The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  ‘How dare you question me?’ Briggs says. ‘After everything I’ve done for you and that whore you call mother.’

  ‘We owe you nothing! You’ve brought nothing but trouble and pain. I wish you’d leave and never come back. I wish you were dead!’

  Briggs swings for him again but misses. Boy backs up against the wall. Behind Briggs, Gretchen stands, unsteady, clutching her neck, and stumbles towards the door.

  Briggs grabs Boy’s arms and pins them against the wall. He leans in close, so he can feel spittle on his face as Briggs speaks. ‘All I wanted was to teach you a lesson – to show you what it means to be a man. Curses to God and damnation to the Devil, a real man does what he will and to Hell with everyone else.’

  Over Briggs’s shoulder, he sees Gretchen reach the door, lift the catch and slip outside.

  ‘I don’t know why I’ve wasted my time on you. You always were a milksop. Well, if you can’t stand up for yourself, you won’t be needing this.’ He raises a knee, full force into Boy’s groin.

  The pain shoots and spirals out from his centre. He crumples forward and Briggs lets him fall. He throws up a thin, stinking puddle onto the floor.

  ‘She should’ve left you where she found you,’ Briggs said. ‘Or, better still, let me slit your throat like I wanted.’ He takes a couple of paces away, tying his breeches, then turns back and aims a powerful kick at Boy’s stomach. Boy curls into a ball, knowing what comes next. He knows there’s no point in fighting because it only makes it worse. But today it’s different. Something flares inside him, ignited by the pain – a burning, pulsing rage spreads through his limbs like wildfire.

  ‘You know she stole you, don’t you?’ Briggs said.

  No. No, he didn’t know that.

  ‘She could’ve taken you back, when it was all over. She could’ve given you back to whatever family you had left. But she didn’t. “No one will ever know,” she said. “They’ll think he’s dead.” God knows why but that barren bitch had a hankering for a child.’

  Boy rights himself, struggles to his knees.

  ‘Bolton it was – the day we took the city for the King. Ah, now that was a day for sport.’ Briggs smiles, remembering. ‘So, you see, you don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. You should be dead. You are nobody’s son. You are nothing.’

  Briggs laughs, turning away from him and Boy sees his chance. He launches himself at the man’s back. Briggs staggers and falls, crashing down onto the table. The stool splinters under the weight of bodies, the bottle and the pistol spinning across the floor. But Briggs is bigger than him, and stronger, and he has no plan. Before he can do anything Briggs is on top of him, pinning him down. He’s smashed his nose in the fall and blood streams from it and drips into Boy’s eyes, blinding him. He can taste it – meat and iron. This is it, he thinks. Briggs will kill me now.

  There is a sudden crash – the splintering of glass – and a shower of shards explodes from behind Briggs’s head. He shuts his eyes, feeling fragments fall on his cheeks. Briggs roars and twists up and away from him. Through blood and tears he sees Betsy, broken bottle in hand, eyes wild and terrified. Behind her, Gretchen cowers.

  ‘Don’t you hurt him!’ Betsy screams. ‘I’ll die before I let you hurt him again!’

  Briggs is on her like a wolf. He sinks his teeth into her neck, almost lifts her off the floor with the force of it and she drops the bottle, arms dangling limp by her sides. Then, Briggs lets out a terrible howl, a battle cry. He tosses her against the wall. There is a bone-crunching crack as her head smacks against brick. She sinks to the floor and slumps forward, eyes rolled white, the front of her bodice already slick with blood.

  Ellis has never been sure what happened next. He remembers it as if he’d dreamed it, or as if it had happened to someone else and he knows only the story, recounted second hand. But he remembers the furnace-hot fire of his rage because sometimes it still flares up in him. He recalls the gun in his hand, the force of the recoil as he pulled the trigger. Most of all he remembers the feeling – a whirlpool of elation, relief and incomparable pleasure – when, somehow, the bullet found its mark and gobbets of Briggs’s brain splattered across the lime-washed ceiling.

  And he remembers the words, Briggs’s lesson, burned into his mind, the words that have led him here: You are nobody’s son. You are nothing.

  Chapter 44

  Ellis comes in through the kitchen door, stamping snow from his boots. I’m waiting by the fire. I’ve banished Sam to his chamber and Agnes still keeps vigil by my father’s body. I must be alone for this.

  It all makes sense now – why Ellis came here, why he stayed, why he refused me for so long. In these last few hours, I’ve relived every conversation, every touch, every moment of connection between us, seeing it all with unveiled eyes. I think of the way he watched Father, silent and hawkish, the way I would feel his stare following me. He must have known. Has he been marking his time, planning, deceiving me all along . . . and to what purpose?

  I feel betrayed, blind, angry and, most of all, lost. I cannot undo what has been done. The sin is too great. No amount of prayer and penitence will wash the stain from my soul or purge the evil I have let into my heart.

  He peels off his thick coat, unwinds his neckerchief and takes off his hat, a dusting of snowflakes falling to the flags. He blows on his hands to warm them and comes towards the fire, reaching for me. He sees me flinch, must read my expression because he falters, confusion rising. The smile drops and the familiar deep creases appear at his brow.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I say nothing. I look away, watching the flames as they take hold of a fresh clod of peat.

  He unhooks the pistol from his belt and places it on the table.

  He stops.

  I watch his face alter as he sees the ebony box, the key on the table beside it. I see the moment of shock, when all the lies fall away and he can no longer hide behind them.

  He picks up the key.

  ‘Open it,’ I say.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘This belongs to me.’

  ‘Open the box.’

  He stares at me for a few seconds. His hand shakes as he slides the key into the lock – the first time he’s shown any weakness. He makes a strange moan as the key turns: disbelief, misery and elation, all at once. He lifts the lid, takes out the miniature and the locks of hair and places them one by one on the tabletop. Then he sits heavily, suddenly, with a sound as if the air has been punched out of him.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I say.

  He looks at me blankly.

  ‘Did you know when you first came here?’

  ‘It’s not so simple—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me!’ I stand, unable to contain my anger. ‘I’ll listen to no more lies.’

  He picks up the portrait. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Is it your mother?’

  The word is like a slap. ‘You will not speak of her.’

  ‘Your mother,’ he says quietly, then, looking up at me, ‘Our mother.’

  I am stopped dead as the last trace of hope fails, melting like the snowflakes on the cold stone floor. Some small part of me had hoped beyond reason that he was ignorant, that he’d acted in innocence, that some twist of fate could make us both blameless. But hope is a traitor.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I don’t recognise my own voice.

  He’s staring at the picture. I feel the urge to snatch it from him, but I’m afraid to go too close.

  ‘In some ways, I knew the first time I saw you. In others, I was not certain till now.’

  He stands and goes to the sideboard, where a jug of beer awaits. He fetches a cup, pours, drinks. Then he waits, hands pressed flat on either side of the jug. I can see his mind racing,
calculating. To my astonishment he laughs – a sound of bitter resignation, as if to say: Of course, now everything will fall apart.

  My heart is pitching, my stomach alive with snakes.

  ‘Did you find the will?’ he says.

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Did you find it?’ His tone has a sharp edge. He turns towards me, flint in his eyes. ‘Show it to me.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s my right. Show it to me.’

  ‘You have no rights.’

  He comes forward. ‘Mercy, you must show me.’

  ‘You’ve forfeited any rights here. Don’t you see what you’ve done?’

  ‘What we have done.’

  ‘No. This is your doing. You have damned us both.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? You think I’ve not spent these last months in torment? But you came to me, Mercy. You came to me.’

  ‘I’m not to blame. I didn’t know.’

  He makes a sound of disbelief. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘How could I have known?’

  ‘Ask yourself, is that true?’

  He leaves a silence into which my mind spirals. I’ve questioned that very thing over and over today. Should I have seen it? Could I have known? Did I ignore the signs, choosing to believe he was one thing because, deep inside, I wanted that thing so badly?

  ‘No – you are the liar here,’ I say.

  ‘Any lies I’ve told do not compare with those of your father.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak ill of him.’

  ‘He was a coward.’

  ‘You didn’t know him.’

  ‘He abandoned his own son.’

  ‘No. You’re wrong.’

  ‘You think you know better? You think you knew him? He deceived you. He lied to you your whole life.’

  This, I cannot deny.

  ‘Where is the will?’ he says again.

  ‘It’s gone. I burned it, as I said I would.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Yes, I am. But, I realise, that’s exactly what I must do. I know what he’s thinking: his true name is on that document, his true name as the rightful master of Scarcross Hall.

  ‘You can’t prove anything,’ I say. ‘I want you to leave here and never return.’

  ‘Listen to me—’

  ‘No. You’ll leave tonight. Now.’

  ‘I won’t do that.’

  ‘You’ll do as I say. I’m still mistress here.’

  ‘No, Mercy, you’re not.’

  ‘You cannot take Scarcross Hall away from me.’

  ‘I don’t have to take it. It’s already mine.’ He says it without triumph or emotion: a fact.

  For a few seconds we stare at each other, defiant, dangerous, like wild dogs before the attack. I see the black fire spark in his eyes. And then I run.

  I take the stairs two at a time and skirt the gallery.

  As I burst into Father’s bedchamber, Agnes is startled, a hand to her heart.

  ‘Where is it?’ I say.

  She understands. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘I must burn it. Quickly!’

  ‘Lord, save us!’ She rises, putting aside her sewing.

  I can hear Ellis following me up the stairs. ‘Quickly!’

  She slips a hand under Father’s pillow. His head tilts towards me and for one horrid moment I expect him to open his eyes. She draws out the roll of parchment, tied once more with the cord, then turns back, recoiling as Ellis reaches the door. She’s afraid of him. ‘Mercy, please, there’s more at stake than just your father’s wishes.’

  I snatch the will from her. ‘I no longer care about his wishes.’

  ‘Think about what’s right in the eyes of God. He already knows the truth,’ she says. But I’m consumed by one thought alone: I must destroy the will. No one will take Scarcross Hall away from me.

  Ellis steps into the room. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘This,’ I say, brandishing the scroll, ‘this is a lie. My father has no son. I’m his only heir.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ he says again, and in his persistence I hear a tremor of desperation.

  I make a dash towards the candlestick – the only flame in the room – but Ellis gets there first, pushing Agnes aside.

  ‘Let me see it.’

  He tries to grab the parchment but I duck away from him, heading for the door – the only lit fires in the house burn in the kitchen hearth, and in the old bedchamber where Sam now rests. But Ellis is quick. He catches me, gripping my arm, dragging me backwards with such force that I cry out. I drop the scroll and it bounces across the floorboards to Agnes’s feet. She stares at it as if it might burst into flames.

  I struggle to free myself but Ellis holds me fast. I kick at his shins and he twists one arm behind my back until it burns. He hauls me across the room, my shoulder screaming.

  ‘Please, stop!’ Agnes begs.

  ‘Burn it, Agnes! For God’s sake, put an end to this!’

  She hesitates, eyes darting to the candle behind us – there’s no way she can reach it.

  ‘Do it for me – please!’

  She bends, picks up the will and takes a step towards the door. Ellis sees everything slipping away from him. He shoves me so hard that I fall, breath knocked out of me, reeling with pain.

  Agnes makes it as far as the gallery. Ellis lunges for her, grabs her skirts and pulls her back. She holds the will out of reach, leaning out over the empty hall below.

  As I stagger to my feet, the door to the old bedchamber opens and Sam appears, shock-haired, clutching a candle.

  ‘Go back inside, Sam!’ I shout, my voice coming out strangled. ‘Go back in your room and lock the door.’

  The boy freezes as he sees the struggle, eyes wide and frightened.

  ‘Sam! Do as I say!’

  Hearing my panic, he obeys.

  Ellis grabs the laces in Agnes’s bodice and tugs her towards him. He draws back a fist, eyes all thunder and lightning. He looks like Father when the black temper descends. Why did I never see it before? But Ellis falters. He cannot do it. I snatch up the candlestick, the tallow bouncing across the boards, flame snuffed, plunging us into milk-blue moonlight. I bring the stick down on the back of Ellis’s head, feeling hard bone beneath flesh.

  He roars, shoving Agnes away. She falls awkwardly against the banister. I hear the sickening crack of brittle bone and she cries out, clinging there, unable to stand.

  Ellis is panting hard, towering over her, menacing. ‘Just give it to me.’ He stretches a hand out for the parchment, fingers smeared scarlet with his own blood.

  Agnes whimpers, swooning with pain, leaning out over the dark hall below. I should go to her. I should protect her.

  There is a sudden rush of icy air. I sense someone just behind me. A flood of dread steals my breath. I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, holding me back. I cannot move.

  Then, the sound of breaking wood, a great splintering, like a branch brought down in a storm. Agnes looks right at me and I see her terror, and the moment she knows.

  Then she’s gone, skirts flying over her head as the banister splits and she falls, taking my father’s will with her.

  Chapter 45

  He sees Agnes fall, feels the brush of her skirts, her boot as it grazes his thigh, the swift air, like a gust of wind on the moor top, followed by the awful sound. Then silence.

  He knows what he will see, because he’s seen it before: the awkward splay of limbs, the tangle of petticoats, the unnatural tilt of the head, the blood, already seeping, inky in the moonlight.

  But he looks anyway, gripping the splintered banister, because what else can he do? It is just as he imagined. Then Mercy is by his side. She turns to him, face twisted and ugly with blame.

  This is not his fa
ult. He had not meant for any of this. He stretches out a hand towards her, anger and savagery dissolved into something else – this double-edged sword for which he has damned himself. But she’s away from him, running down the staircase into the hall. When she reaches Agnes’s body she sinks to her knees and covers her face. She stays there until he joins her.

  Up close, there’s no doubt: Agnes has broken her neck. She’s belly down, one cheek angled against the flags, one eye open and staring, a horrid grin of cracked brown teeth.

  Mercy drops her hands to her lap. Her eyes are dry, expression hard as a millstone. Slowly, she reaches out and picks up the scroll of parchment, now lying in the old woman’s blood. She climbs to her feet and without acknowledging him, walks towards the kitchen.

  He stares at the old woman and feels nothing, hollow, an absence where there should be something else. She’s probably the only one who could have told him everything. If the truth has died with her, what does it matter now? He does not feel shock or guilt or any of the things he might expect but only a sense of dreadful inevitability. He must follow this path to the end.

  By the time he reaches the kitchen, Mercy is already at the hearth, feeding the scroll into the fire. It flares as she drops it into the heart of the flames. She looks at him, defiant.

  ‘No!’ He runs to the fireside and falls to his knees, tries to rescue the burning fragments, but all he does is scorch his fingers. The stench of singed hair rises and he gives up, watching as the last pieces of old, dry parchment ignite and curl to ashes.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he says, but she just stares at him, eyes like icicles. Suddenly he cannot bear it – cannot stand for her to look at him like that, for the bond to be broken, not after everything that has passed between them.

  He climbs to his feet and takes hold of her arms. She does not react, does not pull away or move closer. He gathers her to him, expecting her to collapse, to weep, as she had last night, but she’s limp, lifeless, a dead thing in his arms.

  Something snaps inside, some thread that has been holding him back, some last shred of conscience: he will do anything now to get what he wants.