More Deadly than the Male

by Graeme Davis

  “Ye mun feel lonesome when your guid-man is away. Does he often go off?”

  “Noa,” answered Ann, “we hev been married seven, gaan on eight, year, and he’s niver been away a neet afore.”

  “Weel, he mun be a steady fellow; you’ll be a fine saving couple. I should na wonder if you have a tidy bit of money laid by somewhere for that little chap?” pointing to the cradle where little Joe was sleeping soundly. “He’s as fine a little laddie as iver I saw, and a good one too, or he’d wake up wi’ our taking.”

  “That is he,” replied Ann, her mother’s heart warming at the praise of her son. “We wad like him to hev a better start in life than we hed oursels.”

  “Why you seem to have done varra weel,” said the woman, “as far as I can see. I wad na mind changing places wi’ ye,” she added, with a disagreeable laugh and another look round the room. “You’ve a deal o’ good furniture, and there’s, maybe, summut worth having in that cupboard, that ye lock it up so close. I don’t often see a cupboard wi’ a lock like that in a farm kitchen.”

  “Don’t ye?” said Ann, sharply, for she thought the woman was getting rather too familiar. “We locks our cupboards because we likes to keep our things to oursels. There’s no knowing what mak o’ folk may come tramping over t’ fell.” And she looked significantly at her visitor.

  “Weel,” the woman said, “if you’ve no objections I’ll just lay me down and try to get a bit o’ sleep; I mun be off sune in the morning.”

  “Well, then,” said Ann, “I’ll git the a lal lock o’ hay to put under thee head.” And she went out to the barn.

  Hardly had she left the room, when the woman seized her half-empty basin and took a good drink of her porridge, and then replaced it as it was on the table.

  “Theer,” said Ann, as she returned with a good bundle of hay and spread it on the sconce, “that’ll be a gay bit softer nar t’ freestone.”

  She then went to the little parlour where she and her husband slept, and brought thence an old shawl, which she handed to the woman for a covering, saying, “Mak thysel as comfortable as thee can—ah ’ev gitten t’ fat to leuk tul, and some seives to peel.”

  When Ann returned to her basin of porridge she thought it had gone down a good deal since she had left it, and looked towards the woman as though to ask her if she had taken some.

  “Nea,” she thought, “what wad she want supping my poddidge, when she wadn’t have ony hersel? She’ll get nea mair, howiver, an’ it was her,” she added, as she emptied the basin. “Now I’ll just wesh these few things, and thin get to peeling my seives, but first I mun mak t’ table straight gin Joe coom heam, though it’s gitten ower late now, I fear. I wish he was heam. I don’t more nor hoaf loike t’ leuks o’ this woman, she has sic a way wi’ her o’ leuking out o’ t’ corners of her eyes, and peeping all round loike; and she’s a terrible girt body too, she mair nor hoaf a head higher ner I is, and ah’s nut sa lal. She’s seun fa’n asleep, she mun be tired.”

  So it seemed, for almost directly she had lain down she turned her face towards the pantry door, behind the sconce, drew her shawl more closely over her aching face, and was now breathing as regularly as a gigantic baby. And yet, as Ann moved quietly about, putting her things away, she had an uncomfortable feeling that the woman’s sharp, cunning eyes were following her wherever she went. Once or twice she stopped and looked hard at her visitor, but she was as motionless as could be, and when she spoke to her she received not the slightest answer, but the breathing seemed, if anything, a little heavier. Once, indeed, when she had moved to the little table under the cupboard, she felt convinced the woman was not asleep, and turned suddenly round, for she felt sure she heard a slight rustle of the hay pillow. But no, except a sleepy sort of movement, as though she were covering her aching teeth more warmly from the draughts, the stranger lay as quietly as before.

  “Dear, dear, I mun be gettin’ silly. I wonder how lang that fat’s gaun to be a-meltin’. When what’s in is melt down a bit I’ll full up t’ pan wi’ what’s on t’ dish.”

  As the clock in the corner pointed to nine, Ann thought of what her husband had said about not returning later than that hour, but still she felt as though she could not go to bed yet.

  “He might happen to come.” So she got some rushes, and sat down on her low chair to peel them, by the side of her child’s cradle, opposite the sconce.

  The house was almost as still as it had been in the morning, only that the ticking of the clock and the snoring of the sleeper (for the heavy breathing had passed into a regular snore) kept up a kind of monotonous duet, in which they seemed to be vainly attempting to keep time with each other; for first one took the lead and then the other, now they went on for a tick tock or two quite amicably, and then one would get the start, and the struggle for precedence would commence again.

  It was sleepy work to sit peeling rushes and listening, and poor Ann grew more and more drowsy. She had had an unusually hard day’s work, and it was now far past her ordinary bed-time, for the lazy hands of the clock had travelled from nine to half-past, and thence to ten. Ann’s eyelids drooped lower and lower, the half-finished rush slipped out of her sleepy fingers, her head sank upon her chest, and there were three sleepers for the clock to keep time with.

  Suddenly Ann started up; she had been roused by the fall of something, that rung like metal, to the ground. The fire was glowing low down on the hearth, but was still very hot.

  “This willn’t dea,” she said to herself, rising, from her chair, and giving herself a shake, “I mun jest lig down on t’ bed a bit. I’ll nut take my things off. I wonder what o’clock it is, and how lang I’ve been asleep?”

  She took a handful of sticks and threw them on to the fire to make a blaze by which she might see the time, and in a moment the kitchen was lighted up from one end to the other. The fingers of the clock stood at a little after twelve.

  “Dear, dear!” thought Ann, “I hev slept a lang time,” and she turned to the fire, for she felt chilly. Stooping by it she saw something bright on the floor near her. It was an open clasp knife; one of those long, sharp knives that are worn by the blue-jackets. It must have dropped from the hand or out of the dress of the woman on the sconce.

  Instinctively Ann looked towards her; she was lying on her back, the light from the fire fell full upon her face, for the shawl had slipped off; and there, to Ann’s horror, she saw it was not that of a woman at all, but of a powerful man. His mouth and chin were adorned with as much of a black bristly beard as would grow during a week’s tramp over the fells, out of reach of a razor.

  For a moment she stood as though paralyzed with fright, but not longer. He was fast asleep after his long walk; so far she had the advantage, and she was not the woman to let it slip. To catch up her child and run was her first impulse; but where to? The next inhabited house was a mile away, and the slightest noise, such as the opening of the clumsy old door, would wake the man. What should she do? She could not stand still and let herself be certainly robbed of all their hardly earned savings, and possibly murdered with her child. No! a thousand times! she would fight for it! But how? She looked at her child asleep in the cradle, then at the man.

  There he lay, his mouth wide open, snoring loudly, one powerful hand closed upon the shawl she had lent him for a covering, while the skirts of his woman’s attire hung to the ground.

  What was to be done must be done at once.

  She looked at the knife lying at her feet; it was sharp and strong; but she might miss her aim, and only wound him. Turning from it she gazed despairingly around the room till her eyes fell upon the pan of boiling fat. In a moment her resolve was taken. With a strength born of desperation, she lifted it off the crook and, without a sound, placed it close to the sconce. Then quietly and stealthily, as Jael crept round the sleeping Syrian captain, † the hardy daleswoman reached over to the table, and off it took a large tin dipper with a wooden handle, capable of holding from about five to six quarts. With
compressed lips and clenched teeth she approached the sleeper, and, filling her dipper to the brim with the fat, poured it, boiling hot as it was, down his throat and over his face—one, two, three dippers full.

  In vain were his struggles. When, at the first great shock he almost started up, she seized him by the throat with one hand, and pinned him down with the strength of a giantess, regardless of the scalding fat, which she continued to pour with the other hand, until the pan was well-nigh empty. Not a cry was heard, save the first half-choked scream of agony, but the struggling and writhing were fearful to behold. Still the woman held on. She had him in her power, lying on his back so far below her—and she was a powerful woman. Not a feature quivered, not a nerve relaxed till her work was done; the struggles and kicks became weaker, the writhing subsided into an occasional quiver, and that finally passed into perfect stillness. Not till then, when all was over, and the fight was ended, did her strength leave her. She withdrew her hand, the dipper fell from her now nerveless fingers, and she stood, the victor, indeed, but not triumphant, transfixed with horror at what she had dared to do, rooted to the spot, motionless as Lot’s wife or the heap on the sconce.

  The clock had it all its own way now; there was not another sound that dare break the silence after that one choked scream that had not even waked the baby in its cradle. How long she stood by that sconce, Ann never knew; but presently the clock struck one, and, as though it broke the spell that held her, Ann sank upon her chair by the fire; two, three, four o’clock struck, but still she sat on; five o’clock, and the grey dawn crept in at the windows; the fire had long since gone out. Still she sat.

  At half-past five Joe Southward opened the door of his own farm-house and entered the kitchen.

  “Weel, lass, I’s heam at last,” he said. But as his wife turned her pinched and ashy face towards him he too seemed overpowered by the spell of silence, though he knew not why. But the child, hearing his father’s voice, set up a cry and shout. His mother flew to his cradle, lifted him into her uninjured arm, and rushed with him, folded tightly to her breast, out into the pure dim daylight, sobbing with great, long, heart-breaking sobs.

  “Oh, my lal barn, I did it for thee—it was nut for mysel; thee mun niver, niver ken as thy mother did it; I did it for thee, my barn, my barn.” And mother and child mingled their sobs and tears.

  Meanwhile Joe had been looking about the kitchen, and now followed them out.

  Bit by bit beneath the trees Joe heard the tale of horror, for Ann would not re-enter the house, but folded her child in her apron to shield him from the cold morning air.

  At length her husband took him from her and carried him into their own bedroom.

  “Now, Ann,” he said, “we mun hide him, thu could deu nowt else, but we mun mind ’at neabody kens owt aboot it for t’ sake o’ t’ barn.”

  So together, ere the day was fairly begun, they dragged the body up the stone stairs, laid it on the wool shelf, which is a kind of ledge between the top of the wall and the roof, in one of the bedrooms, and covered it with the rolled fleeces that were stored there, for they expected several neighbours that day to help in some farm work.

  When the neighbours had left, and it was getting dark, Joe took his pick and spade to the ruins of the old public-house, and there he dug as deep a grave as was possible in the stony soil. In one corner of the ruin he found a bundle, done up in a handkerchief, containing the man’s male attire, a considerable amount of money, and one or two little things of value which must have been stolen from other farms. After a long consultation they determined to bury these things with him, as they dared not make inquiries concerning them, for they feared lest the manner of his death should become known.

  When all was dark and quiet, and “lal Joe” was fast asleep, Ann and her husband went up the stairs, and entered the little bedroom. Joe pulled away the fleeces, and together they dragged the body from the shelf on to the floor. It was a hideous sight. The fat had now solidified, and formed a hard, white mask, concealing yet indicating the features beneath. At sight of it Ann’s face assumed the same ashy hue it had worn the night before; while Joe went about the work with the grim determination of a man upon whom had fallen one of the dirtiest bits of work the Fates could possibly have given. As it had fallen upon him, and what was to be done must be done, why according to his notion the sooner it was over the better. When they had stretched him out on the floor they folded the skirts of his dress about his legs, and then, taking a large corn-sack, carefully drew it over the whole, and stitched up the end.

  Joe then went down a few stairs and dragged it upon his back like a sack of flour. It was a great weight, and many were the stops and stumbles before he reached the door of the kitchen, where he propped it up against the wall to take breath, while Ann placed the dip candle she had been holding to light him down in an old horn lantern. When she was ready Joe again hoisted his burden on his back, and stumbled along the passage; then very slowly they crossed the farm-yard, Ann going a little in advance with the lantern. It was a damp, dark night—not a star was to be seen; the branches of the old trees in front of the house, which were dimly visible as the light flickered for a moment across their broad trunks, moaned and creaked in the wind. All the familiar things surrounding them, as they made their way to the ruin, seemed to partake of their horror; even the merry little beck below the fold had changed its every-day chatter with the stones in its bed to a melancholy chant. Not a word did they speak to each other during the frequent pauses which had to be made for breath ere they reached the hole that Joe had dug. Once there, they soon lowered their burden into it, and threw in the bundle. Then, seizing his spade, Joe filled up the grave as fast as possible, only pausing now and then to stamp down the earth more firmly.

  At length the last spadeful had been thrown in, the last stamp given, and a few loose stones piled up carelessly over the place, to hide any sign of recent digging. Then Joe broke the silence.

  “Theer,” he said, wiping his hot brow with his jacket sleeve, “that’s done. He’ll do naebody no harm now. Coom, lass, we’ll ga heam, we’ve done a’ we can,” and drawing his wife’s hand through his arm, as he had never done since the day of their wedding, they left the ruin, re-crossed the field beneath the trees, and entering their house, stood by the fire. Here at last Ann fairly gave way; she drew her hand from her husband’s arm, and sank shivering upon her low rocking-chair.

  “Oh,” she said, “I carn’t bide it, I canna bide to stop in t’ hoose; it will be as if he was alius liggan theer. Thee mun niver gang away agaen, Joe,” and the matter-of-fact, unimpressionable daleswoman clung to her husband like a child.

  “Whist, lass,” he said, soothingly, putting his brown hand upon her shoulder, “thee munna tak on seha, thee could nut heve done different. If thee hadn’t been middlin’ sharp wid him, he’d ha’ seun doon for thee an’ lal Joe wid his lang knife; thee munna set sic mich by it. We can do nae mair nor we hev done. Nobbut keep it til ourselves, and niver let on’ at he iver coomed nar t’ hoose.”

  Time passed on, Joe and Ann lived many long years in this house, for they feared that if they left, some new tenant might dig about the ruin. Often, when the short autumn and winter afternoons drew to their close, Ann would leave her warm seat by the fire and cross the yard to speak to Joe in the barn, for she could bear to stay in the house alone no longer; and later on, at night, when she sat knitting while her husband was asleep in his armchair, if she raised her eyes from her work, she could fancy she saw the long, shapeless figure stretched out on the sconce, with the fat dropping on to the floor.

  After their death, in some way a whisper of the tale began to float about from one farm kitchen to another. How it got out no one knew, but one thing I know, and that is, that when, after standing empty for a year or two, the house was let again, the farmer and his wife, on a certain night each year, used to see an indistinct figure, all muffled up about the head, enter the kitchen and stretch itself on the sconce, then in a few min
utes a choked kind of scream would sound through the room, and the figure would disappear. The next night the same figure stepped from the wool niche, glided noiselessly down the stairs, and disappeared in the ruins of the “Nanny Horns.”

  *rushes

  †A reference to the story of Jael and Sisera from the Book of Judges in the Old Testament.

  THE HIDDEN DOOR

  by Vernon Lee

  1887

  Vernon Lee was a pseudonym of Violet Paget. The daughter of British expatriates, she was born in France and spent most of her life “on the Continent,” as the British say, mostly in Italy.

  A committed feminist and pacifist, she was known for adopting masculine dress and had long-term relationships with three women: the poet Mary Robinson; the writer and art theorist Clementina “Kit” Caroline Anstruther-Thomson; and the writer Amy Levy. She also forged lasting relationships with the Italian artist Telemaco Signorini and the scholar Mario Praz.

  Although she is best known today for her weird fiction, she also wrote extensively on Italian art and history, and was regarded as an authority on the Italian Renaissance. Many of her tales of the uncanny are set in Italy, among the large and polyglot expatriate communities that had grown up in Florence, Venice, and Italy’s other great cities.

  While unusual in its English setting, “The Hidden Door” shares many of Lee’s favorite themes and motifs. She was particularly fascinated by the effects of guilt on the over-wrought imagination, and its ability to plunge even a rational mind into superstitious dread. First published in Unwin’s Annual for 1887 and reprinted the same year in the American multi-author anthology The Witching Time: Tales for the Year’s End, this is one of Lee’s less well-known tales, but it is easily the equal of more commonly collected stories like “Amour Dure” and “The Legend of Madame Krasinska.”

  It seemed to Decimus Little that there could be no doubt left. His only wonder was whether any one else had been near making that discovery. As he sat in a deep window of the big drawing-room, the light of the candles falling yellow upon the shining white arms and shoulders, the shining white expanses of shirt-front, the lustrous silks and lustrous black cloth within doors; the great wave of moor and fell unfurling grayish-green in the pale-blue twilight without; as he sat there alone in the window, he wondered how it would be if any of these creatures assembled for the coming of age of the heir of Hotspur Hall could guess that he knew. His eyes mechanically followed the tall figure of his host, as his broad shoulders and gray beard appeared and reappeared in the crowd; they sought out the yellow ridge of curls of the son and heir, as his head rose and fell while talking to the ladies in the corner. What if either of them could guess? If old Sir Hugh Hotspur could guess that there was in the world another creature beside himself who knew the position of that secret door; if young Hotspur could guess that there existed close by another man who might, any day, penetrate into that secret chamber to which, at the close of these merry-making days, the youth must be solemnly admitted, to lose, during that fatal hour among unspeakable mysteries, all lightness of heart for ever?