The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  It will be time, soon, to bring the flock down from the moor top, to grease the lambs they are keeping and choose which will go to market. There have been no more dead sheep, save the two they have butchered and salted. She had asked him to do the killing and watched, hawkish, as he slit throats, quickly, efficiently, and collected the red fluid in pails, to be saved for blood sausage. At least there will be a supply of salt mutton, winter hares and moorland birds when all else runs dry.

  They had not heard the news until after the funeral, so no one from Scarcross Hall had been present as John Bestwicke was put into the ground. The miserable wooden cross that marks the fresh grave is on the opposite side of the churchyard, waiting for the headstone that Booth has promised. As Ellis lingered beside it, the familiar angry flame igniting in his belly, all he could think of was the fire that killed the man, how close he had come to the same fate, and Henry Ravens’s sneering smile.

  Now he kneels, the damp soaking through his breeches, and tugs brambles away from the Falconer stone, pushing aside a pile of fiery yellow leaves that have gathered at its base.

  Was it the weather that beat them? he wonders. Was it the winter? Did they suffer and starve, trapped by drifts of blinding bright snow, suffocating inside Scarcross Hall? Or was it something else? Something more sinister?

  They’ve come back, Booth had said. Is it possible that the things that have happened – the dead lambs, the ancient coins, the fire in the barn, the strange rhythmic sounds he sometimes hears at night from behind the locked door of an empty chamber – could have been caused by something as insubstantial as spirit? They have the taint of forewarning, of ill will, of witchery – the reek of the Devil.

  She’s afraid. She fights hard not to show it, and others would not see it, but she cannot conceal it from him.

  He thinks of the promise he made. Perhaps he should not have done so. He does not believe in promises: he has known too many broken and the word has lost all meaning. But, in that moment, he had meant it.

  She stirs a strange conflict of feeling in him, of which he has never known the like. He feels an urge to protect her, to offer himself into her service, like a knight in the stories of chivalry that Betsy used to tell him, but in doing so, he betrays himself. Sitting there, her large bare feet turning deathly white with cold, he was aware of her nakedness beneath her gown; the broad sweep of her shoulders, the hard, lean muscles of her thighs. He could smell her: brine and spice, a faint yeasty tang of fermenting grain and sheep grease. He felt a twitch between his legs and had to turn away.

  It has been a long time since he knew a woman, but he despises himself for this sign of weakness. He must not let himself think in this way, not even for a moment. And yet the thoughts come. He cannot prevent them.

  Instead, he looks again at the headstone and pictures the three dead bodies, with the three golden coins in their mouths.

  Garrick had spoken of others: another tragedy, an earlier horror. Are those poor souls here too? Behind the grave, in the tangle of thorns and nettles, there is no sign of another stone. The Falconer inscription proves relatives and riches; he doubts those that came before – simple farming folk, as Garrick told it – had either. He stands and pushes his way to the centre of the patch, feeling the soft moss beneath his boots, the telltale give in the ground. He squats, pushing weeds aside, ignoring the nettles stinging his hands, and exposes a small tumbled cairn of riverbed pebbles: a grave marker for those who could not afford one.

  He feels the low pull of guilt: he had not been able to give Betsy even that.

  Pushing further through the thorns, he finds more collections of stones – smaller, half buried and moss-covered, easily mistaken. But he knows this is the place. He senses the same at the White Ladies: the corruption of unnatural, brutal death.

  A presence. Someone is watching him.

  The first drops of rain patter in the canopy. He knew it would rain again today, could smell it. There is a dull thud as a spiked green seedpod lands next to him and splits open to reveal the gleaming russet nut within. As another lands, this time to his left, he hears the crack of twigs snapping underfoot.

  He freezes, listening hard. Silence. His hand creeps automatically to the hilt of the knife tucked beneath the ties of his breeches.

  The crunch of dried leaves. Slowly he stands, still facing the graves, senses alert, quivering. A cold breath on his neck. There is someone behind him. He can feel it.

  When he turns he does so suddenly, spinning about, blade drawn and ready.

  The boy yelps, tosses another horse-chestnut. This time it hits Ellis in the chest.

  ‘Sam,’ he says, feeling the tension leave him, almost laughing in relief.

  The boy is glaring, face curd-white and angry. Then he turns and darts off between the headstones, a rabbit chased down by hounds.

  ‘Wait!’

  But Sam disappears into the trees on the far side of the coffin path. Ellis can hear him crashing through the bracken.

  He goes to where the boy was standing. Next to him is a small headstone. A little pile of objects has been arranged upon it: three tiger-striped feathers, one pure white, trapped beneath a fist-sized lump of rock. On top of that is a small bird’s skull with a coal-black beak – a magpie.

  He picks up the skull and the rock, turning them in his hands. The underside of the rock glints copper, almost the same colour as the boy’s hair.

  Then he looks at the gravestone.

  William Garrick

  Buried 1672

  Aged 5 yrs

  A brother? A twin?

  A breath of wind ruffles the feathers and lifts the downy white one into the air. Ellis watches it ride the breeze for a moment, then catches it and puts it back with the others, arranging the strange offering exactly as Sam had left it.

  Chapter 29

  I find Father in the walled garden, standing between two rows of ragged cabbages, prodding at their small green heads with his cane.

  It’s one of those rare bright mornings when the mists disperse to reveal swift strings of white cloud at the horizon. The trees are turning flame orange, ochre and yellow, shaking off leaves that collect in the crannies. Autumn ivy streaks like wildfire across the face of Scarcross Hall. New holly berries shine like glass raindrops. The crisp air is scented with wood smoke from the charcoal fires in the valley. Usually, I would relish a morning like this, delight in the turning of the season, but knowing it could be the last time serves to increase the sickness in my gut.

  Bracken is lively, desperate to get out on the fell. She bounds down the path to meet Father, who greets her with surprise. ‘Well, who do we have here?’ He bends to rub between her ears as if she’s a lapdog. She bounces away and back again, takes a nip at his cane. ‘Where have you come from?’ he says. ‘And what brings you to my garden?’

  ‘You know Bracken, Father,’ I say. He looks up and I see he has the faraway expression of which I’ve become so wary, when he seems to gaze right through me, as if I’m flimsy as a spider’s web. He looks back at the dog: she has the cane between her jaws, tugging at it, backside wriggling.

  ‘Bracken,’ he says, no hint of recognition.

  ‘Yes – my working dog.’

  He’s suddenly irritated, flapping a hand at me and wrenching the cane from Bracken’s jaws. ‘I know that.’

  I call her and she comes to heel, waits until I give the signal, trots away to worry a pair of roosting pigeons.

  ‘What are you doing out here in the cold?’

  He looks about, distracted. I notice there’s a darker patch on his breeches, spreading from his groin and down one thigh.

  ‘Are you unwell?’

  A flare of temper. ‘Of course not, child. Why should I be unwell? When have you ever known me to fall ill?’ He’s already forgotten the chills and agues that have plagued him lately, the periods of fasting t
hat have left him weak. He turns and prods at the head of a nearby cabbage. ‘Look here. Slugs. We must tell the gardener to be more vigilant.’

  ‘We don’t have a gardener, Father. We have only Agnes, and Dority comes to help when she can. You know this.’

  He mumbles something to himself, walks away and sits on a low stone bench at the far side of the plot, resting his cane across his knees. It’s made from his old shepherd’s crook. Ambrose shortened it for him when it became clear he’d no longer need it to work the flock. He likes to run his hand over the smooth, worn bow, an unconscious habit, and does so now, lost in thought.

  I sit next to him and for a few minutes we stay silent, watching Bracken follow the scent of some small creature, quarrying in the dirt. I can smell the acrid tang of urine rising from his clothes. A surge of concern and tenderness swells in me but I must ask the questions that have been burning since my conversation with Ellis. I’ve been waiting for the right time, but ever since, Father has been either absent-minded, angry or both. I realise there will never be a right time, and I cannot wait any longer.

  ‘Father, who is Master Pollock?’

  He ignores me, smiling as Bracken finds a stick to chew.

  ‘Can you hear me, Father? I said, “Who is Master Pollock?”’

  ‘Of course I can hear you, child. I’m not deaf yet. Pollock . . . I don’t know any Pollock.’

  ‘You’ve been writing to him.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I’ve seen the letters.’

  ‘Is he a merchant? One of the cloth men from Halifax?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ Impatient, I struggle to keep my voice level. ‘He’s the man who wants to buy Scarcross Hall.’

  He looks to the sky and sniffs the air. ‘When is it St Luke’s Day? It cannot be long before we must put the ewes to tup.’

  I cannot believe he would continue this pretence. I fail to keep the anger from my tone. ‘I know, Father. I know what you’re planning. How could you even think of it?’

  He turns to me at last. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’

  ‘I know you’re lying. I’ve seen the letters.’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘From Master Pollock’s land agent. I found them on your desk.’

  Now it’s his turn to be angry. ‘What were you doing in my study? My correspondence is private.’

  ‘Why are you lying to me?’

  ‘You dare call me a liar?’

  ‘You always promised that Scarcross would be mine one day.’

  He turns away, hiding his face. He cannot deny it.

  ‘Scarcross Hall is my home,’ I go on, frustration fuelling my fire. ‘I’ve never known any other. I’ll not leave it. You promised me. Ever since I was a girl, you promised it would be mine. I’ve spent my whole life believing it. Believing you.’

  He’s silent awhile, his face in conflict. Then he stands and paces. I can see he’s battling with something.

  ‘Please, Father. Please tell me the truth.’

  Eventually he returns to my side. His expression seems clearer, as if my upset has fetched him back to his right mind.

  ‘My dear, it will be better for you in the end.’

  ‘So you admit it?’

  ‘I admit I have considered it.’

  ‘Then why conceal it from me?’

  ‘I must think of your future. When I go to meet God, what will become of you?’

  ‘I will go on as before. Just like we always have.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That will not be possible.’

  ‘But that’s what the Booths do. You said so yourself—’

  ‘I know what I said. Did that man tell you this?’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The dark one . . . Ferreby. I knew I should not have trusted him. I see the way he looks at you . . .’

  There’s no sense in dragging Ellis into the argument. He only broke his word to help me. I must protect him. ‘No. I told you – I found letters.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He takes a deep breath and sighs, weary, defeated. ‘Well, perhaps it’s time you knew the truth. Mercy, I cannot leave Scarcross Hall to you, and nor would I if I could. It’s not safe here any more. You know this by now.’

  My first impulse is to argue but he holds up a hand to silence me. ‘I’ve thought for some time that my best course of action is to sell and leave you with a sum of money to begin again elsewhere. But I know how you love your old home . . .’ He reaches out as if to stroke my cheek in a rare display of affection, then drops it back to the bow of his crook. ‘I do not do it to hurt you, child, but to protect you. Something evil is at work here. For a long time I thought I could keep it at bay . . .’

  I see he is truthful, and deep in my heart I know he is right. He’s sad and scared. I know I should not be angry when he’s trying to be a good father to me, however misguided his thinking, but the thought of leaving all that matters to me brings a hollow ache to my chest, more real and urgent than the fear I feel, and his duplicity makes me furious.

  ‘Of course I heard the stories when I first came here, but I dismissed them. I believed that God would protect us. I thought I could protect us. And while I live, I may yet, but when I’m gone . . .’

  ‘What do you fear will happen?’

  He says nothing, just shakes his head. He is so sorrowful, so resigned, he can barely keep tears from his eyes. I cannot stand to see him like that – where is the strong, wilful man I have depended on for so long?

  ‘Please, Father. I could not bear to leave. Scarcross Hall is everything to me.’

  He studies me sadly.

  I swallow my anger and take both his hands in mine. This is my chance to persuade him. ‘I promise, Father, that if Scarcross Hall is to become mine, I shall protect it as you have done. I shall bring the pastor here every week. I shall pray. I shall fast. I shall live as you wish, and God will keep me safe.’

  He sighs and hangs his head. ‘I believe you would try, but it’s not as simple as you would have it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Even if I could reconcile myself to the thought of your staying, my hands are bound by law. I must leave all my property to a male heir.’

  My heart seems to rise into my throat, then plummet, to thump erratically against my ribs. ‘But I am your only heir.’

  He’s silent for a few moments. Then, ‘I’ve no choice, Mercy. Merion Booth, your great-grandfather, insisted that any fortune be entailed to the male line. I made that promise to my own father.’

  ‘But there is no male line.’

  ‘The lawyers have a way of finding one. I had a cousin once. I know not what became of him but I believe he had sons. Besides, even if a male heir could be found, I think it best to cut the ties completely.’

  I don’t know what to say. The thought of Scarcross Hall in the hands of some stranger who has no care for the place, who has never even set eyes upon it, makes my blood boil. And not just that: I’m shocked at the calm, matter-of-fact way in which he speaks, as if he has not just admitted to a lifelong deception.

  I cannot control my feelings any longer. I stand and face him. ‘How can you speak so? Do you not understand that you have betrayed me?’

  ‘Mercy—’

  ‘All my life I’ve put you above any other. I’ve done as you asked. I’ve trusted you. To find out you’ve lied to me all this time . . .’ I have to pause for breath as the true scale of his falsehood hits me. My trust in him, my reliance upon him, shatters about my feet. He has been the lodestar around which I have centred my life. I feel unsteady, as if my whole world is shifting. ‘I know there’s something amiss here. I feel it too. But how can we protect ourselves if you keep the truth from me?’ I turn away from him, more determined than ever. ‘I won’t leave. I can’t. This place is my life.’

  He looks shoc
ked. ‘Then it has worked its wicked magic on you too.’

  ‘I want nothing else. This is all I know and all I need.’

  ‘You need only your faith . . .’

  ‘It’s God’s will that I remain here. I know it.’

  ‘Oh, my child, how can you be so sure? How can you know it’s not the Devil that draws you?’

  I’ve asked myself the same question, but what does it matter if I lie to him, as he has lied to me? ‘Father, I’m in no danger. You must believe me.’

  He sighs deeply, and leans forward, head in hands, guilt at his lies written in the cleft of his brow. ‘Oh, Lord, what should I do?’

  ‘There must be a way,’ I say. ‘And we will find it together, if you forget this plan. Please, Father, let me stay.’

  He sits for a time, lips moving in silent prayer. Then, ‘There is a way. If you were to marry . . . a child . . .’

  In truth, I’m not surprised, but my heart sinks. When I was younger he often urged me to seek a husband but, witnessing my broken hope, and the death of it in the years since, he gave up, as I did. I thought he understood. ‘You’ve said yourself, I’m not the sort of woman men take as a wife.’

  ‘In the past perhaps I have said that, but you’re still of childbearing age – it’s not too late. And, until your son comes of age, you could manage affairs on his behalf. It could be arranged. A match could be made.’

  ‘I don’t need a husband. I need Scarcross Hall to be mine, as you promised.’

  ‘If we pick the right man, little need change.’