his blanket. “And a murderer you shall remain for the rest of your life.”
“No, please -”
“And everyone shall know!”
“Jonathan -”
“Murderer!” he screams suddenly, his voice half the cry of a baby and half the accusing shriek of a demon. “Murderer! Murderer! Mama is a murderer!”
“No!” I shout, reaching down and desperately trying to place a hand over his mouth, only for him to roll away. “Jonathan, stop!”
“Murderer!” he shouts again. “Murderer! Murderer!”
Hauling him up from the crib, I see his grinning face staring back at me.
“Murderer!” he shrieks. “Murderer!”
“Stop!” I yell, starting to shake him in an attempt to make him fall silent. “For the love of God, child, you must hush!”