The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

It is Margie who eventually calls them in and leads the way to the chapel. She stops outside and mutters a prayer, then hands them each a napkin, which they tie over their noses and mouths. Even so the stench of putrefaction is strong enough to make Hope retch the instant the door is opened.

  Flies throng about her sister’s remains.

  Only her face and hands are visible.

  ‘It’s not her. She’s gone to a better place,’ Lark says quietly, taking Hope’s hand tightly. Hope lets it rest there, only breaking from Lark’s grip when Margie asks her to fetch some of the old dust sheets from the unused rooms.

  Margie and Lark, moving efficiently, swaddle the body, tight as a baby, in several layers. Hope expects her to be feather-light, like the cast-off skin of a snake, but it takes all their strength to lift her, get her down the stairs and onto the cart.

  More flies collect once they are outside and Hope can’t help but think that they have laid their eggs in her and that the eggs will hatch to maggots, which will eat away at her until she is reduced to mulch.

  Tears prick at her eyes. She wipes them away. The sweet, rancid stench of putrefaction lingers on her fingers and she rubs her palms vigorously on her clothes but has the sense she will never be rid of the smell. She is suddenly rigid with the sense of her own mortality and wants to scream, make a pact with the devil to keep herself alive for ever.

  It is as if the veil in her mind that protects her from the truth has been drawn back, exposing her to the horror of the finite nature of everything.

  She can see in her mind’s eye all the edifices that mortals think permanent crumbling away, vegetation engulfing them, armies of insects breaking them down until nothing is left but a scar in the earth where they once stood. This house has already begun its descent. Soon it will be nothing, just the ghost of a house.

  In a desperate impulse to cleave to the living, she grabs Lark, who, seeming to understand instinctively, draws her into a tight embrace. They stand like that, rocking back and forth. Lark smells of hay and her body, strong, alive, tight against her, makes her feel suddenly, strangely, inappropriately, aroused.

  They wait and wait for Gifford’s return. Night falls and he still doesn’t appear, making them all restless with wondering where he has got to. Hope and Lark tend the fire to give Hester a chance to rest. No one mentions the man in the priest-hole. The two girls sit, wrapped up together, bathed in firelight, whispering and sharing secrets.

  ‘To think I believed you were jealous.’ Hope nods towards the fire. Lark knows exactly what she means. ‘What a fool I was.’ She puffs out a small laugh.

  ‘I was jealous.’ Lark pauses, running a hand down the curve of Hope’s cheek. ‘Just not in the way you believed. Not because I wanted him. But you.’

  Hope doesn’t know how to reply. Her silence makes the air seethe with awkwardness. She stands to throw a log on the fire. Pale early light has begun to flood into the room, casting a silvery glow over Lark, making her seem otherworldly, like some forest sprite.

  ‘Someone’s approaching,’ says Lark, just as the yard-dog begins to bark, and then comes the definite sound of hoofs becoming louder

  Hope tenses, ready to alert Hester and Rafe.

  ‘It’s my grandfather,’ Lark says. ‘No need to worry.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Lark smiles. ‘It’s the dog. That bark is a greeting, not a warning.’

  It seems to Hope extraordinary, a supernatural ability, rather than the effects of Lark’s blindness, that makes her hearing so acute.

  They rush down to open the gate. Gifford trots in, leading two solid horses. He is followed by two strangers, rugged men mounted on a pair of huge bay geldings. Each carries a musket. Margie seems to know them, running over with a greeting, introducing them as the Carter brothers, saying she’s known Will and Jem since they were infants. Lark leads the animals to the trough and loosens their bridles.

  Gifford hands Hope a letter. ‘For the mistress,’ he says. She inspects the back but there is nothing to indicate who it is from.

  Hester

  The sight of the cart below, bearing the swaddled remains of my sister, laid out as if on a funeral bier, drills a new chink in my heart and my loathing for the wretch in the priest-hole swells until I am engorged with venom.

  I prod the fire, still unclear about how to achieve my aims without risking anyone’s safety. My mind flits, as if it is attempting to solve a puzzle of logic: how to transport us all to Ludlow safely, with a corpse, a child, a blind woman and a killer. I hear Melis’s faint murmur in the purr of the flames, honey and sting, and I know already that the lieutenant is going nowhere.

  Hope bursts in. ‘They’re back. We can go.’ Her face is flushed, straggles of hair stuck to her damp forehead. ‘Gifford’s brought two men with him – brothers. Will and Jem Carter.’

  ‘Remember, we know nothing about them.’ I don’t like to burst her ebullience. I glance out and see them leaning against the gate smoking.

  ‘Margie says she’s known them since they were babies.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ I recall the maid at Littlemore, Joan, her butter-wouldn’t-melt expression as she placed her tray of food on the desk beside the incriminating letters, and Ambrose’s assurances that she was his cook’s daughter, raised beneath his nose. Still someone turned her, squeezed my secrets out of her. I notice what appears to be a letter folded into her hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I almost forgot.’ She holds it out. ‘It’s for you.’

  I take the paper, scrutinize the seal, which reveals nothing, but the handwriting of the address – The Feathers Inn, Ludlow, to be delivered to Mr Gifford, for his house guest – is familiar. It looks like Ambrose’s hand but that cannot be. I rip it open, scanning the text.

  I have been delayed at Littlemore by an unexpected difficulty but will soon be able to make haste to the lodge and hope to high Heaven this missive finds you alive. All I can say is beware the guard I sent you. Bloor is murdered. The man is an impostor and means you ill …

  My hand has found its way over my mouth and through my fingers I am saying, ‘How is this possible?’ I scrutinize the text, seeking some hidden clue that will explain how Ambrose, whose murder the lieutenant confessed to unequivocally in his journal, has been able to write to me.

  I hand it to Hope, my mind churning. It seems the only explanation – that it was written before his death.

  ‘What’s this?’ Hope holds it up, tapping her finger to point out a smudged line at the bottom. ‘I can’t make it out.’

  It is a quotation in Latin. The sort of thing Ambrose was fond of adding to his correspondence. I scrabble among the papers on the table, finding a magnifying-glass. With a lurch of sadness I recognize it as the one Melis used when she was clipping the wings of her queens to prevent the bees from swarming. ‘It says the truth never dies. And there is what looks like a date. But it’s barely legible.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Snatching the letter, she holds it closer to the window to peer through the lens. ‘It’s dated only three days ago. The lieutenant was already here by then, so he can’t have murdered him.’ She takes my wrist, shaking, smiling, almost laughing. ‘Ambrose must be alive.’

  Her elation is like sunlight spilling into the room and I loathe to douse it. ‘The date proves nothing.’ My voice is flat and hard. The lieutenant’s description of killing Ambrose was vivid, down to the sensation of the blood soaking into his sleeve. I have no doubt in my mind that the deed was done. ‘I’m sorry, Hope, but it must be a trick, an attempt to expose our location. A forgery … a good one.’ Even down to the Latin quotation, which matches the one on the enamel ring.

  I return to the window, placing both hands against the glass to search the blanket of trees for any sign, any unexplained movement in the foliage, to suggest Gifford was followed here.

  Lark appears in the doorway. ‘My grandfather would like to know when you will be ready to go. The horses have been fed and watered,
so …’

  ‘Would you ask Gifford to send the men out to search the forest nearby? I want to be sure they weren’t followed.’

  I am glad to have a little more time to finesse the plan that is formulating in my head, its various parts beginning to fit together.

  It is only six days until the twenty-third.

  My things are scattered all about the room, and Hope begins to collect them together, folding them into a bag. ‘There’s no need.’ I tell her.

  ‘Quicker if I help you.’

  ‘I’m not coming.’ Hope seems to think I don’t mean it, as she continues packing. I take the bag from her. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Am I staying here with you?’ Rafe approaches me, slipping his hand into mine.

  ‘Listen, sweetheart.’ I meet his gaze directly. ‘I want you to go ahead with Hope. I will follow. Better that way.’

  ‘What if I say I won’t go?’ He has set his mouth in a stubborn line.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ It is hardly surprising he doesn’t want to be separated from me but I can’t let myself think of that now. ‘You will be with Aunt Hope.’

  ‘I’ll only go if I can take Captain with me.’ He thrusts his chin up defiantly.

  ‘Very well, then.’ Triumph spreads over Rafe’s face as I relent. ‘He can go in the cart.’

  Hope looks worried. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea? Why don’t we all go together? And what about him?’ She points to the fireplace. ‘He should be brought before a magistrate. Made to pay.’

  ‘We can’t risk involving the law at this stage. If George were to find out …’ I feel perfectly calm now my plan is coming clear. Hope knows well enough that to try to change my mind or to ask for the reason behind my decision to stay would be futile.

  ‘And Melis – you want to see her properly buried, don’t you?’ Hope’s tone has an edge to it and I can see that she is making a tremendous effort to stifle the onset of tears.

  ‘You will have to take charge of that, Hope. Margie and Gifford will come with you. They’ll speak to the Ludlow sexton.’ Melis’s death seems very distant, as if it happened in another lifetime. ‘I will say my prayers once this is all over. Go to the Feathers, take rooms, and wait there. One of the men can stay here and the other can go with you. I’ll be hard on your heels.’ I wipe a tear from her cheek. ‘Promise.’ I can see a question forming on her lips. ‘Don’t ask, because I cannot tell you.’

  Lark has crept back into the room to say that the men are conducting a search and I ask her if she’d be willing to stay here with me. ‘It won’t be for long.’

  ‘I’m happy to help in any way you need.’ She takes both of Hope’s hands and gives her some words of encouragement. ‘You are stronger than you think.’

  I hope it is true.

  The men return, assured that no one is lurking among the trees. I have looked the Carter brothers in the eye. They seem honest and I have no choice but to rely on my instincts.

  Picking a few wild flowers, I lay them on Melis’s body and kneel beside her a moment in prayer, then take Hope to one side, out of Rafe’s earshot.

  ‘Be strong, darling one. And if anything happens to me –’ distress shoots into her eyes – ‘which it will not, you must get word to Bette Cotton. She will know what to do.’ She nods. I can see she is using all her fortitude to hold herself together.

  Hope bids farewell to Lark and mounts one of the horses. Without too much ado, I kiss Rafe and help him onto the pillion saddle behind her, noticing that he wipes away my kiss with the heel of his hand.

  Hope is back in the breeches, sitting astride, hair scraped away under a straw hat, a loose shirt and a kerchief tied around her neck. She even had Jem Carter fooled. I overheard him asking Margie who the young gentleman was and whether he would be staying at the lodge or travelling to Ludlow.

  The party trundles into the cool green clinch of the forest, so different during the day, its dank, dappled floor and gently swaying vegetation harbouring none of night’s threats.

  I wander through the house, like a spectre. The bedchamber is covered with white, as if there has been a snowfall, and the broken hive oozes, making dark runnels through the dust. Something is suspended from the hook behind the door. On closer inspection I see that it is Rafe’s monkey, hanging from a snare attached to its neck. My mind snaps instantly, uneasily, to the dead cat.

  ‘Surely not. Rafe wouldn’t …’ I find myself saying aloud. But I don’t know the extent of the invisible damage that has been done to my son by the trauma of recent events. I think of him trundling into the forest, and want to bring him back, to protect him from his demons.

  I must accept that I have done the right thing in sending away the two people I love most in the world. I had no choice, if I am to see this through, and I will if it is my last act on this earth.

  Felton

  Felton hears someone calling him. A siren song. Bridget? The dead speak in this place. ‘Lieutenant.’ But why doesn’t she use his given name. Is the voice coming from within or without? He shifts, propping himself on his elbow the better to listen, but all he can hear is the crackle of the fire.

  Then it comes again: ‘Lieutenant, can you hear me?’

  It is Hester.

  Is it Hester?

  He tries to answer but his mouth is arid. He clears his throat, which is painfully raw, and when it finally comes his reply is barely audible. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like some water, something to eat?’

  He must still be in the throes of delirium. Her tone is too friendly. His sick mind has conjured this up.

  He gulps in a blast of foul air. ‘Are you in my imagination?’ His voice cracks and wheezes. Despite his struggle to tether his mind, a sensible part of him is aware of how unhinged he sounds.

  ‘I understand how confused you must be. I know what it’s like in there.’

  He tilts his head in the direction of the voice, seeing the finest line of orange light at the edge of the back-plate. Keeping his eye on it, he feels better fixed in the space with it, less prone to drift into disorientation. His thoughts begin to arrange themselves into a semblance of order. This is not his mind playing tricks.

  ‘How long have I been in here?’ As he says it, he realizes he has no idea. Through the muddle of his mind, he remembers Worley waiting for him in Ludlow and wonders if he has been missing long enough for the man to come looking for him.

  ‘Two days. You must be parched.’

  ‘Why are you being kind to me?’

  ‘I’m not a monster.’ Her voice is soft and tempting.

  Am I a monster?

  I am a monster.

  ‘Besides,’ she continues, ‘everyone deserves a chance to repent.’

  His suspicion is aroused. ‘Repent?’

  ‘It would ease your conscience. No person alive is entirely bad. I know you have the capacity for goodness.’

  His head swims but he keeps his gaze adhered to that sliver of light. Even the knowledge that she is his enemy, George’s enemy, is not enough to make him able to resist her kindness.

  ‘Your sister was truly good, wasn’t she? I have been reading all about her in your journal.’ The thought of her reading his innermost thoughts, all his sins there in black and white, makes him feel sliced from scrotum to throat on a coroner’s slab, the entirety of him exposed, nothing left of his heart but a shrunken black node.

  ‘You loved Bridget very much, didn’t you. I have lost a sister too, remember. We have that in common.’

  Why would she bring up her own sister in such a way, knowing he is her murderer? He becomes convinced that this must be a precursor to retribution. He girds himself to be hauled out and shot through the head, but as this thought takes shape he wonders why, if she was going to shoot him, she didn’t do it before. He returns to the horrifying thought that he will be left to starve, the worst kind of death.

  ‘If you intend to kill me then, I beg of you, make it swift.’ He is ashamed at how pathetic he sounds and cl
ings to the forlorn hope that Worley will come.

  She ignores his pleas, continues talking about her sister.

  He pictures her seated on the floor, in her shift, feet bare, hair awry, leaning up against the wall beside the hearth, the pistol cradled in her small hand. ‘I loved Melis more than I loved myself. Her loss was too much …’ She stops a moment, and he wonders if she is drying tears on her sleeve. It is impossible to imagine her in tears – the diminutive, resilient woman who held a gun to his back and marched him up to this place, compelling him to crawl inside by the sheer force of her will. ‘Melis had visions. But you know that. She saw our father’s death. I have never told anyone. And she saw her own – you witnessed it …’ She goes on and on. Felton wishes she would stop, wants to block his ears, but something – is it fear? – keeps him listening.

  ‘It would seem her predictions were strangely accurate concerning death. It makes me wonder if she was also right about George’s. An assassin with a knife, it wouldn’t surprise me, given all his enemies. I suppose we will know soon enough. The day she predicted for such an event is not far off. What do you think, Lieutenant?’

  He expels some unintelligible sounds. It is too much for him to take, this talk of George’s death, when he is festering in this hole with every bone and muscle of his body hurting. ‘From what you have written you loved – still love – George dearly. Do you love him as much as you loved Bridget? I think you loved Bridget more.’

  ‘Stop!’ he manages to shout.

  ‘Do you ever wonder if she suffered? There is no worse pain than the thought of a loved one’s torment.’

  He brings his hands over his ears now and can hear his blood surge, like the sea. Mention of Bridget has brought back long-suppressed feelings, a numb limb prickling painfully back to life. He sees the woman’s ploy now. If she means to bring him anguish, she is succeeding. He should have killed the bitch when he had the chance.

  ‘I’m sorry I have made you stay so long in there. You see, I had no choice.’