by Amy Cross
I stare at him, and it takes a few more seconds before I understand what he means.
“Of course,” I say, not wishing to witness His Lordship suffering any form of indignity. I should help them myself, of course, but I do not think that I have such effort in me, not at the moment. “We have plenty to be doing here.”
I turn and gesture at Mrs. Ferguson, encouraging her to follow me out into the corridor, and then we make our way together silently toward the kitchen. Our footsteps ring out in the cold, quiet house, and by the time we reach the kitchen I feel as if Aldburn Park suddenly feels rather different. Can it really be the case that His Lordship's sheer force of personality kept the house alive? Can a house die?
“What shall we do once His Lordship has been moved?” Mrs. Ferguson asks.
“There is much to be done.”
“Is he to be buried in London?”
“I believe so. Indeed, I think we should set off ourselves for London as soon as possible, so as to be there when decisions need to be made.”
“Very good, Mr. Lawrence. I shall make arrangements for us to leave immediately. I'll begin by closing down the house.” She pauses. “Just like last time.”
Before I have a chance to reply, I hear voices in the distance, and I turn to look back along the corridor. I can only imagine how Doctor Jerome and his ruffian son are moving His Lordship, and I feel once again overwhelmed by the belief that I should go back through and help. For the sake of His Lordship. At the same time, the thought of helping manhandle his body is too much to comprehend, and I remain rooted to the spot. If this makes me a coward, then I can only pray that I am forgiven by a higher power.
“Are you okay, Mr. Lawrence?” Mrs. Ferguson asks.
Feeling her touch my arm, I turn to her.
“I am quite alright,” I reply. “Albeit, I have a great deal on my mind. The next two weeks will be very busy. We shall have a funeral to organize.”
“There is much to think about,” she points out.
“Indeed.”
“And then, once we have dealt with His Lordship's estate, there is the matter of our own positions.” She pauses. “As I told you before, I have several options. I was wondering whether you have had a chance to decide what you might do next?”
“I have not.”
“But you must decide soon, surely?”
“There will be time for that in due course, Mrs. Ferguson.”
“But -”
“I believe the gentlemen are ready,” I add, as I hear a car door being slammed out at the front of the house. “I must go and speak to Doctor Jerome again, to make sure that I fully understand the procedure in this situation. While I am doing that, perhaps you might start shutting the house up again? I cannot say when it might be re-opened. I suppose it is to be sold, but I have not myself seen His Lordship's testament.”
“Mr. Lawrence -”
“Now hurry,” I say, turning and hurrying across the room. “There's not a moment to lose, Mrs. Ferguson. Let us not sit around dilly-dallying and reminiscing over our time with His Lordship. We still have one final job to do for him, and I intend to complete that job to the best of my ability.”
As I reach the window in the dining room, however, I see that I was wrong about one thing. Doctor Jerome and his son have not finished loading His Lordship into the back of their vehicle. Instead, they are in the process of arranging him on a sort of shelf at the rear of their motor car, and for a moment I feel a shudder in my chest as I realize that – even beneath that white blanket that covers his face – His Lordship's features are most likely still frozen in that terrible, terrifying scream.
I suppose that, as he died, he most certainly believed that he was seeing something.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Bus Stop
The road dips down ahead and – for a moment – it is as if the automobile is going to fly right off and shoot into the gray early morning sky, through all the rain. Then the car itself dips, and we continue our journey along this country lane, heading away from Aldburn Park.
Mrs. Ferguson and I have spoken not one word to one another since our departure some thirty minutes ago. I suppose there is not much to say, although I have been considering broaching the subject of our respective futures. After all, I have begun to wonder whether Mrs. Ferguson might consider joining me in the employ of a Mr. Grosvenor of Edinburgh, who has intimated to me in the past that he would like to take me on.
I just need to come up with the right way to mention the prospect.
“Look at all this rain,” she says suddenly, her voice sounding so terribly weary. “It's been raining all night and now it's raining in the morning too. I don't know where it all comes from.”
I slow the motor vehicle as we go around a bend in the road, and then I gently accelerate once more.
“The principles of precipitation are well established,” I say after a moment. “Water from the oceans is -”
“Oh Christ, I know that,” she says angrily. “Forgive me, I should not have blasphemed like that.” She sighs. “You do not need to give me a science lesson, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Evidently,” I reply.
Perhaps this is not the right moment to mention Mr. Grosvenor and the Edinburgh idea.
“Do you think he saw her?” she continues. “At the end, I mean.”
“I am not sure what you -”
“There is something that has been bothering me, Mr. Lawrence,” she adds, interrupting me. “It has been bothering me a great deal. Maybe it has not been bothering you, but it has been on my mind since His Lordship's return to Aldburn Park. He believed that he saw Lady Fetchford's ghost, of that there is no doubt.”
“I believe the subject of ghosts is -”
“I know, I know,” she continues, “we're not going to come to agreement on that.” She pauses as we continue to make our way along the country road. “But what I don't understand, Mr. Lawrence, is this. Why would a man fear the ghost of a woman who, according to his own word, is not even dead?”
“I am not sure that I follow you,” I reply.
“Of course you do,” she says. “Lord Fetchford maintained that Lady Catherine is still alive, did he not? To the very end?”
“That is indeed the -”
“And he did not deviate from that story, not even at the end?”
“I am not sure what you are trying to suggest,” I reply.
“You are no fool, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues. “You must see the problem here. If Lord Fetchford feared his wife's ghost, that means he knew she was dead. All of which rather flies in the face of the story that he told you, does it not?”
“His Lordship was very clear that -”
“What happened on that final night?” she asks.
“I am not sure what -”
“You know damn well what I mean, Mr. Lawrence!” she snaps. “You were here alone, it was just you and His Lordship and Her Ladyship. You told me earlier that His Lordship sent his wife to an asylum.”
“He did.”
“So what happened, exactly? How did he send her? Did men come in a big white van?”
“His Lordship told me that -”
“What did you see, Mr. Lawrence? I don't care what His Lordship told you, I want to know what actually happened!”
“I have already explained,” I remind her. “Her Ladyship was having a particularly bad spell, and His Lordship went to attend to her. He ordered me to wait in another room, and then -”
“And then what, Mr. Lawrence?”
I keep my eyes on the road ahead, and for a few seconds I try to work out how, precisely, I am to explain this to someone who wasn't there.
“When he returned,” I say finally, cautiously, “he -”
“How long had he been gone?”
“About an hour, and -”
“And then he claimed he had sent his wife to the asylum?”
“He was on good terms with the local doctor, with the gentleman who preceded Doctor
Jerome.”
“And this doctor came out and took Catherine Fetchford away, all in less than an hour?”
“His Lordship emphasized to the doctor that the case was urgent. Indeed, I believe she had harmed herself in some manner, for she had left a single bloodied hand-print on one of the walls in the sitting room. I thought I had removed it at the time, but eventually I wiped it off upon my return.”
“And then what?”
“And then His Lordship came through and explained the situation to me.”
“And you believed him?”
“I would never, not even for one moment, ever question His Lordship's character in such a manner,” I reply through gritted teeth. “He would never lie. Not to me, and not to anyone.”
Although I have my eyes fixed on the road, I am very much aware that Mrs. Ferguson is staring at me most intently.
“So what happened on that night?”
“I have already told you, we -”
“He came back and told you she was gone, and then the pair of you left?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Apart from -”
I stop myself just in time. This entire conversation is becoming increasingly frustrating, and I dearly wish that Mrs. Ferguson would note my discomfort and allow me to change the subject.
“Apart from what, Mr. Lawrence?” she asks coldly.
“It is really nothing,” I reply.
“Please stop the car.”
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“Stop the car or I will open the door while we are moving.”
I sigh.
Suddenly she does as she had threatened, and I immediately hit the brake pedal and bring the car screeching to a halt. We come to a rest next to a bus stop, but my heart is absolutely racing and I cannot quite believe that Mrs. Ferguson would have done something so foolish.
“Apart from what, Mr. Lawrence?” she asks again.
I hesitate for a moment, hoping to find some way to avoid this part of the conversation, but I suppose she has the bit between her teeth now. There is a part of me that worries she will over-react, and I doubt there is anything I can do to avoid that eventuality. Turning to her, I see that she is staring at me with a mixture of fear and anger, as if she expects me to say something utterly terrible.
Rain is still hitting the roof of the motor car.
“After His Lordship returned from seeing to Her Ladyship,” I say finally, “he told me that we were to leave Aldburn Park immediately. He said that the events of the previous few days had drained him and that, following Her Ladyship's breakdown, he wanted to get away from the place as quickly as possible. In the circumstances, I understood, so I assisted him in packing a few bags. It was night, as you will recall, but His Lordship was determined to get on the road and return to London without delay.”
“Go on, Mr. Lawrence.”
“There was... I hesitate to even mention it, for it was so mundane.”
“Go on, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Before we left,” I continue, “His Lordship asked for my assistance with one other matter. He had been planning to have the bar billiards table removed, but he had not managed to do so. He had, however, gathered up some of the equipment, along with some of the other games paraphernalia, and placed all of these items into a bag.”
“A bag?”
I nod.
“Alright, Mr. Lawrence. And did you assist him in this matter?”
“I did.”
“You helped him put these items away?”
I pause, trying to work out how exactly to describe what happened next. I still worry that Mrs. Ferguson is liable to over-react quite dreadfully.
“His Lordship had already put the items in the bag,” I tell her, “along with a number of cushions that he felt were old-fashioned. but now the bag was heavy and he asked me to assist him in carrying it out of the house.”
I see a flicker of concern in her expression.
“We took one end each,” I continue, “and -”
“What shape was this bag, Mr. Lawrence?”
“It was one of the cloth bags from the cellar.”
“So it was long?”
I nod.
She stares at me for a moment.
“Go on,” she says finally.
“He opened the double doors and went first, and I followed with the bag's other end.” I tell her.
“How heavy was this bag, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Heavy enough that His Lordship required my assistance.”
“And what did it feel like?”
“I'm not sure that I understand the -”
“Did it feel as if it contained an assortment of items for a game?”
I swallow hard.
“Because that would seem easy to tell,” she continues. “Did it feel like cues and skittles?”
“I -”
“Did you hear items rattling in the bag?”
“Not that I recall.”
“And where did you put the bag? In the summer house?”
“That was what I expected,” I reply, “but actually His Lordship preferred to...”
My voice trails off.
“Preferred to what, Mr. Lawrence.”
“As a matter of fact,” I explain, “he wanted it thrown into the pond.”
Rain continues to batter the car, sounding a little harder and stronger than before.
“The pond?” Mrs. Ferguson says.
“Indeed.”
“He wanted the bag thrown into the pond?”
“He did.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said that... there was too much clutter in the summer house,” I tell her.
She stares at me with a hint of incredulity.
“I did think to question him on this matter,” I continue, hoping to assuage her fears. “I asked him if he was sure about this course of action, but he said that he was. I suggested that we could perhaps open the bag and put the items elsewhere, or pass them on to somebody who might use them, but he was absolutely set against that course.”
Again I wait, and again she merely stares at me.
“In fact,” I add, “I recall that as we reached the pond on that dark night, I asked again about Her Ladyship. There were a few matters that troubled me, and I wanted to set them right in my mind. His Lordship explained those matters to me, and he did so. We deposited the bag of items in the pond, and then we returned to London. I am sure you will recall that we reached the townhouse in the early hours, and that His Lordship went immediately to bed while I set about dealing with the household.”
“I do recall that morning, yes,” she replies. “I had questions then, and I have questions now.”
“I hope that I have adequately answered them.”
I almost add one further matter. I almost tell her that, as His Lordship and I left Aldburn Park on that fateful night, I glanced back and thought – for a moment – that I saw Her Ladyship at one of the windows. I did not, of course. It was a trick of the light. But there was a brief moment when I thought I saw her, or rather I thought I saw one of the mirrors through the window, with her reflection staring out. Then the light changed slightly, or perhaps a shadow shifted, and I saw that the supposed face was just a smudge on the glass. Nothing more. It truly was a smudge. Yes, of that I am sure. Still, a more superstitious mind would certainly take that trivial detail and spin it into something lurid and fantastical. She would not be able to help herself.
So instead of mentioning the smudge, I merely force myself to smile.
“Mmm,” I add.
“I don't know whether you noticed,” she says, “but these past few days at Aldburn Park, I saw the bar billiards equipment. It was all still in the games room.”
“Yes,” I reply, feeling a little uncomfortable, “I noticed that as well.”
“And as far as I am aware,” she continues, “no cushions were missing.”
“I'm not sure that -”
“T
hat is the kind of thing I would have noticed,” she adds.
I stare at her for a moment.
“Mmm,” I say finally.
“So really...” She pauses. “Let me get this straight in my mind, Mr. Lawrence. Her Ladyship disappeared -”
“She was sent away.”
“With a doctor who you did not see that night.”
“That is true, but -”
“And whose car, I imagine, you did not even hear approaching the house?”
“It is by no means certain that I would have done.”
“And when His Lordship asked you to help him dispose of this large sack, you did not even think to question whether there was something inside that bag other than the items His Lordship had described?”
“I did question the situation, but His Lordship -”
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” she shouts, and suddenly she takes her bag from the car's back seat before clambering out into the rain and rushing into the bus stop.
“I beg your pardon?” I reply, shocked by her outburst. “I merely -”
“How can a man be so stupid?” she continues, turning to me now that she is in the shelter. “Mr. Lawrence, I have known you for quite some time and I have come to understand that you are a trusting soul. But you have eyes! You have ears! You have a brain! How could you possibly not have questioned everything that happened that night?”
“His Lordship assured me that -”
“And you believed it?” she shouts. “If Matthew Fetchford had told you that the sky was green and the grass was yellow, would you have believed that as well?”
“I fail to see what you are getting at,” I reply. “His Lordship's character was beyond doubt and -”
“You're an idiot!” she shouts. “Is your deluded respect for that man so great that you allow it to blind you? Do you not realize what really happened on that night in Aldburn Park? Do you not understand that Lady Fetchford never went to an asylum?”
“I -”
“She never even left the grounds of the house!”
I open my mouth to reply to her, but no words come out. Indeed, after a moment I notice that – for some reason – my hands are trembling slightly as they rest on the wheel. I place them on my lap, so that Mrs. Ferguson will not notice this strange affliction.
