The Lie Tree

by Frances Hardinge

  ‘Doctor’s fees? On top of everything else?’ Uncle Miles frowned and exhaled. ‘No, Myrtle old girl. I must put my foot down. At this rate you will burn through all our money.’

  ‘Put your foot down?’ Myrtle interrupted sharply. ‘Our money? The money is not yours, Miles. As usual, none of the money spent has been yours.’

  Uncle Miles coloured and frowned. ‘That brings me to something else I wanted to discuss,’ he said.

  There was a thunder-heavy pause. Uncle Miles gave Faith a fleeting glance, and after a moment Myrtle did the same.

  ‘Faith,’ said Myrtle, ‘could you . . .’ She trailed off, and waved one hand wearily.

  ‘I shall go and read my catechism,’ Faith said swiftly, and meekly left the room.

  Listening at a door on a twisting landing always has its perils. Anybody might open their door and emerge. Somebody might arrive from either of the two staircases and discover one kneeling there. It was hard to focus on the sounds beyond the door, and stay alert for approaching steps at the same time.

  Now and then it was worth it, however. Faith bit her lip and gently pressed her ear to the keyhole.

  ‘Myrtle,’ Uncle Miles was saying, ‘you need to consider your position. I know what you have been trying to do all this time – how careful you have been with appearances – and it was a valiant effort, but it has not worked. The cat is out of the bag. What do you intend to tell the inquest if you are called to testify?’

  ‘I shall tell them exactly what I said before,’ answered Myrtle firmly. ‘My dear husband had a very tragic accident.’

  ‘You understand the danger if the truth comes out?’ Uncle Miles cleared his throat. ‘If things . . . come to the worst, I shall do everything I can for you . . . but right now you must follow my advice.’

  ‘What are you advising, Miles?’ asked Myrtle suspiciously.

  ‘You must give me all the money you still have, and as many of Erasmus’s possessions as possible. We will pretend that they were mine all along – or that he gave them to me.’

  ‘I see!’ Myrtle’s voice was icy. ‘So that is where this conversation is twisting!’

  Faith was angry but bewildered. What was the ‘danger’ her uncle was talking about? Why was he demanding all of her father’s possessions?

  ‘It is the only sensible course!’ Uncle Miles sounded tired but kind. ‘You must see that! However much Dr Jacklers admires you, he cannot ignore evidence. Prythe will not lie under oath; he told us as much.’

  ‘No,’ Myrtle said slowly, ‘but you could.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You could testify. You could tell them that you found Erasmus in the dell.’

  ‘You are asking me to perjure myself?’

  ‘You know what is at stake.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘No, Myrtle,’ said Uncle Miles at last. ‘Unless you are willing to do what I have asked . . . I am afraid I cannot bring myself to do what you ask.’ He gave a sigh of infinite abused patience. ‘Well . . . at least let me look after your husband’s live specimens to stop them dying from neglect. I should probably have a glance through his papers as well. I meant to examine them for you yesterday, but could not find them anywhere.’

  Faith tensed, feeling her jaw clench. No! She could not let her uncle take charge of the Lie Tree or her precious snake! And the journal and vision sketches must never be seen by anyone but herself. In fact, it hurt to think of handing over any of her father’s papers. They were a genie bottle, holding her father’s thoughts, voice and secrets, and they were hers. She was their guardian.

  ‘Miles.’ Myrtle’s voice was knife-sharp. ‘Why are you suddenly so interested in Erasmus’s papers and specimens? You cannot abide responsibility – it brings you out in a rash. When did you become so eager to trudge through paperwork and adopt an incontinent wombat?’

  ‘Well . . . the flora and fauna need the right treatment, and there might be important matters among the papers requiring immediate action! Debts. Assets. Deeds. Obligations. Appointments, or . . . or even a will.’

  ‘Have you become a zookeeper and a lawyer since breakfast?’ asked Myrtle.

  ‘Myrtle, this is childish!’ Uncle Miles’s voice was uncharacteristically agitated. ‘You and I both know that you have no chance whatsoever of making sense of Erasmus’s papers! You must let me look at them!’

  ‘Where were you all day?’ Myrtle’s voice now had a hard edge of suspicion. ‘You cannot have spent six hours being turned down by the magistrate. Who else did you speak with? What have you heard? Miles, I know you.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You are . . . not thinking straight, Myrtle.’ Uncle Miles sounded calmer, but as if his calmness was costing him effort. ‘It is . . . my fault. I should not have raised these subjects when your nerves were overwrought—’

  ‘Oh, do not speak to me that way!’ spat Myrtle. ‘I am not nervous, Miles! I am not overwrought! And I am not surrendering, not yet! I shall stay on Vane and fight until Erasmus is respectably buried—’

  ‘How?’ asked Uncle Miles, his tone hardening. ‘How will you stay here? How much money do you have left in Vane? How soon will you have to pay rent on the house, and the servants’ wages? How long before we cannot order food for the household?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I thought as much.’ Uncle Miles’s chair creaked as he stood. ‘Think about passing Erasmus’s effects over to me, Myrtle. I know you will do the sensible thing in the end. But do not leave it too long.’

  Faith heard her uncle’s chair scrape, and left her place by the door, scampering back to her room.

  For a moment she wished that she could un-hear the conversation. She did not fully understand it, but the whole thing sounded ominous, like a squabble between conspirators. She had dug down and broken into yet another vein of secrets.

  Faith had barely returned to her own room when she received a summons to her mother’s chamber.

  ‘Faith, close the door behind you and sit down. Tell me – are your father’s papers somewhere safe?’

  It was the phrasing that undid Faith. Not ‘Did you hide the papers?’ but ‘Did you hide them well?’

  Rapidly she weighed her options. She could deny all knowledge of the papers’ whereabouts, but Myrtle knew that they had vanished while Faith was alone with them. If Faith’s room was searched in good earnest, the papers might be found in the snake cage.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seemed the best—’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Myrtle cut her short. ‘Good girl. Will you fetch them for me, please?’

  No. Never.

  ‘I . . .’ Faith fought to keep her face placid as her mind raced. ‘I can bring them to you . . . but a lot of them are in Greek, or written in the codes Father used for his notes. I can translate them, but it is not easy—’

  ‘Oh, save us! Greek?’ Myrtle gave a little groan and a despairing shudder. ‘That is no use then. You will have to read them for me. Let me know what you discover. And let nobody know that you have them. Your uncle will probably ask after them – tell him nothing without my permission.’

  ‘What does he want with them?’ enquired Faith, glad of the chance to ask the question.

  ‘I do not know,’ answered Myrtle, ‘but I know my brother. He has excellent qualities, but in his dear, gentle way he is always looking to gain as much as he can, for as little effort as possible.’

  Faith took a moment, trying to align this description with her cheerful, mild-tempered uncle. After her latest bout of eavesdropping, this was easier than it had been.

  ‘Did you see any papers that might be worth money?’ Myrtle asked abruptly. ‘A letter of credit, a will, an IOU or anything of that sort?’

  ‘No.’ Faith watched her mother, marvelling at her matter-of-factness.

  ‘If your uncle is interested, there must be something valuable.’ Myrtle bit her lip acquisitively. When Faith left the room, Myrtle was twisting the rings on he
r fingers and looking speculatively towards the fashion plates resting on her counterpane. Faith wondered what would have happened if Myrtle had claimed the paperwork, and whether she would already have sold off the Lie Tree to buy more dresses.

  A poisonous realization crept unbidden into Faith’s mind. A wife always had to go begging to her husband for housekeeping money, but a widow could spend her inheritance however she pleased. The Reverend’s death had left Myrtle in control of real money for the very first time.

  As she lay awake that night, Faith tried to fit all the pieces together. She had so little time! There could be an inquest any day, and when the family’s purse was empty the Sunderlys would have to leave Vane. Faith had hoped to investigate subtly and let the fruit of the Lie Tree ripen and swell over weeks. Now there could be no long plans, no slow and safe stratagems.

  A short, sharp shriek from above her head jolted her from her thoughts. It took her a moment or two to remember the cat skull in Jeanne’s bed. Floorboards creaked above, and she could hear somebody going into high-pitched hysterics, and then other indistinct voices, lower-pitched and soothing.

  Faith felt neither triumph nor guilt. The darkness was lonely, and time was running out. She thought of the Lie Tree in its roaring cave, and oddly this made her feel a little less alone.

  As sleep cradled her, she imagined her lie spreading silently like dark green smoke, filling the air around the house like a haze, spilling from the mouths of those who whispered and wondered and feared. She imagined it soaking like mist into waiting leaves, seeping like sap down gnarled, slender stems and forcing itself out into a small, white spearhead of a bud.

  CHAPTER 19:

  GENTLEMEN CALLERS

  Dr Jacklers was invited to call at twelve. He arrived at ten, throwing the house into confusion.

  When Mrs Vellet came in to report his arrival, Myrtle was in the drawing room, and the dressmaker had just pinned her into a new dress to check the fit. She was not, in short, ready to play the poignant invalid.

  ‘Of all the people I cannot afford to offend!’ Myrtle was flustered beyond measure. ‘Tell the doctor that I am dressing and that I will be with him shortly. Put him in the library. It has skulls – he will like that. Offer him some tea.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ Mrs Vellet answered carefully, ‘but he says he has arrived early on official business. He begs your permission to make a view of the grounds, ma’am.’

  Myrtle turned pale and spent a moment chewing her lip.

  ‘We cannot very well deny him,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Put Prythe at the doctor’s disposal.’

  ‘And what shall I do with the young Master Clay?’ asked Mrs Vellet blandly.

  ‘Master Clay?’ Myrtle’s eyes widened. ‘Is he here too?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. He arrived at the same time as the doctor’s carriage. He has come to deliver a photograph, and . . . several large bunches of flowers, ma’am.’

  ‘Flowers,’ breathed Myrtle. Her pink, pretty countenance flitted butterfly-like between satisfaction, anxiety and cool calculation. ‘We cannot afford to offend the Clays either,’ she murmured. ‘Make Master Clay comfortable in the conservatory – with some crumpets or cake.’

  Faith was barely listening. Dr Jacklers was at the house investigating the Reverend’s death. This might be her only chance to talk to him and persuade him that her father had been murdered.

  Talking to Dr Jacklers would be a betrayal, of course. She would be destroying the family’s story. Myrtle would be furious. Perhaps she would be more than furious.

  You understand the danger if the truth comes out, Uncle Miles had said.

  Faith did not understand the danger, but remembering his words she felt a sudden qualm. Perhaps telling the truth really would bring trouble on the family. But how could she let such an opportunity slip through her fingers? She owed it to her father to try.

  Faith found the doctor in the grounds, walking in the direction of the cliff-path.

  ‘Ah, I am sorry that you should come upon me like this, Miss Sunderly . . . I am about my duties, I fear.’ He drew a folded paper from his inner pocket, opened it and held it out to show its big red wax seal.

  . . . as magistrate of the county of Vane do require and permit that Doctor Noah Jacklers shall be called upon as coroner in the inquest of the Reverend Erasmus Sunderly . . .

  It had been signed at the bottom by Lambent. His handwriting and signature were large, swooping and chaotic, a lot like the man himself.

  ‘Do you understand the meaning of the word “coroner”?’ asked Dr Jacklers, and smiled when Faith nodded. ‘Good, good. Now, usually a coroner would call in a medical expert, but, ah, since I am the only medical expert on the island, I must call in myself.’ He chuckled briefly.

  Faith thought that it must be very relaxing being Dr Jacklers, deaf to the crunch of other people’s feelings beneath his well-intentioned boots.

  ‘And so, you see, I must take a look around the grounds.’

  ‘Please let me come with you!’ Faith said quickly. ‘I want to speak with you. There is something you need to know.’

  The doctor gave a puzzled frown, but followed it with a small bow of consent.

  They walked away from the house, Faith fearing all the while that Myrtle might notice her from the window and call her back to the house.

  She could not help observing that the doctor was dressed rather well. He wore a blue velvet waistcoat criss-crossed with gold thread, his moustache had been carefully trimmed and waxed, and a gold pin glittered in his cravat. There was a self-conscious eagerness in his manner that grated on her.

  She remembered her mother standing close to the doctor and grasping his bare hand, and something twisted sharply in her gut, like the neck of a chicken being wrung. She could have felt sorry for him, if her father was not still lying in the church crypt. Wooing a widow before she was out of mourning was bad form. Beginning a courtship before her husband was even in the ground was sickening.

  ‘What was it you wanted to say?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘I was walking in the dell yesterday.’ Faith took the plunge. ‘Doctor, there is a place where the moss is scuffed—’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ The doctor gave her a look filled with patience and sad mirth. ‘I am sure there is. What a dear, loyal young woman you are!’

  It took Faith a moment to realize what he meant, and then the blood rushed to her face.

  ‘No, there really is such a place, and not of my making! Please! Let me show you!’

  However, the doctor only gave her a sad, kind look, and continued walking in the direction of the cliff-path. When she caught up with him, he was standing at the very edge, staring down like a stocky hawk contemplating a stoop.

  ‘That tree halfway down – split, and showing white wood,’ he murmured. ‘That is a fresh break.’

  ‘Sir – did you see this wheel mark?’ Faith pointed to what was left of the wheelbarrow rut, now sadly softened with rain.

  Dr Jacklers gave it only the briefest glance. ‘Oh, that is a mark left by the edge of somebody’s boot. There are doubtless a hundred such, now that everybody has been tramping to and fro.’

  It was a blow, but Faith did not choose to be discouraged.

  ‘Tell me, Dr Jacklers, could somebody survive that fall if that tree below caught them?’

  ‘I suppose so . . . yes. Though they would be lucky to escape without broken bones.’

  ‘Then . . . if Father jumped, why do so above that tree?’ Faith moved towards the brink, two yards to the doctor’s left. ‘I would have leaped here.’

  ‘Miss Sunderly, you are too close to the edge!’

  ‘There is a clear drop here, down to the rocks,’ said Faith. ‘Nothing would catch me if I fell.’

  There was a sudden gust of wind, and the doctor lunged for Faith, catching at her arm. She recoiled, and for a moment was off balance, the hungry grey void gaping and roaring as she tipped towards it. Then her slithering boots found their f
ooting again. She drew back a step from the precipice. She could not say for certain whether the doctor’s clutch had steadied or unbalanced her.

  Faith felt no fear, but the doctor’s eyes were full of it. They were the colour of good coffee, and puckered at the corners from reading. He flinched, as if somebody had shone a bright light directly into his gaze. And for a moment, just for a moment, it was as if he could see her properly.

  Then he blinked, and let go of her wrist. She could see his workaday thoughts swing back into place like a curtain.

  ‘You see, that is why you should be careful and pay attention,’ he said briskly, but not quite chidingly. ‘A slight young thing like you could be carried away by the wind, and then where would we be?’

  I am flesh and blood, not a fairy. I would break and bleed just like you.

  ‘I can see,’ continued the doctor, with what was probably meant as gentleness, ‘that you do not wish to believe that your father ended his own life.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that he would do so,’ Faith answered, ‘and impossible to believe that he would do so clumsily.’

  ‘Then what is your explanation?’

  ‘You said that you found bumps on the back of my father’s head as well as the front. Could he have been struck from behind, and fallen forward?’

  ‘Ah. So that is the measure of it.’ The doctor sighed, and gave her a sad little smile. ‘Miss Sunderly, do you know the coroner’s worst enemy? Novels. You are a keen novel-reader, yes? I know that shy, dreaming look.’

  For a tiny instant Faith wondered whether it would benefit the doctor’s investigation if he experienced a cliff fall first-hand.

  ‘I quite understand the appeal,’ the doctor went on indulgently. ‘Why suffer dull reality when you might have kidnaps, murders, family secrets and hidden passages aplenty, eh? And so you young ladies come to the coroners with your heads full of fantasies and phantasms, overheated notions and wild suspicions—’

  ‘I am surprised they all fit into our little female skulls,’ Faith responded a little tartly. She saw the doctor blanch, but pushed on earnestly. ‘Father was hated on Vane from the start. The day he died, a letter—’