by S. D. Sykes
I wanted to confront them about this secret they spoke of, and why they felt it necessary to whisper their conversations, when a more thoughtful plan occurred to me.To bide my time. The girls had made stubbornness and secrecy their coat of armour, and I might never be able to pierce the thick metal of their lies. Especially in this place, where they enjoyed some protection from their aunt.
So I will not report here on our conversation in the parlour that morning, since the girls dutifully nodded and curtsied to each of my suggestions and assurances about their life back in Somershill, whilst promising upon the Virgin’s heart to wash their faces, comb their hair and show respect to their stepmother Clemence upon their return.
After this, I kept an eye on them both – sometimes following them, sometimes listening at their door. They mentioned the secret again on a few occasions, but I was never able to glean any further information. I was still deciding whether or not to confront them openly, when another lead weight was added to the net that was closing about them.
On the fourth morning of our stay in London, Mother called me from her bedchamber with screaming that was so desperate and penetrating, it had disturbed the whole house. As I ran to discover the problem, I passed the haughty servant on the stairs. He was descending from Mother’s room with his hands over his ears and made no attempt to stand out of my way. I pushed past him to open the door to the bedchamber, finding Mother searching about the floor in her nightdress. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, and she had hitched up the skirts of her gown to reveal legs so luminously white they might almost have belonged to a corpse.
‘What’s the matter, Mother?’ I could see she was genuinely agitated, so I took one of her hands and tried to grab the other, though she struggled against me like a feral cat.The shutters were wide open, and a cruel wind blew into the room.
She squinted and focussed her eyes, before my face made sense to her. Then she fell against my chest. ‘Oh Oswald. Thank the Lord. I thought it was that awful servant again.’
I patted her head, which was hot. Her hair was damp. ‘Mother? What is it? What’s the matter?”
She was shaking. ‘I had the most horrible vision, Oswald. A vile bird was sitting on the windowsill. So enormous it cut out the light.’
‘You just had a bad dream, Mother.’
I spoke calmly, but she was not reassured. ‘No, no, Oswald. It was there, on the windowsill. It was the butcher bird, Oswald. And it was hungry.’ Then she began her frantic search once more. ‘Where is Hector? Where’s my little boy?’ Then she stood up straight and pointed her finger at me. ‘You see. He’s gone. The butcher bird has eaten him.’
I let go of her hand and went to close the shutters, but when I turned around Mother was lifting the mattress from her bed, as if her small dog might be hiding amongst the feathers.
It was the most unfortunate timing, but Eloise’s pompous servant chose this exact moment to reappear at the door. His hands were now removed from his ears and held politely at his side. ‘Does the mattress need turning, my lady?’
‘No it doesn’t,’ I told him.
He looked at Mother and then at me. ‘Very well, my lord. If you are sure.’
‘Yes I am.’ I pushed him from the room and then slammed the door so hard in his face that the wooden panelling of the wall shook with the impact.
Mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Where is Hector?’ she cried. ‘Where is my little dog?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure he is safe.’
Helping Mother back into bed, I covered her gently with the sheet. ‘I’ll look for him now. He’s sure to be somewhere about the house.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her eyes were shutting.
‘He’s probably in the kitchen, begging for some food.’
A small tear trickled down her cheek. ‘Will you find him, Oswald? Bring him back to me.’
I stroked the hair away from her forehead. ‘I will, Mother. Of course.’
The kitchen at the Cooper household was smaller and yet more frenzied than our own in Somershill. Low beams criss-crossed the chamber, lengths of oak that often caused the cook, and his many assistants, to hit their heads as they moved about the room. As I entered the chamber they were boiling a set of hooves in two vast cauldrons. The smell was peculiar and tangy. Steam hung in the air.
‘Have you seen a small dog in here?’ I said, to nobody in particular. ‘It belongs to Lady Somershill.’
The haughty servant appeared through the haze. ‘No, my lord. We do not allow dogs in our kitchen.’
I ignored his insinuation. ‘Have you seen the dog anywhere else?’
Now he pretended to be thinking, though I knew it was an act. He stroked his chin in the most provocative fashion. ‘No, my lord. The last time I saw the dog, he was in your mother’s bed.’ At this comment he raised his eyebrows to display his contempt at such a practice. Some of the others in the room looked ready to laugh.
‘I want you to organise a search of the house,’ I said.
The man sighed.
‘Immediately!’
He bowed. The weight of his large, superior nose pulling his face forward to the floor. ‘Very well.’
While servants peered under benches, or lifted back cabinets from the wall, I decided to question the de Caburn sisters, to see if they had hidden Mother’s dog, or even just commissioned him into a game. The dog was fond of the girls, despite the teasing he endured at their hands, and it was possible he had run after them into the fields at the back of the house. God knows, it must have been boring enough for Mother’s dog, just sitting on his mistress’s lap all day and waiting for the rare chance to lick her face.
The morning was damp, and as I tramped through the long grass of the field, the dew stained my hose with its watery and unwelcome paint. Apple blossom coated the trees in white papery stars, and soft green lichen wrapped itself about the trunks and branches. These trees were unpruned, with stems grown too long for easy harvesting – but it was too late in the season to attend to this problem. In fact, the whole orchard was a neglected, forgotten place, despite belonging to Westminster Abbey. In one corner was a large pile of timber, freshly sawn and stacked. And then I knew the future for this square of land was not as a garden, but rather as a building site. It was no wonder that the trees had been left to grow, untamed.
Somewhere in the distance, a group of birds were making their alarm call. A constant and tuneless refrain, which caused me to wonder if a cat or even a fox might be prowling this same field. I stepped forward silently – a tumbledown byre by the far hedge was my destination. It was an obvious hidey-hole and, surely enough, when I reached its rotting beams and peeped through a hole in the boards, I saw the sisters, huddled into a corner of the barn. About them were broken stalls, lengths of sawn wood and an old grinding wheel – its great circular stone leaning from its frame at an awkward angle.
I watched a while, as Mary and Rebecca sat there in silence. It was an odd and unnerving stillness. Why didn’t they speak to each other? I shifted my position slightly, to see that Becky clasped a tiny rabbit in her hands. She lifted its grey and silky head to her lips and kissed it between the ears. The rabbit struggled a little, but could not free itself from the girl’s tight and zealous grip.
Becky turned to her older sister Mary. ‘Please let me keep him,’ she pleaded, kissing the rabbit’s head a second time. ‘Please.’ Was this the secret they spoke of?
Mary refused to look at her. ‘We can’t keep him. I told you that before.’
A tear was welling in Becky’s eye. ‘But I can hide him in a box when we go back to Somershill. He’ll be a good boy.You can find something else.’ She clasped the rabbit even tighter, causing the terrified creature to thump its legs against her chest. ‘Please.’
‘No I can’t, Becky. They’re too watchful in this kitchen. Just give him to me.’
Becky clambered up onto her feet. ‘No. You can’t have him.’ She attempted to dodge Mary, but almost immediately lost
her footing and dropped the rabbit onto the muddy floor. Both sisters gave chase, as the creature tried to escape the byre, but it was Mary’s superior strength and speed that soon cornered the rabbit by a dilapidated stall. With the speed of a sparrowhawk, Mary grasped the animal by its leg and then held it up by its ears.
Becky squealed. ‘Give him back. Give Baby back.’ But Mary was not moved in the least by the tears of her little sister. Instead she swung the rabbit behind her head and then cast it soundly against the stone of the grinding wheel. The creature was stunned, if not dead, following this assault, but Mary had not finished. Now she took a knife from her belt and then stabbed the rabbit at the neck. As blood spurted profusely, Mary continued to cut at its limp body, until her hands were bathed in a crimson rinse.
I’ve seen a rabbit killed before, of course I have. But never by an eleven-year-old girl. It was a vile, horrific sight. But worse than this slaughter, was the expression upon Mary’s face. Or should I say, the lack of one.
I broke my silence and sped into the byre. ‘What are you doing?’ Mary looked up – her stupor broken by my unexpected appearance. Now released from her cold and murderous trance, she regarded her bloody hands and screamed. I tried to calm the girl, but she was frantic. Soon her sister joined in, as if the emotion were contagious.
It was only when Eloise appeared at the door that the girls ceased their shrieking. ‘What’s going on? Why all this shouting?’ Then Eloise saw my face. ‘Oswald?’ she said tentatively. ‘You’re here?’
‘Mary has just killed a rabbit,’ I said. ‘I saw the whole episode.’
Eloise frowned. ‘A rabbit?’
‘It was Becky’s pet rabbit,’ I said. ‘I saw Mary stab it to death with her knife. I don’t know why she did it.’
Mary spoke up. ‘It wasn’t Becky’s pet rabbit. That’s not true.’
Becky wailed at this. ‘But I loved him. Why did you have to kill Baby? Why?’
By way of answer, Mary went to slap her sister about the face, so I grasped the girl by her arm. ‘How could you do something so cruel, Mary? What’s the matter with you?’
‘He had to die,’ was her answer.
‘No he didn’t. You just did it for your own enjoyment.’
She struggled and tried to punch at me with her other arm. ‘I had to kill the rabbit because . . .’ Then she stopped still. Her mouth was firmly and absolutely shut, and she wouldn’t say another word.
‘Because what?’ I asked. ‘Come on.Tell us why. Let us understand your reasons.’ Mary only stared at the floor with a dose of her most sullen and belligerent hostility.
Eloise laid a hand on my shoulder and spoke softly into my ear. ‘Don’t be too hard on Mary. It’s just a rabbit. There are hundreds of them about this field. We can find another for Becky.’
‘You didn’t see it happen.’ I let go of the girl’s arm. ‘You didn’t see Mary’s face when she killed the animal.’
Eloise only sighed. ‘But it was just a rabbit.’
It wasn’t just a rabbit.That much was obvious. Becky now held the dead creature to her chest, though its blood was seeping into her gown. ‘Mary wanted to feed Baby to Rab.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Didn’t you?’ she said, bitterly.
I looked to Eloise, but she merely shrugged her shoulders.
Mary hissed, ‘Shut up, Becky! ‘
‘Who’s Rab?’ I asked. Again silence. ‘God’s nails, Mary. Who, or what, is Rab?’
Mary waited a few moments and then tramped over to a dark corner of the byre, where some lengths of timber were stacked against the bowing walls. We followed the girl to find a fishy, sawdusty smell. But there was something more stinking than wood shavings here. It was the meaty stench of death. And though it was still early spring, a solitary fly circled the area, buzzing about the chamber like a winged devil. When it landed upon my arm, I smacked the filthy thing away.
Mary turned to me. ‘Sure you want to see Rab?’
I nodded.
She removed the planks from their organised formation, revealing their true function – as a rudimentary cage. With three planks gone, Mary stood to one side and pointed into the darkness. ‘Rab.’ The smell had increased to such a strength that my eyes watered.
I looked to Eloise, took a deep breath, and then peered into this strange, black hollow to see something lurking below. I don’t know what I expected to see, but it was not this. A creature held its head up to the light. A giant, decrepit thing with scaly yellow claws and a breast pecked clear of feathers. A leather hood covered its head and eyes, and jesses hung from its feathered legs. The floor beneath its perch was littered with bones and a small mountain of its own feathers and droppings.
I quickly stepped back, with my hand over my nose. ‘Where did you get this bird?’ I asked.
Mary poked out her chin with defiance. ‘Father.’
‘He gave such a bird to you?’
She looked away. Awkwardly. ‘No. We saved Rab.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Didn’t we Becky?’ Rebecca nodded.
My heartbeat quickened. ‘What sort of bird is it? I’ve never seen such a large beast.’
‘Father bought him from the best hawk dealer in London,’ said Mary. ‘He said Rab came from the land of the Berbers.’ She seemed sadder now. ‘But he was no good for hunting.That’s what Father said, anyway. He was going to kill him. So we hid Rab in the forest.’
Becky tugged at my cape. ‘I wanted to tell you about Rab, Uncle. I did. I did. But Mary wouldn’t let me.’
I dropped my fingers from my nose, as a dread descended. ‘You brought this bird to Somershill, didn’t you? It was in the box you said contained the cat.’
Becky nodded.
‘And how did you get such a bird to London?’
Mary smiled. I would say slyly. ‘He sat upon my arm, of course.’
I looked back into the hole, where the tattered and squalid bird sat upon its nibbled perch. ‘He’s far too heavy for you to carry.’
She shook her head, but I didn’t believe her.
Eloise clasped her hands together. ‘I think we should drop this matter now, Oswald. The mystery is solved. Let’s go back to the house.’
I looked at Eloise with some surprise. ‘I need to ask the girls some more questions.’
She raised an eyebrow, somewhat petulantly. ‘If you think that’s really necessary.’
‘I do.’ I turned back to Mary, to catch the girl exchanging worried glances with her sister. ‘Why did you kill Becky’s rabbit, Mary?You could have fed this bird scraps from the kitchen.’
Mary paused a little. The sly smile returned. ‘He won’t eat anything from this kitchen.’
‘Why not? A bird won’t starve himself.’
‘He doesn’t like French food.’
I rolled my eyes at this stupidity. ‘He ate enough food from my kitchen, didn’t he?’ Now she wouldn’t answer.
‘Do you fly him?’ I asked. ‘He has jesses on his legs?’
‘They’ve been there since Father kept him,’ she said sullenly. Becky interrupted. ‘Sometimes we fly him, don’t we Mary. But he catches things.’
Mary turned on her sister. ‘Shut up Becky!’
I turned to Becky myself. ‘What sort of things?’ The girl only chewed her lip, so I raised my voice. ‘Tell me what this creature catches.’
Becky trembled. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it lambs?’
Patches of red coloured her cheeks. ‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘Did it take my mother’s dog?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or did it steal a newborn baby from its crib? And leave her in a bush of thorns?’
The girl began to cry. ‘No. No. Rab would never do that.’
‘How do you know, Becky? See the size of him.’ I pointed into the dark corner where this enormous, evil-smelling bird sat upon his perch, looking like a great stone lectern.
I will admit this. I went to shake the girl. Suddenly a hand was on my arm, digging its ha
rd nails into my flesh. But they were not Mary’s fingers, instead they were Eloise’s. ‘That’s enough,’ she said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘I need to know if this bird has been attacking children.’
Eloise dug her nails in harder. ‘How dare you accuse my nieces of having anything to do with such a crime? They were simply caring for an injured bird.’
I dropped Becky’s arm and turned to Eloise. ‘Look at it. This is no poor injured sparrow.’ The bird cocked its head obligingly as if it were listening to our conversation, before letting out a loud whistle. It was no wonder that the girls had kept it away from the house.
Eloise released her fingers and patted her face. ‘It’s just a large falcon, which used to belong to my brother. I can’t see what all the fuss is about.’
I put my hands over my eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what the fuss is about. All this time I’ve discounted the possibility of an actual butcher bird. But now I find the creature exists. In the midst of my very own family.’
‘Nonsense.’
I removed my hands. ‘People have seen it, Eloise.’
‘What people?’
‘In my village. I kept hearing reports of a bird taking livestock. I dismissed such stories, since no normal bird can take something as large as a lamb. But I was wrong.’
She pushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘The bird might have taken the odd lamb or rabbit. But that doesn’t mean it attacked an infant.’
I turned to Becky. ‘You travelled past Hever, didn’t you? And then through Caterham.’
Mary pressed herself between us. ‘Don’t say anything to him, Becky.’
But Becky was still too angry with her sister to be obedient. ‘I don’t know which way we came, Uncle. I just followed them.’
‘Them? Who is them?’
Mary’s eye twitched. ‘She means me and Rab.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Don’t you, Becky!’ Becky was losing her nerve. I could see that. I needed to act quickly, if I were to get to the truth.
‘I stopped at an inn in the hills above Caterham, where your bird had attacked a child,’ I said. ‘Did you know that?’ Becky trembled. ‘The victim was a small, sickly baby who was being carried on his mother’s back.’