Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

Shona did not say she was not tired, it was just that the misty feeling was still all round her, like thick fog. Nor did she say that whatever had split her head in two yesterday was still making it ache. She had half an aspirin, which was quite an important grown-up thing to have, and then went to bed. Once there, she found she was actually very tired indeed and went straight to sleep. She woke up once, because of having a horrid nightmare—all about getting up in the middle of the night, and seeing her grandfather and her mother building a wall in the cellar and putting the body of somebody inside it. It was a really bad nightmare, but after a while she finally managed to go back to sleep and by morning she had practically forgotten it. It was not something to make a fuss about; everyone had nightmares.

  A log broke apart in the fireplace, sending showers of sparks out, and Shona sat bolt upright, momentarily unsure where she was, her eyes refusing to focus on her surroundings.

  Realization came back slowly. This was not Grith with its cold rooms and its black secrets that had to be covered up; this was Levels House in Somerset. Or was it? She put up a hand to her eyes, because the two halves of her mind were slipping out of alignment again—she could feel them pulling against each other. Waves of pain went through her head, then receded, leaving her perfectly calm. This was good; it was good to be calm when you had to do something that no one must know about.

  She had been perfectly calm on that day over twenty years ago: the day before her eighteenth birthday when she had confronted her mother with the truth about Iain Seymour, and her mother had said those words that had lain on the air like thick slime.

  We lied and pretended and we guarded you… We knew, you see, what you did that day…when you were eight… We all knew you killed Anna.

  In that moment, the glaring fury had swamped Shona: how dared her mother talk patronizingly of protecting her! Of lying and pretending and guarding!

  With angry irrelevance she found herself noticing how her mother’s hair had become untidy—pepper-and-salt, uncared for—seeing how her skin was dull and rough, the cheeks sunken and veined with tiny red lines. How old was she now? Late forties? Yes, that was all. But drink ruined people, it plunged them into strange twilight worlds where they no longer remembered the ordinary rules of life. Where they forgot to lie and pretend about things that mattered? Such as a man who had died a squalid death, branded as a strangler of young girls. (Against the curtain wall of Tantallon, that’s where he did it.)

  She should have been safe from the grim legacy of Iain Seymour because he was dead. There was a hammy old saying that dead men told no tales, and it was certain that Iain Seymour (she would not call him Father or even think of him as that!) would not be telling any tales.

  Dead women told no tales either. And here was her mother, sunk in self-pity, drinking herself into an early death.

  An early death.

  Scarlet rage swamped Shona, and she reached for the bottle of vodka standing near her mother’s chair. It was a quarter full and the top was loosely screwed on. Shona removed the top and flung the contents over her mother’s chair. Ignoring her cry of protest and shock, she bent down and using the copper coal tongs, picked out a glowing red coal from the centre of the fire and dropped it onto the arm of the chair.

  It caught fire at once, and the alcohol sent the flames shooting sky high. There was a scream of fear and pain and the brief impression of the figure in the chair struggling to get up. Clothes—hair—skin—flamed up, and Shona backed away and stood by the door, watching. Only when her mother stopped screaming did she run into the garden, shouting for Elspeth.

  When it came down to it, no one in Moil was very shocked, although they were all greatly saddened. Poor Margaret Seymour, they said. A difficult life she’d had, what with being widowed so young, what with losing her sister in that macabre way some years ago. It was true there had been a few whispers about drinking and certainly she had not been seen much in the village over the last few years, but surely to goodness the poor woman could be allowed a few little nips now and then. Finding your sister’s desiccated body behind a wall in your cellar could not be exactly good for your nerves.

  Elspeth Ross, who had lived up at Grith for so many years, said Mrs Seymour was a martyr to crippling migraine attacks. Anyone who had ever suffered from migraine attacks—the real McCoy, not just your average milk and water headache—knew quite well that you could be laid low for forty-eight hours at times and couldn’t even lift your head from the pillow. She had pills of course, but they were not always entirely effective.

  There had to be an inquest, but everyone thought the verdict would be accidental death. A foregone conclusion, they said. She’d likely have been a bit fuzzy from taking the pills, and wouldn’t have noticed a spark flying out from the fire and setting the chair alight. A very nasty, very tragic, death, but nothing in the least suspicious about it. They listened, with horrified but slightly guilty relish, to the tale of how poor Shona, poor child, had actually come running in to find the chair alight and her mother screaming, and how Shona had acted with remarkable promptness, shouting to Elspeth Ross for buckets of water to douse the flames, telephoning the fire brigade there and then. All too late, though.

  The Cheesewrights, who were the main source of information, told everyone that the funeral would be held at Moil church, and Shona and Elspeth Ross had said mourners would be welcome at the house afterwards for a cup of a tea or a glass of sherry. Nothing elaborate, what with the sitting room still being in such a mess from the fire, and the insurance company not prepared to stump up the money until after the inquest. But people would likely make allowance for that.

  Edna Cheesewright told Shona that she and Mona would see to the food after the funeral—no, it would be no trouble, they were pleased to think they could do something to help. Just sandwiches and rolls, they thought, although Mona would bake a few scones as well. All very plain, nothing frivolous. Shona thought the words Grith House and frivolous were not ones that would occur to most people in the same sentence anyway, but she did not say so. She said she and her cousin would be very glad of Edna and Mona’s help with the modest wake, and added that Elspeth had ordered a Cheshire cheese and a large ham for boiling.

  The ham had to be boiled for a very long time, and the smell made Shona feel sick because it was dreadfully similar to the smell that lingered in the sitting room after her mother had gone up in flames. She suggested they might have been better to just order cooked ham for the sandwiches, but Elspeth said that was not how things should be done, and people would think it funny if they found themselves eating pre-packed, machine-sliced ham from a supermarket.

  She was poking and prodding at the ham in the big saucepan, and looked up when Shona came in. Her face was flushed from the heat of the cooker and she had a tea towel over her shoulder.

  She said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come in, Shona. I wanted to say something to you.’

  ‘Yes?’ It would be something to do with the funeral which was tomorrow afternoon, or about what Elspeth herself was going to do now that Shona’s mother was dead, or even a question as to whether the insurance people were likely to pay up so they could have the room put to rights. It had remained locked since the fire, although the assessors had had to go in.

  Elspeth said, ‘I wanted to tell you, Shona, that I know you found out about Iain—about your father.’

  As if from a long way away, Shona heard her own voice say, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You do know. You found the papers about him, didn’t you? The letter and the newspaper cutting. You left them in the pocket of the skirt you had on that day—I found them afterwards. I’m sorry you had to find out like that. It must have been a dreadful shock. We never wanted you to know the truth.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Shona looked at Elspeth, who should not be talking about this because no one must ever talk about it. But there she stood, her foolish sheeplike face mouthing something about having acted for the best.

  ‘He was a ver
y charming man, your father—I met him several times—but he wasn’t sane. Even when it was proved, quite definitely, that he had killed those girls, he always said he had no memory of it. The doctors—psychiatrists and so on—said he had completely blanked out what he did. They used long words, medical terms, but that was the gist of it. It was as if his mind couldn’t accept what he had done, so it buried everything.’

  ‘But he was guilty?’

  ‘Oh yes. Guilty but insane. He didn’t remember. Just as you never remembered killing Anna all those years ago.’ Then, as Shona made to speak, Elspeth said, ‘We all tried to protect you. We all agreed you must be protected from the consequences.’

  Memory stirred again, as it had done when she had been with her mother. Painful and raw, like the feeling when a fingernail is torn off below the quick.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, but she did know. Anna. That was what Elspeth was talking about. That dark fear buried all those years ago. I killed Anna even though I didn’t know about it afterwards. But they all knew, Mother and Grandfather. And Elspeth knew as well. Elspeth…What am I going to do about this?

  Elspeth was standing with her back to the oven, steam still rising from the boiling ham. The windows were blind and white with the hot dampness from the stove, and Elspeth’s hair was frizzed from the steam: it would smell of the boiling meat. Horrid. Shona was aware of an odd feeling—a feeling she had not experienced when she killed Anna or her mother. It was a feeling of being huge and invincible. Nothing could touch her.

  Her father had used his bare hands to strangle his victims, but for Elspeth it should be a more homely death.

  She bounded across the kitchen, and before Elspeth realized what was happening, snatched up a heavy iron frying-pan and brought it smashing down on the silly creature’s head. Elspeth gave a half-grunt and slumped sideways, half over the edge of the oven, not unconscious, but dazed. Before she could recover, Shona grabbed the long-handled tongs used for removing fish and chicken from the big fryer, and lifted the half-cooked ham from the saucepan, dropping it into the sink. Then she snatched the tea towel from around Elspeth’s flabby neck and, hooking her hands under the stupid woman’s arms, pulled her into a standing position. Using the tea towel to protect her own hands, she pushed Elspeth face down into the boiling pan of water, and held her there with the long-handled tongs.

  The shock of the bubbling water brought Elspeth to her senses and she fought for all she was worth, clawing and kicking, and making dreadful wet bubbly screams through the water. Despite Shona’s care some of the boiling water splashed onto her hands, raising little blisters. But she held on, and at last Elspeth’s struggles stopped and she slumped forward over the cooker. Water cascaded everywhere in little hissing rivulets and Shona sprang back, then, using a dry tea towel, managed to switch off the heat.

  The smell of Elspeth’s boiled face was almost exactly the same as the smell of the boiled ham joint. It would take a long time to get the smell out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SHONA SCRUBBED EVERYWHERE with bleach and cleaned the top of the cooker very thoroughly. She threw the ham joint away—she would tell the Cheesewrights it had turned out to be too tough for the sandwiches. The butcher, if he got to hear about it, would be upset, but Shona was not worried about the butcher’s feelings. She was not worried about anyone’s feelings. For the moment she was concerned over what should be done with Elspeth. She managed to check for a pulse and a heartbeat and was relieved when there was neither. Presumably Elspeth had died from shock, although Shona did not really mind what the stupid woman had died from. There she lay, her face the most repulsive mess Shona had ever seen. The skin was exactly the colour and texture of cooked meat and the boiling water had poached the eyes—Shona found this the worst part of all. She wrapped the tea towel round the head, knotting it firmly at the neck. This helped, but not much because the white tea towel gave Elspeth a hideous blank appearance. Shona kept imagining the dreadful boiled eyes swivelling this way and that, trying to see.

  She knelt down to check the heartbeat again, and as she did so there was a brief shutter-flash of a picture: a man against the backcloth of an old ruined castle with a strange but somehow melodic name—Tantallon—and a curtain wall dramatically spanning the headland. Iain Seymour. Did you do this, Iain Seymour, when you killed? Did you bend over your victims to check for a pulse or a heartbeat before you buried them? Did they even find all your victims, I wonder? They aren’t going to find any of mine.

  Elspeth was dead, Shona was sure of it. She straightened up, her mind flying ahead. Tomorrow was her mother’s funeral. That would have to go ahead—she did not think there was any way of avoiding either the service or the modest wake afterwards. She sat in the darkening kitchen and thought for a long time, and the first glimmerings of a plan began to form. The details were not there yet, but the more she thought, the more she was convinced it would work. The only trouble was that the body would have to be concealed for a little over twenty-four hours, until after the funeral. Could that be done?

  The silly woman’s own bedroom would have been the best place to hide her body, but Shona did not think she could get the heavy weight all the way up the stairs and even if she could, she would have to get it all the way down again. But the sitting room should be safe: it was still a sealed area because the insurance people needed to look at it again. But they would not do that tomorrow because of the funeral, and Shona would have dealt with everything by the following day.

  It was horrid to have to handle the body, but it could not be helped. Shona half dragged, half carried it into the burned sitting room and put it behind the door. She threw one of the fire-damaged curtains over Elspeth and stood back to consider. Yes, it was all right. Even if anyone happened to look through a window from the garden (this was not very likely but you could never be sure), all they would see was the fire-damaged chimney breast, the charred remains of the chair, and what looked like a singed curtain lying on the ground. She locked the room and pocketed the key. So far so good.

  Would the body be completely stiff by tomorrow night? People tended to think they knew about rigor mortis from reading whodunits and watching TV programmes, but Shona was not sure if she knew much at all. Grandfather’s books were still in his old study though, and there would surely be something in one of them about rigor.

  She found the entry in a set of slightly battered encyclopedias, although the information was a bit vague as medical information often was. You had to allow for warm rooms or cold rooms, it seemed, and also for the dead person’s age and a few other things as well, but the gist was that rigor started to set in about six hours after death, stayed there for between twelve and eighteen hours, and then passed off again. Usually it had disappeared by thirty-six hours after death. This last bit surprised Shona; she had assumed that once a body had stiffened, it stayed that way. But it would probably make it easier to do what she intended tomorrow night.

  The funeral was at midday and had to be got through without anyone realizing Elspeth was dead. Shona dressed carefully for it, in a black jacket. She tied her hair back and although she did not normally wear much make-up, today she put on quite a lot. People seeing this would assume it was to hide the traces of tears.

  Everyone who came back to Grith House, which was most of the village, said how brave Shona was being in the face of such a shattering tragedy. It was all so dreadfully sad, wasn’t it? And where was Miss Ross? Elspeth? Surely she was here?

  ‘She couldn’t face it,’ said Shona. ‘She hopes everyone will understand, but she simply couldn’t cope. I know she seems to be one of those really strong people, but actually she’s very sensitive. She just broke down this morning, and in fact she’s in bed. I’m really worried about her.’

  The local doctor, who happened to be one of the mourners, asked if he could help. Perhaps he should take a look at Miss Ross?

  ‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ said Shona at once. ‘She’s t
aken a couple of pills—Valium, is it? And she particularly asked that no one fussed over her. She hates fuss, you know. I expect she’s fast asleep at the moment. But if she’s no better tomorrow I’ll phone you. Would that be all right? You’d come out to see her, I mean?’

  The doctor said that of course it was all right and he would most certainly come out if wanted. He added that Shona seemed to have managed today’s events very well, particularly since the main drawing room was closed up. He hoped that would soon be put to rights for her. Shona said she hoped so as well, and the doctor patted her shoulder in a fatherly fashion and wandered into the dining room to find a drink.

  Every time anyone went past the drawing-room door Shona’s whole body tightened with nervous tension and by the end of half an hour her neck ached and she felt as if she had been beaten with iron bars. Once she thought there was a sound from inside the room and her whole body leapt with panic. Had Elspeth not been dead after all? Had she fought her way out of the curtain shroud, and was she even now making her blind fumbling way to the door, beating on it to be let out? Nerves, said Shona firmly. She’s dead as mutton. But she still found herself standing close to the locked door, as if barring the way of anyone who might try to go in—or anyone who might try to get out…

  Out of consideration for Shona, people only stayed for an hour. The Cheesewrights stayed on, of course, stacking plates and carrying glasses out to the kitchen. Nonsense, they said, when Shona said there was no need and she would clear everything up herself; of course they would see to it all. They bustled about, reminding one another of choice little bits of the day, and remembering how nicely the vicar had spoken of Mrs Seymour, quite beautiful it had been to listen to him, and what a wonderful array of flowers there had been. Oh dear.

  Edna said they would leave some supper out for Shona and for poor Miss Ross. She might feel like a bite to eat later, you could never tell.