She goes into her room and changes her apron. I wait until she gathers the food I left on the steps and descends. I hear the sounds of welcome and Henry’s laughter below. Then I shut the door to the chamber, promising myself I’ll find the key. Agnes is right. It’s time to confront Father.
I know what I must do. I go to my bedchamber and, checking that no one follows, prise up the loose floorboard. I’ll take the coins and return them, along with the mystery of where each one was found. Though I’ve spent sleepless nights searching for an explanation, I’ve found none. I’d thought that in keeping them from him I was sparing him the same worries, but perhaps I was wrong. He knows the old rhyme as well as anyone. And when he hears of the dead lambs and the nature of their killings, he will have to listen. Perhaps he will have answers. I’m sure he’s keeping something from me. What did Agnes mean when she said he knows more than he says?
The red velvet pouch is where I left it, next to the ebony box. As soon as I lift it I know by the absence of weight that something is missing. There’s no chink of metal on metal. I untie the drawstring and tip the bag upside down, hoping beyond sense that I’m wrong. My mother’s ring falls into my palm, but the coins are gone.
Chapter 19
I do not tell Father about the coins. Instead I seek out the key to the old bedchamber, turn the lock, thread the key through a length of twine and knot it around my neck. I put the red velvet pouch back under the floorboards, next to the ebony box, swallow my horror, and say nothing at all.
No one knows of my secret hiding place, not even Agnes, and I can find no reasonable explanation this time. It cannot be rats in the chimney, a gust of wind or a stray branch tapping at the windowpane. I tell no one. I go to bed each night expecting to be woken by fleet footsteps, or strange sounds coming from the old bedchamber. I sleep badly, if at all.
These thoughts plague my mind as I walk the fell-side, looking out over my land. It’s dusk, a midsummer sky of apricot and swallows, peat smoke and the trill of stonechats. The breeze carries the rich charred scent of the tar pot from the field behind the barn where we’ve been clipping the flock for the last three days. Thin rain threatens to soak the fleeces, so we clear a place at the back of the barn, beneath the hayloft, to lay them out. My hands are red and raw from picking them over, folding and rolling them into a stack where the floor is dry. I do not want to store them in the house this year, so the barn slowly fills with the sweet, oatmeal smell of wool.
We have two clippers, men we know and trust, and they work fast. We are all up at first light, the days passing in a blur of glittering shears and the clamour of the waiting flock. The air is thick with the smell of tar and the stench of scorched fleece as we mark each newly shorn sheep with the Scarcross smit.
These few days will determine the year ahead as the quality of the fleece and the price it will bring come clear. A good year will mean a profitable portion from the worsted weavers and coin enough to see us fed through the winter, perhaps a little more to put by. A bad year will mean a lean season, and little bargaining power for years to come. I’ve known farms suffer sorely from rot and fly-strike, the poor fleeces that result and bad word of mouth. A good reputation takes years to build and can be lost in a single summer. But the signs are good: the men are making progress and tonight Ambrose has let them finish before dusk. It’s midsummer’s eve and they must have their time to drink.
I do not join them. Instead I walk the fell. I want to be alone with my flock, my thoughts and the moor. As I stop and look over the chimneys of Scarcross Hall, dark fingers pointing skywards against a horizon of brilliant orange, and the fell, dotted with pale bodies – the brand-new fleece of the shorn sheep – I cannot feel the joy of it. My burdens press too heavy.
It’s not just the mystery of the coins, or the unexplained noise in the old bedchamber, or the slaughtered lambs, or even the uncanny sensation I’ve had of being watched – it’s what Agnes said about the Devil that stalks my thoughts tonight.
I am a sinner. This is true. I’ve sinned in thought and deed, with Henry Ravens and others before him. And, though I put my soul in peril, I’m not as sorry as I should be. I’ve questioned the Bible’s teachings and discarded my father’s piety in favour of a different kind of worship. I’ve made an idol of the land, my passions, my own selfish desires. Could it be that this devilment in me is the reason for these strange events?
Satan is known for his trickery. He takes on other forms and sends his demons to do his work. He’s drawn to those with moral weakness because they are easier to corrupt. Pastor Flynn preaches of the dangers of temptation, of the trials we must undergo on the path to salvation. Am I the one being tested? Am I being punished for my sinful past?
Some way to the east I see a figure silhouetted on the skyline, making slow progress towards the White Ladies. Ellis Ferreby has volunteered for the night watch. It seems he has no thirst tonight either. For a brief moment I’m tempted to go to him, to tell him the full scope of my worries. I long to confide in someone and he’s so closed and silent I’m sure he would not repeat my secrets. But, no. I must shoulder this alone.
By the time I return to Scarcross Hall the twilight is fading. I walk towards the gate in the wall nearest the kitchen and watch the hens roosting in the old coop by the outhouse. From here I can see the glow of a fire in the brazier outside the barn, hear the merry hum and chatter of the men. I pause a moment and watch, hidden in shadow where they cannot see me. They’re seated on upturned troughs and pails, faces lit by flame. There’s a peal of laughter and one man – one of the clippers – stands and begins an unsteady jig while the others mock him. Even if I wanted to join them, I cannot, forever divided by who and what I am.
‘I knew you’d come.’
Henry is drunk, slurring, but he’s managed to creep to my side without my knowing. He thrusts a half-drained bottle towards me. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Mercy. Have a drink with me.’
The desire to lose myself is strong. I take the bottle. The liquor is rough and stings my throat, but it feels good.
‘I haven’t seen you for weeks,’ Henry says.
‘You see me every day.’ I take a good mouthful.
He comes closer. ‘Don’t be coy, Mercy.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
He smiles, takes the bottle and drinks. ‘Hard work usually gives you an appetite. Come on, it’s midsummer’s eve . . .’ He sways a few steps closer and puts a hand on my waist, drawing me towards him so I catch the potent scent of his sweat and the tobacco on his breath. ‘I knew you’d come back to me. You always do. You can’t help yourself.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Come.’ He puts the bottle by his feet and places both hands on me, runs one down to grope my buttock. He glances back over his shoulder towards the men outside the barn, then noses my neck. ‘Let me have you here – they can’t see us.’
Suddenly it seems to me that I’m in the arms of a stranger. I’ve always known that Henry Ravens is not a good man. I’ve no romantic notions about him and tell myself no lies, but now I see something I’ve not seen before – something sordid beneath the well-made cheek, the cajoling eyes, the greedy smile. He’s a handsome man with an ugly heart. I knew this deep down, but it has never mattered to me before.
‘No. I don’t want that.’ I push him away but he holds on tight.
‘Let’s not play this game. Let’s go to the stables.’ He gives me that smile, but instead of melting me, it hardens me. I know suddenly that I no longer want him and it is over between us.
‘Henry, this has to stop.’
‘You always say that, and you never mean it.’ He raises a hand to my breast and squeezes.
It has no effect. I push myself away. ‘I mean it this time.’
He must see I’m in earnest because he stops his pawing. ‘Why are you angry? How can you be pettish on a night like this?’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
I barely understand this sudden change myself but I know I owe him no explanation. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Mercy . . .’ He reaches for me once more but I sidestep out of reach.
‘I won’t come to you again, and you must not seek me out. Do you understand?’
‘What’s the matter? Has Jasper Flynn scared you with his sermons? Are you frightened for your soul?’ He laughs, a horrid, grating sound that contains no humour. ‘It’s far too late for a whore like you.’
‘I mean it. We must stop. And you won’t talk to me like that. Do you understand?’
His laughter dies and instead a hard glint comes into his eye. ‘I see. So, you mean to have him, then? Or have you had him already? I expect so.’
I don’t need to ask who he means. ‘You misunderstand me.’
‘I think not. I see how he stares at you.’
‘You’re imagining things. I’ll hear no more of this. You’ll not come to me again. From now on you’ll leave me be.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do. And you can’t expect me to stand by and watch some other man take my place.’
‘You’ll watch your tongue, if you want to keep your wage.’
‘You think threats will buy my silence?’
‘I won’t bargain with you. It’s over between us, that’s all.’
‘It’s not over till I say so. What would your father think, if he knew? And Garrick? And your godly pastor? There are names for women like you. Women are hanged for less.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That you should think well before you threaten me. I’m not done with you, Mercy Booth, and if you think Ellis Ferreby a better man than me, think again.’
‘You cannot force me. I’ll turn you out.’
He laughs again and in that moment I despise him.
‘You won’t do that. You’ve too much at stake.’
Though I’ve every right to banish him from my land, I know one word from him could bring the fury of the world down upon my head: adulteress. The law has little pity for unwed women, especially those like me. And I would be powerless to stop the terrible consequences, because his accusations would be true.
I have done this to myself. I’ve not been careful, or prudent. I’ve taken my selfish pleasures with no thought for others, no mind for justice. I might say I’ll take my punishment gladly, but that would be a lie too. I’ve no wish to end my days at the end of the hangman’s rope. And I cannot do it to Father. The disgrace would destroy him. If he knew what I truly am, it would break his heart. And what would become of the farm, with no one to take my place? I realise, with horror, that Henry Ravens has the power to destroy everything I’ve built here. How did I ever allow it? How could I have been so blind?
‘All lovers quarrel,’ Henry says. ‘It increases the heat between them. Can you not feel it?’
He comes closer again and grips both my arms, fingers digging in so hard the flesh will bruise. ‘Come to the stables with me now . . .’
I am trapped. Though the thought repels me, I will have to do as he says.
Just then, I hear the kitchen door open and Agnes, panicked: ‘Mercy, is that you?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Thank the Lord. Come quickly.’
I look Henry in the eye, bolder now. ‘Leave me be. Don’t come to me again.’ Then I pull myself from his grip and slip quickly through the gate.
Agnes stands on the threshold, lantern aloft, squinting into the darkness. ‘Have you seen your father?’
‘No.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Walking the fell.’
She frowns. ‘And you’ve not seen him, in the barn or the stables?’
‘Agnes, what’s wrong?’
I follow her inside where she sets the lantern down on the table, returns to the door and locks it. She looks distressed, eyes darting into the shadowed corners of the room. ‘I can’t find him.’
‘Is he not in his chamber? There’s a light at his window.’
‘You don’t understand. He’s gone. I don’t know what to do.’
I recognise the look in her eye – the same I saw the night she told me about the coin beneath her pillow. She’s afraid – afraid deep in her bones. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle. ‘Agnes, what’s happened?’
She snatches up the lantern and leads me out into the hall. The candle casts long shadows, the flame mirrored in the windowpanes. As I pass the empty fireplace I catch the scent of ash and charred wood.
Agnes takes the back stairs up to the gallery, avoiding the steps that lead past the old bedchamber. Instead she makes her way to Father’s room.
The door is ajar, a stub of candle burns on the sill. The bedclothes are in disarray and the chest beneath the window has been thrown open. The contents – old clothes and boots – are strewn about the room, as if he’s been frantically searching for something. I notice the wooden box that Agnes found in the old bedchamber lies open on the bed, empty, the small leather shoes gone. The air is chill – at midsummer we need no fires – but again there’s an acrid, burning smell beneath the greasy scent of tallow.
‘I found it like this,’ Agnes says. ‘And look . . .’
She goes over to the window and bends, holding the lantern up to the panelling. This was a fine room once, but the paint is flaking off the oak and damp is creeping down the wall from the casement. Near the floor, rising in an arc, is a set of sooty marks, each one the shape of a hand. They run from the floor, like birds rising to flight, up to the side of the chest where a single print rests.
Thin fingers of dismay tighten around my throat so it feels suddenly hard to breathe.
I reach out but Agnes slaps my hand away. She’s trembling. ‘No! Don’t touch it.’
I hover my palm. The hand is much smaller than mine – the size of a child’s.
‘I found him weeping,’ Agnes says. ‘Here, on the floor, weeping as if his heart were broken. I’ve not seen him cry like that. Not since your mother . . .’
The thick, charred scent reminds me of the tar pots. There are children about the farm, Sam and a couple of others come to watch the clippers at work. Perhaps one of them did this. Tentatively I extend a single finger and touch one of the marks while Agnes cowers. My fingertip comes back dry, not sticky and black as I expect.
‘When I asked him what was wrong, he flew into a rage,’ Agnes says. ‘He pushed me out of the door and I fell.’ She rubs at her knee as if to prove the hurt. ‘So I left him.’
I run my finger over the other prints. There is no tarry residue, nothing at all to the touch, except a strange emanation, a peculiar sensation that reminds me of the sickroom, an atmosphere of rot and decay. A terrible thought rises – a memory of the deathbed.
‘I was angry,’ Agnes goes on. ‘But after a time I felt sorry and brought some caudle up to comfort him.’ She indicates a cup at the bedside, long since turned cold and congealed. ‘But he was gone and the room as you see it. Then I saw this.’ She clutches at my sleeve with desperate eyes. ‘What does it mean?’
I have no answer for her.
Chapter 20
He hears her before he sees her, the sound of someone moving through the heather jolting him from his reverie. His senses are attuned to the night sounds of the moor – the whisper of the wind, the pit-pit of the peewits, the eerie churr of the nightjar, the crunch and tear of foraging sheep – and the sound of something other calls to him.
He sees the candle lantern she carries and knows instinctively that it’s her by the flare in his chest. He feels relief at the presence of something human. Even cocooned by the mild midsummer air and lit by a bright moon, the White Ladies make him uneasy. He has taken to avoiding the place but something dre
w him here, on this night when the year hinges. As he approached he had ignored his quickening heartbeat and the sense of disquiet, hoping to find answers, and had been almost disappointed to find the stones silent and deserted. There is no forbidding presence, no mutilated lambs, just the moor and moon shadows. Lulled by the heady night scents of damp peat and solstice bonfires, he had rested against the Slaying Stone and sunk into half-dream – a respite from the pressing thoughts that fill his head.
He straightens as she approaches. She’s wearing the look she has when something is wrong and she’s trying to conceal it.
‘Ellis, have you seen anyone up here tonight?’
‘No, Mistress.’
She holds the lantern high and peers into the darkness beyond its cast. ‘I was sure . . .’ She places the lamp on the Slaying Stone, then strides to one of the uprights and circles it, peering out across the wide stretch of moor.
He watches for a while. ‘There’s no one here but me.’
She does not reply, but moves around the circle, then returns to his side. Within the glow of lamplight he feels held, protected, but it’s harder to see beyond its beam. Suddenly, where the moon had given light enough, all is shadow and pitch.
Her face is cross-hatched with worry lines. ‘My father is gone from Scarcross Hall,’ she says. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Master Booth knows this land better than anyone,’ he offers. ‘If he’s taken a night-time stroll, he’ll find his way back.’
‘He never goes out after dusk.’
‘Perhaps he went to the village. The tavern will be merry tonight. Is his horse gone from the stables?’
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 14
