The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  I backed out of the shed. Yet again, his ability to come and go had thwarted my attempt at interrogation. Perhaps I unfairly wanted his attention when it suited me. I’d have to wait to reveal the contents of the box to him. Nevertheless, the momentum of my enthusiasm wouldn’t be abated. I returned to the house and grabbed my handbag and car keys. The churchyard beckoned.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Little Knottisham parish church, St Cuthbert’s, hid itself in a copse on the outskirts of the village. Built using flintstone, and possessing unstained windows – probably not the original ones – and a small tower, the narrow church was penned in by its cemetery and surrounding walls. I parked my car on the lane outside and strode up to the porch abutting the nave.

  The door was locked. I rattled the latch several times half expecting it to spring open. According to the notices pinned to the board in the porch, the church spent much of its time locked. The congregation had shrunk and shared its vicar with a neighbouring village.

  I weaved between the headstones in an arbitrary fashion. The sun edged out from behind a cloud and the recently mowed grass shimmered with slippery wetness. A few surnames etched on the headstones matched the names of the locals I’d met during my time in the village, including the Pykes, whose family occupied one corner plot. Passing one headstone, which stood lopsided, I spotted an even more familiar name: MARSTERS. Crouching on my toes, I traced the carved lettering, which had been obscured by lichen and moss. I wished I’d brought paper and chalk since rubbing over the gravestone might have made it easier to read. Picking away at the white fungus I revealed the name:

  JAMES MARSTERS

  Chiselled in copperplate style numbers, his birth year – 1844. He had died in 1890. A distant ancestor of mine, but whether a cousin or of direct lineage, I didn’t know. My knowledge of my family ceased with Hubert. James’ wife, Georgina, passed away in the early part of the twentieth century and she lay with him.

  Next to James’ grave, a fresher one stood, with a headstone made out of polished marble. The names on this grave were much clearer:

  Lt Col. RUPERT MARSTERS

  and his beloved wife

  OLIVIA.

  Born in 1846, he’d lived to a good age, dying in 1934, whereas she had succumbed earlier in 1913 at the age of 65. Rupert Marsters was the man who purchased Heachley Hall, according to the article in Felicity’s Chindi box, and James was probably his older brother. Although these men must have had strong connections to India, they’d both been buried here in Little Knottisham.

  The third grave, which had a larger more ornate headstone, revealed its occupant to be Frederick Marsters, born in 1868 and died in 1933, the year before Rupert. Potentially a son of either Rupert or James. The wording of ‘beloved husband and father’, implied a wife, but she hadn’t shared Frederick’s grave. Hubert – probably the offspring of Frederick – had inherited Heachley before the Second World War and leased it out. All of these men could have lived at the Hall at one time or another.

  I touched each gravestone in turn and tried to make some connection to my family. Hubert had been buried in India, so I’d no grave to visit for him. John Marsters, my grandfather, rested in a London cemetery. Felicity, cremated in Norwich, my mother likewise in Colchester, and my father’s ashes had been scattered on a Greek island with his lover. Only one other Marsters – Mary, my mentally fractured grandmother – had been buried and she lay next to John, squeezed into his grave. Her only dying wish was to be with her husband. My attempt at sensing a connection, some kind of energy conduit between me and my deceased ancestors didn’t happen. I smirked. What did I expect? I’d known nothing about them, nor cared to until Felicity’s will brought me here.

  I streamed a thin puff of air through my lips creating a long sigh, while behind me a shadow, caused by the sun, disappearing behind a cloud, stretched across the graveyard, dimming each headstone in turn. The sun’s shrinking rays lit up a final headstone before vanishing.

  Tilted backwards, almost toppling over and a few feet behind James’s grave, stood an isolated stone cross. Approaching the small memorial, I squinted, struggling to read the name. Only when I knelt close enough to touch it, and skate my fingers along the first few letters, did I realise who lay buried at my feet: Nuri Sully. Her birthday unknown, but her death was marked as 26 January 1873. The same day the fire ravished Heachley Hall and killed Christopher Isaacks. Below her name, in smaller letters, a reference to a daughter – her stillborn offspring.

  For several minutes I crouched, gazing at the name, trying to assimilate its significance. The blustery wind swept around me, rustling the yew trees, which lined the graveyard and hid the outer wall. The evergreens’ discarded thin leaves littered the ground, killing off the grass and leaving it muddy and bare. It was into this harsh ground that Nuri Sully had been interned, unlike the Marsters family members, who were surrounded by lush grass. For a woman described as destitute, she’d been given a burial and headstone, something she’d perhaps not anticipated as she lay dying in the workhouse. However, the grave’s solitary position smacked of necessity, almost an obligation on the part of the benefactor who’d paid for it, rather than love or kindness.

  Perhaps, my trip to the church had not been fruitless. I’d discovered a link and not to my relatives: Christopher Isaacks and Nuri Sully had died on the same day. What this new discovery signified, I didn’t know.

  ·•●•·

  A handwritten note had been stuffed through the letterbox during my absence. Resting on the doormat, I nearly trampled on the folded piece of mud-splattered paper. In a chaotic scrawl, Tony informed me that tomorrow the weather would be dry and he would arrive early in the morning to mow the lawns and cut back the jungle of hawthorn hedgerows.

  I checked the time – the school day had finished – and I dialled Ruth’s home number. I itched to tell her about Maggie, the box and the graveyard visit.

  She listened attentively, prompting me when I rambled on and skipped over some salient point. I drew breath and waited for her verdict.

  ‘So-oo,’ she drawled, ‘this box mainly contained photographs of India and her parents. Basically, nostalgic stuff.’

  My shoulders slowly drooped as I exhaled. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill your excitement, sweetie, but the rest was buried at the bottom.’

  ‘Meaning?’ I pressed my fingers into my temple, the familiar ache immediately returned.

  ‘Just…’

  ‘Go on,’ I urged.

  ‘She missed India more than anything. What you found, those few newspaper articles, sounds like half-baked research. Like she started something then gave up. One trip to the churchyard and you’ve confirmed there’s a Nuri Sully and she died the same day as the fire. Yet, Felicity, it appears, didn’t do any further research.’

  ‘Maggie said she’d gone to the archives.’ The librarian in Hunstanton had recommended the same course of action to me.

  ‘But when? It couldn’t have been in recent years because she was too old and infirm. So she had an interest in this woman and the fire, but never followed it through and forgot—’

  ‘But she took the box with her to hospital—’

  Ruth cut back swiftly. ‘She asked for a box which contained photographs of her mother and father. A distinctive box that Liz easily could identify and find. If Liz had peeked inside it, she saw things of no importance, and it’s probably why nobody cared about it. If there were scandalous things in it, do you think Liz would have forgotten and shrugged off this box – the nursing home, too? They would have recognised documents of legal importance, like another will, and acted on them. If there was anything else Felicity had held on to, she left it behind at Heachley and never asked for it. It’s all gone, and probably burnt by the clearance guys. Sorry.’ She’d softened her tone at the end, aware of the significance of what she was saying. This was it: there were no more secrets.

  I groaned in frustration. Ruth had easily dismissed my dis
covery as insignificant. ‘Maggie alluded to something,’ I ventured.

  ‘She’d probably done what you’ve done. Focused on those few documents, which for a ghost hunter is great fodder. The fact is, and I’m sorry to burst your bubble of excitement, they were like leftovers, forgotten things. Felicity simply wanted the picture of her parents. The rest she couldn’t be bothered with.’

  ‘Why?’ I snapped at the wall right by my nose.

  ‘Because it’s a coincidence,’ Ruth said gently. ‘A woman dying in a workhouse and a fire on the same day? It’s local history and nothing sinister.’

  I huffed. Ruth couldn’t see my scowl, but she’d hear my grumpy tone. With relative ease, she’d deflated all my discoveries into little consequence. There was nothing to explain Felicity’s plans for Heachley, nor Maggie’s suspicions of a ghost, other than a man dying in a house fire, nor was there anything a solicitor would find of value.

  ‘Drat,’ I muttered.

  ‘You’ve been expecting so much from this—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I didn’t want a told you so, not that Ruth would present it in such a demeaning fashion, but it sure felt like one.

  ‘Look. It’s Easter soon and I promise to visit for a few days. Without Mick.’

  I cringed in shame at her suggestion. Ruth had noted my reaction to their constant displays of affection.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to leave him behind,’ I piped up.

  She snorted. ‘Don’t be daft. We both know what you need. We’ll get drunk, eat calorific cakes and burn more stuff in the garden. How about that?’

  I gabbled, relieved and overwhelmed. ‘Yes, thank you. That’s kind of you. I’m sorry. I’m sulking.’

  ‘Nonsense! How’s my clown?’

  Work – the distraction I depended upon. ‘Good, but I’m scrapping the juggler. He looked like an octopus.’

  ‘If you’re not happy with it, that’s fine by me.’

  ‘I’ll come up with something else, I promise. I’m low on inspiration at the moment.’

  We drifted into talking about the book. Her story, which was pitched at helping children adapt to starting school, was about a circus school. Each act, from clowns to jugglers, trapeze artists to acrobats, had a tale to tell about enjoying school.

  My black mood lifted. Tomorrow the garden would have its facelift and soon I would pass the halfway point – six months. The more I focused on tidying up the garden, the less the house would interfere. No more wondering about dust blowing about the rooms. If there was a ghost, he – assuming Maggie’s theory was the reason for the anomalies – could haunt away. I didn’t care.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The tractor’s rude engine woke me. An unfriendly rumble that ricocheted its way into my twisted dreams, displacing the image of a misty graveyard haunted by octopus jugglers with the bland walls of the attic. Squinting in the dimness I located the fluorescent glow of the alarm clock: seven o’clock! I scrambled out of bed, flung on some clothes and careered downstairs.

  Tony had made a start on the front lawn. The tractor dragged behind its wheels a large spinning attachment and a vast bucket. My fears about the cuttings lying strewn across the newly mowed grass were unfounded; the cutter incorporated a collector bin.

  When Tony spotted me waving by the front door he halted his sweep and cut the engine.

  ‘Mornin’, Miriam.’ He grinned and pushed his flat cap back off his wrinkled forehead.

  ‘Tony, brilliant, you’re here.’ I enthused. I stomped my frozen feet on the gravel and the gravel stones flew up. ‘Er, coffee?’

  He held up a large flask. ‘I’m alright, thank you.’ The grin spread wider.

  ‘The cuttings – what did you plan to do with them?’

  He scratched his ruddy nose with a grubby thumb. ‘Add to our manure. If that’s okay. Unless you want them for yourself?’

  ‘No, no.’ I held up my hands. ‘Keep them.’

  He chuckled. ‘Reckon they’ll be a fair amount. I’ll clear the lawns, then swap over to the hedge trimmer.’

  I beamed, ‘You’re a star.’

  His rosy cheeks flushed brighter and he switched the engine back on. The tractor juddered, spluttering, then the flail began to rotate, sending loose grass flying. I backed away and headed indoors.

  Working proved impossible. Both the noise and the hypnotic distraction of observing Tony plough up and down the garden terraces proved too entrancing. He swiftly carved a path into the rear garden, exposing fresh shoots and obliterating the nettles and hollyhocks without mercy.

  What lay beneath was not, unfortunately, lawn tennis grade grass. I’d have to work hard to kill off the dandelions, daisies and other weeds. I’d need to hire a ride-on mower, otherwise, Tony’s wilderness clearance would prove to be pointless.

  After the lawns had been cut he drove away back down the lane to the farm. I assumed to switch to another trailer attachment. Standing by the library window with an empty coffee mug, I admired the transformation and bounced on my tiptoes. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a fleeting glimpse of dull redness between the trees. Was that Charles arriving?

  I dashed to the back door, eager to meet him. Zipping up my fleece jacket and pulling on my Wellington boots, I slammed the back door shut. If Ruth was dismissive of Felicity’s box, perhaps Charles could be persuaded to share his thoughts. The previous day, he’d certainly stared hard at the box, clearly alarmed by something.

  I hung by the outbuildings waiting for him. When he failed to arrive, I skirted the outside of the sheds, then tracked along the edge of the wood to where I thought I’d seen him. While I stepped between the conifers, farther to my right, pinecones and twigs snapped – muntjac roaming? The tractor should have scared them off. I froze, listening to the undergrowth crack and rustle until the odd sounds grew quieter and distant.

  I hovered, uncertain, trying not to lose courage. Since the time I trekked into Heachley Wood and the mist had chased me out, I’d done nothing more than stick to the fringes. The cold weather had paid some role in my reticence to explore, but not entirely.

  Deep amongst the tree trunks, the mist lurked. The white swirl drifted close to the ground, slithering in waves, some dense patches, others not so. I continued to walk the imaginary boundary between the landscaped garden and the woods, my path punctuated by shrubs and overgrown borders. Hedges, once probably the victim of excessive topiary, had grown up above my head. They hid unknown cultivations out of sight and smothered the original landscaping.

  I called for Charles but no response came back. The last hedge to curtail my exploration was the massive hawthorn that stood alongside the perimeter wall. The stonewall rose at least two metres tall with black flints forming teeth shaped parapets and their razor sharp edges reflected the morning light.

  Somewhere, Charles had breached this wall. Turning my back on the formal gardens, and keeping sight of the boundary enclosure on my left, I should come to the gap he’d used.

  The woods thickened. Younger saplings that had sprung up untamed forced me to wind a convoluted trail. At no time did I lose contact with the wall, even when the voracious climbers attempted to overwhelm the man made structure with greenery.

  The mist travelled with me; an unwanted companion. Coming from the direction of the sea, its fluid tentacles crawled over the wall, bunched around the exposed roots and congregated in the hollows of the trunks. My brisk exhales snorted out of my dripping nostrils – invisible, noisy and nervous – no match for the silent sea breath and its persistent presence. I trod my path with determination, my head ducked so I could avoid eye contact with the annoying fog.

  I paused. In the distance, I heard rumbling again. The tractor was back ready to hack down the tall hedges. Some ten minutes of walking had brought me deeper into Heachley Wood than I’d ever been before. The wall remained visible, intact and looming. It should turn to the right at some point and bring me closer to the house and eventually the front gates.

  Where was the gap th
at Charles climbed through?

  The trees spread themselves apart, opening up their branches and letting in more light. The ground cleared of brambles and detritus and I came across logs, splintered and split into sections. This had to be where Charles cut the firewood. I’d not anticipated the distance from the house. The man must toil for hours lugging the chopped wood to the shed.

  Alongside the wall the growth of clematis, honeysuckle and the ubiquitous ivy diminished, and in its place a stream flowed, its water crystal clear. The delicate noise of liquid tumbling between stones punctuated the other sounds of the wood: bird song and trees rustling in the breeze.

  The mist that had been so apparent further back had gone. I’d come to a clearing right in the corner of the woods where the wall redirected itself and created a sheltered spot. I’d reached the farthest point of my estate. There, quite unspoilt and swathed in ivy, stood a log cabin.

  The roof perhaps once slated had been covered in layers of conifer branches, pine needles and thick moss. At the front the window had been repaired using masking tape to cover the cracks in the glazing and the door, which was made from planks of wood nailed together, fitted the opening with no gaps. A brass knob kept it closed.

  I was starting to understand its purpose. Tall enough for a person to stand up in and the size of one or two small rooms, it had been maintained, although not beautified nor transformed into a genteel summerhouse. I guessed it served a more necessary function: shelter.

  Did I call out for him or barge through the door and demand an explanation? Neither. I peeked through the window, but my reflection and the dim interior thwarted my curiosity. With thumping heartbeats echoing in my ears, I approached the door and rapped my knuckles on it. Without an answer to invite me indoors, I turned the handle and entered.

  I snatched a gasp. The clean interior had been made habitable with basic pine furniture: a table, bench, two shelves fixed to a wall and a wooden storage chest on the floor, which was covered in hessian mats. Those were the only items visible, the rest of the space had been partitioned by a long black drape. Reaching out, my fingers quivering uncontrollably, I swept the makeshift curtain aside to reveal a low trundle bed with quilted blankets. Hanging from the hooks in the walls the familiar clothes: polo neck knitted jumpers, faded jeans and darned socks.