The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  It was not possible, surely?

  Quietly and guiltily – for previously it had not been in his nature to eavesdrop, and now he seemed to do it twice a day – he went back down the stairs and along the passage. The voices fell abruptly quiet, as if his presence had been detected. He reached the kitchen door and pushed it open – a crack at first, then fully.

  Mrs Budd was seated, slumped over the table, her forehead resting on her crossed arms. Rose was standing with her back to the dresser, face flushed, breast heaving. The instant she saw him, she clamped her hand to her mouth. Agnes raised her head to look at him. She groaned and lowered it again.

  Fairfax said, ‘Rose? You can speak?’ She kept her hand over her mouth. Her angry breathing turned into suppressed sobs. ‘Dear Rose, do not distress yourself! I am only glad to hear your voice. It is wonderful.’ He held out his hand. She launched herself from the dresser, pushed past him, ran down the passage and out of the house. The door slammed.

  He stared at the housekeeper’s bowed head in bewilderment. ‘Mrs Budd? What is all this?’

  She did not reply.

  He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. Her narrow shoulders were shaking. ‘Tell me if you wish,’ he said, ‘or not, if you prefer. I have only come back to collect a few things and then I shall be off. I doubt we shall meet again. I assure you I will never mention this to anyone.’ She muttered something into her arms. ‘What was that?’ he coaxed her. ‘I fear you must speak up.’

  She raised her head. Her wet, veined eyes reminded him of the shattered glass on the roadside. ‘Why are ye here?’ she said bitterly. ‘I’d thought ye still in Axford.’

  ‘We were returning across the moor when the rain set in, and we decided to spend the night at Captain Hancock’s.’ He leaned in closer. ‘So she has always spoken?’

  Agnes looked at him defiantly for a few moments longer, and then something seemed to break within her and she nodded.

  ‘But how could you possibly have managed such a deception? Why would you?’

  ‘She is my daughter,’ she said simply. ‘Mine and Father Lacy’s.’

  She started to cry again, and this time Fairfax did not attempt to interrupt her. The revelation of Rose’s illegitimacy did not especially shock him. Now that she had told him, he could see how obvious it had been all along. He imagined there must be more than a few parsonages across England where such secrets, of necessity, lay hidden. But the fiction of Rose’s dumbness seemed to him duplicity of a different order.

  Eventually, when Agnes’s flow of tears had abated, he said, ‘I still do not understand how a child was able to play such a part for eighteen years.’

  She wiped her eyes on her cuff. ‘’Tweren’t eighteen year. ’Twere ten.’

  ‘You told me she could not speak from birth.’

  ‘I did. That were the story we put about.’ She sighed and shook her head, and after further gentle prompting, he began to draw out her tale. It came hesitantly at first, but then by the end quite freely, as if was a relief to speak the truth at last. ‘I were married to a man in Nethercombe … When he died, I were engaged to keep house for Father Lacy … One night the parson came to my bed … I knew it were a sin, but I was young to be a widow, lonely and in need of comfort … When I discovered I was with child, I went back to Nethercombe, to my sister and her husband, and spent the whole of my confinement in their cottage … They had no child themselves and were content to take on Rose and pretend she was their own … I visited her often – as her aunt, as she supposed – but then one day she heard us talking and discovered the truth of her circumstances. When the fever took both my sister and her husband, I begged Tom – Father Lacy – to take in our girl. He refused at first – said the facts were bound to come out and he would lose the living. In the end he did agree, but on condition she never spoke to any in the village for as long as he were alive.’

  ‘And yet such a deceit sounds impossible to carry off!’

  ‘Oh, ’twere not so hard as you might think. Rose’s nature’s always been a shy one. She were weak with the fever herself when she arrived, so none in the village came close for fear of catching it. She stayed inside for half a year. Never made no friends. Time came when she ceased to talk even in the house.’

  ‘And all because Father Lacy would not leave this spot?’ The cruelty seemed unfathomable. Once again he was forced to re-evaluate the character of the old parson.

  ‘Aye. ’Twere always his digging he cared about more than anything – more’n us, more’n God himself, I shouldn’t wonder. Said there was no place on Earth to compare to the valley for antiquities. Could not bear to be ruined and forced to live away from the site.’

  ‘And now that he is dead, I presume she wishes to speak?’

  She gave him an accusing stare. ‘’Tis your presence that has changed her.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘As I told thee t’other day, Father – ye’ve turned her head.’

  ‘Well, I am truly sorry if I have caused her upset, but at least now she can give up this pretence. She’ll not be short of suitors, Mrs Budd, of that I’m certain. I’m sure you both will thrive.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘But where can we go?’

  ‘Why go anywhere? The new parson will doubtless need a housekeeper. Or you can weave like the other women.’

  ‘And if Rose begins to speak around the village after her silence all these years?’

  ‘People are struck dumb by tragedy. Why not the reverse?’

  ‘Folk will not believe it!’

  ‘You would be surprised by what people will believe.’

  ‘She would still call herself my niece?’

  ‘No, she should tell the truth.’

  ‘But the shame of it!’

  ‘What shame?’ For a moment he was tempted to confess his own sin. ‘No act that yielded Rose can be a shame in the eyes of God.’

  He looked around the neat and spotless kitchen – at the range with its simmering kettle, the copper saucepans hanging from their hooks, the plain white plates in the dresser, the cupboards, the door with its heavy new lock. He could hardly bear to think what life must have been like.

  ‘I must go now.’ He stood. She did the same, smoothing her skirt, squaring her shoulders. Her moment of weakness had passed. She was plainly keen to see him off the premises. She would survive, he thought. ‘I wonder, Mrs Budd, if I might beg a favour? The books in Father Lacy’s study – not the religious texts, but the others, about the ancients – it is unwise to keep them in the house. They are against the law. I would like to take them, if I may.’

  She did not hesitate. ‘Aye, take them – and anything else in there ye want. It brought him naught but misery, and us too. I wish to God I had never set eyes upon them.’

  She fetched him a hessian sack into which he placed the nineteen volumes of The Proceedings and Papers of the Society of Antiquaries. To these he added Shadwell’s hefty Antiquis Anglia, and the various other books about ancient artefacts and inscriptions, until he was satisfied he had removed them all. It seemed a dangerous weight of heresy for one man to carry. They would burn an H on his own forehead if he was not careful.

  From the desk he took the penknife and the spyglass. He stood before the display cabinet with its coins and plastic straws and bottles, its eyeless plastic doll – the detritus of a lifetime’s obsession. After some hesitation he took down the shiny black device with the emblem of the bitten apple and slipped it into the inside pocket of his cassock. Upstairs, his bag was already packed and lying on the bed. When he went down to the front door, there was no sign of Agnes. He wanted to ask her where he might find wine and wafers. They must be kept in the church. He vaguely remembered seeing some in the vestry when Keefer was searching for the registers.

  He tied his bag and the sack together and draped them over the saddle, then led May across the muddy lane towards the lychgate. The sky was threatening. None of the women in the cottages opposite were out on their front steps
spinning. The village seemed deserted. He hitched his mare to an iron ring and opened the little gate. He went past Father Lacy’s grave – still unmarked by even a temporary wooden cross – and into the porch.

  The church was unlocked. Tiny flames flickered all around the walls. Keefer must have been in earlier to light the votive candles. He paused in the centre of the nave. Apart from the obscurity of some of the icons, there was nothing unusual about St George’s. Yet once again he found himself seeing everything for the first time, altered by a history he had never stopped to consider. Shadwell said the churches had become the main places of refuge for the survivors of the Apocalypse. He tried to imagine them gathered here before the altar – stunned by the turn their lives had taken. Morgenstern’s daughter had been married here. Perhaps the professor had been a believer? Suddenly the air seemed thick with ghosts for the merest fraction of an instant he seemed to sense a presence in the cold grey light but it was gone before he could properly comprehend it.

  He bowed to the altar, crossed himself, and hurried up the aisle to the vestry. He kneeled before the cupboard and searched among the candlesticks and prayer books until he put his hands upon a bottle of wine and a small jar of wafers. Moments later, he was walking quickly back down the aisle. He closed the church door behind him. It was only when he turned and stepped out of the porch that he noticed a slim figure standing silently beside the mound of earth over Father Lacy’s grave. The spectacle made him jump.

  ‘Rose!’ he exclaimed. ‘You surprised me!’ She gazed at him without moving. He felt like a thief, with the bottle in one hand and the jar in the other. ‘I must be on my way.’ He lifted them pointlessly, as if they offered an explanation. ‘Will you say goodbye to me before I go? I should like to hear you speak.’

  She glanced around to check she was not overheard. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. ‘Shall I not see thee again?’

  ‘No. I fear I shall not return. But I thank you for all you have done for me, most profoundly. I shall not forget you.’ He took a step towards her. ‘You must speak, Rose. God gave you a voice. Use it.’

  ‘But it’s only thee I wish to speak to!’

  He looked at her. What an inexperienced fool he had been to mislead her with what he had imagined to be a harmless flirtation. He felt full of remorse for his thoughtlessness. ‘I’m sorry. That cannot be. God bless you.’ He turned away and began to walk down the path.

  She called after him. ‘D’ye not wish me to tell thee of the stranger who was here?’

  That stopped him. Across the lane there was still no sign of life in the row of cottages. He swivelled on his heel and made his way back to her. ‘And what stranger would this be?’

  ‘Oh, but I had thought thee most anxious to depart?’ Her voice, though little used, had acquired a distinct edge of sarcasm.

  ‘This is the man you saw in the village on the morning of the day your father died?’

  She glanced down at the mound of earth and muttered bitterly, ‘My father ye call him. He never called himself so in life.’

  ‘It is most important, Rose, that you tell me what you saw.’

  ‘No, I mustn’t detain thee …’

  He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. With an effort he mastered his temper. ‘It’s true he was your father. There is good reason for your anger. But this is not the time to show it. His death was not at all what it appeared, believe me. I need you to tell me something of this stranger. What was his manner? Was he tall? Old? Young?’

  His urgency plainly took her by surprise. Her brow creased. She raised her palm and held it flat above her head. She had not yet lost the habit of talking in gestures. ‘Tall,’ she said, then stretched out her arms. ‘And large.’

  ‘Fat?’

  ‘No, not fat. Big.’

  ‘And his age?’

  ‘Somewhat between thine and my father’s.’

  ‘Where was it you saw him?’

  She pointed over her shoulder. ‘At the church door. Talking with my father.’

  ‘Could you hear what was said?’ She shook her head. ‘Did they seem at all angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long was their talk?’ She shrugged. He felt his irritation rise again. ‘Come, Rose. There must be more. How did it end? Who left first?’

  ‘My father went back into the church. The man walked down this path to his mule.’

  ‘He rode a mule?’

  ‘’Twere a sight to behold – a man so big on a mule.’ Despite herself, she smiled at the memory. ‘Poor creature’s back must’ve been half broken.’ She looked at the grave again, then back at Fairfax. ‘Ye think the man had a hand in the death?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Then ye must take care of thyself.’

  ‘I will. Do not worry yourself about me.’

  Suddenly she darted forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He blushed as much as she did.

  ‘Goodbye, Rose.’ He nodded and smiled at her and stepped away. This time he did not turn around.

  As he rode back out of the village along the way he had come an hour earlier, his mind was full of disturbance. For he could not help but reflect that her description of the stranger sounded remarkably like Mr Quycke – the only man he had seen in the locality, apart from Shadwell, in possession of a mule.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mr Quycke provides an explanation

  IT WAS CLOSE to noon by the time the young priest finally caught up with the others. They had turned down the track into the forest and had drawn up their wagons in the same spot that Hancock had led them to the night before, where the top of the Devil’s Chair was just visible above the trees. The carts were being unloaded, the mules serving as pack animals to help transport the tools and tents up to the crest of the hill. About a dozen men were intermittently visible climbing the slope, laden with equipment. Others were making their way down again empty-handed to collect further supplies. As he rode past the wagons, Fairfax was struck by the speed and quietness with which they worked. None of the men was speaking. Their earlier good humour seemed to have vanished now they had been confronted with the reality of the task. They were plainly anxious to do the job, earn their pay and leave as soon as possible.

  He tied May to a branch beside the oxen. Hancock’s mare was close by. Another horse tethered further along was tearing with its teeth at the undergrowth. It was the mount that had thrown Sarah Durston. So she was here! He felt a twist in his stomach. He lifted his bag and sack from the saddle and yoked the heavy burden around his neck, hitched up his cassock, tightened his belt and set off up the trail.

  The rain overnight had made the ground muddy. His boots sank, became clogged and hard to lift. The weight of the cord tying his burden cut into his neck, and one sharp-edged volume in particular – he reckoned it must be Shadwell’s Antiquis Anglia – pressed into his back like a knife. Some of the men coming down cast him furtive looks. He kept his eyes fixed ahead and forced himself to continue climbing. At length he came out on to the ridge. He unhooked his burden, dropped it and bent forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. On the level ground below, the first two tents were being erected. The clink-clink-clink of metal pegs being hammered into the earth rang around the natural amphitheatre. A fire had been lit. Smoke rose vertically in the motionless air. Above it all, the tower stood – malevolent, implacable in its shroud of ivy, disdainful of all this puny activity that was disturbing its solitude.

  He hoisted his load again and began to descend. A file of men was climbing the slope towards him. Beyond them he could see various clusters of figures, and as he drew closer he was able to make out Hancock close to one of the tents, gesticulating to Keefer. Shadwell was standing some distance away with his hands on his hips, surveying the mass grave, with Quycke next to him. He did not recognise Sarah until he was almost upon her. She emerged from behind the tower, carrying a shovel across her shoulder, dressed in the men’s clothes
she had been wearing when he met her in the walled garden – white shirt tucked into thick trousers, a pair of heavy boots. Her hair was tied up and hidden beneath a cap.

  She stopped and nodded politely, as if it were nothing more than a chance encounter in the street with a visiting priest. ‘Good morning, Father Fairfax.’

  ‘Lady Durston.’ He returned her nod. ‘I did not recognise you in your workman’s garb.’

  ‘What else should I wear? A ball gown?’ She swung the shovel from her shoulder and leaned on it. Her voice dropped but retained its teasing note. ‘You look troubled, Father.’ She bent towards him. ‘What is it? Tell me: do you reproach me for tempting you from the true path?’

  There seemed no point in dissembling. ‘You were seen last night by Martha Hancock, coming to my room.’

  Her light-heartedness vanished at once. She drew back slowly, her mouth twisting in contempt. ‘That shrew!’

  ‘She swears she will tell her brother unless you break your engagement to him by nightfall.’

  ‘Good, let her tell him. She will spare me the task.’ She frowned and prodded the blade of the shovel against the ground a couple of times. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer if I deny it?’ She looked up at him. ‘Of the pair of us, you stand to lose the most.’

  He replied without hesitation. ‘No. The truth must be told.’

  ‘Even though his anger may be violent?’

  ‘I fear God’s wrath more than Captain Hancock’s.’ He glanced across to where Hancock was standing. He was watching them intently. The moment he saw that Fairfax had noticed him, he started to move towards them. ‘Take care. He is coming over.’

  ‘I will tell him, but not yet,’ she said quietly. ‘Let me find my moment.’

  ‘As ever, the two of ye are very thick with one another!’ Hancock came up to them and planted his feet apart. ‘May I join the conversation?’

  Fairfax said, ‘I was telling Lady Durston of some intelligence I gathered in the village just now.’

  ‘And what might that be?’