by Sarah Rayne
This file is my private (and readily available) record of the house’s construction, and the Title Deeds will be held by my solicitors in Derby. I have insisted they reduce their fees for the house’s purchase, and paid no heed to their bleats about how complex it was to trace any member of the Acton family to effect the purchase of the land. Vague excuses were made and apologies for the delays laid at the door of the land’s erratic ownership. ‘The inheritance was passed down and around like a parcel, going from cousin to nephew and then to other cousins,’ my solicitor said, which I thought a somewhat specious excuse for inefficiency.
However, the purchase of the land was eventually effected in January 1900 – a new century and a new house and a new beginning – and the land is now properly and legally registered in my name. I feel it important to record here the Land Registration Title number, which is 912 40085. In addition, I am noting down that the ownership was finally traced to a person by the name of Nathaniel Acton, living in Cheshire. He was found by a curious and somewhat circuitous route, starting with six local almshouses which it seems a Simeon Acton built and endowed some forty or fifty years ago. They are administered by the National & Provincial Bank, and it was they who communicated with Nathaniel on my behalf. There appears to be some kind of trust for the almshouses which Simeon Acton created to maintain them and to pay a tiny sum each quarter to the residents, so clearly he was a philanthropically inclined gentleman. I have made a separate note of the arrangement, since it is not something I have previously encountered (the import and export of china and high-quality pottery not being such as to bring one into contact with philanthropy), but it is clearly the kind of thing expected of people of means. I think I may see if I can continue the arrangement.
Once reached, Nathaniel Acton – an elderly gentleman – expressed himself as only too glad to get rid of the land, which he said had sad associations for his family. As an apparent afterthought, he said it had also become something of a liability, which I take to mean a complete eyesore since, when I first saw it, it was strewn with the burnt-out ruins of the original Acton House, and was nothing less than a blemish on the surrounding countryside.
However, my title to and ownership of “The Toft, originally known as Acton Field” are now assured. I am told that Toft means a piece of ground where a house formerly stood, but is decayed or burnt. This certainly applies here, and my builder, who is a local man, tells me the former house did indeed burn down. Samuel Burlap seems a man to be trusted; I employed him two years ago to extend my offices in Derby. He spent some considerable time on this work, and I was pleased with the results and also with Burlap’s demeanour and manner, so when I made the decision to move to Caudle Moor, I had no hesitation in commissioning him to build a house for me.
I have already heard the local rumours that the land is cursed, and I have also received representations from a Prebendary Gilfillan to have it exorcized. I shall take no notice of that whatsoever. Mr Gilfillan is plainly a fanatic, if not a fantasist and I intend to make sure Esmond does not hear such nonsense, in fact I have already told the Prebendary that if I find he has been filling Esmond’s ears with his absurdities I shall complain to his bishop.
Note to self: necessary to find out exactly where a prebendary stands in the hierarchy of the church, and which bishop has authority over this diocese. I dare say it will do my standing no harm to send a polite letter to His Lordship (further note to self: make sure this is correct form of address to a bishop), and although I should be sorry to blight any man’s career, I am determined that Esmond shall not be disturbed by Mr Gilfillan’s tales. Children can be so impressionable, and Esmond has had quite enough disturbances in his short life already . . .
The next sentence was heavily crossed out, but because the ink was so faded, by dint of holding it up to the daylight Michael managed to read it. In a much more erratic script, Ralph West had written, ‘Bringing Esmond to this isolated place must be the right thing to do. No one here can possibly suspect what is in his past and mine . . .’
The straggling, indistinct sentence broke off there, but Michael had the sense of Ralph having allowed some strong emotion to escape from his pen onto the paper, and then of regaining control of his feelings and trying to delete the words. And since the notes were evidently a private record, instead of tearing up the paper and starting afresh he had simply scored the words out and continued.
The facts of my house, which I am setting down against future need are these:
In October 1899, following the death of my dear wife six months earlier, I commissioned plans for a residence from a Derby architect, Mr Archibald Filbert. Working to those plans, Mr Burlap began construction in the spring of 1900.
The house is to be called Stilter House and its address will be Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor, in the county of Derbyshire.
And then again the writing suddenly became less careful, although not as erratic as earlier. This time Michael had the impression that Ralph West had suddenly felt the need to set down more than the dry facts, but that he had his emotions in check. Had the document become a kind of therapy for him? But therapy for what? ‘No one here can possibly suspect what is in his past and mine,’ he had written about Esmond. Esmond, thought Michael, remembering yet again how Emily had said Esmond never left Stilter House. He glanced at the piano, but no small, mop-headed figure sat there, and the room was silent and placid. From overhead came faint bumps and dragging sounds as Nell explored the attics. It was a reassuringly normal sound.
Work on Stilter House was slightly delayed due to Mr Burlap’s having suffered a brief illness. I did not, of course, ask what it was. There should be a seemly reticence about ailments. So I merely record that I am glad Mr Burlap recovered from his affliction in good time, and that during his absence Mr Filbert was able to oversee the work.
Do I deserve this wonderful new house, this “gentleman’s residence”? Dammit, I do. If I am not precisely a gentleman born and bred, I’ve worked hard and I’ve saved hard and I do deserve this. I denied myself things as a young man in order to save my money – things most young men regard as their right. Clothes, the occasional drink, a modest supper with friends. Even an evening at a music hall.
Esmond’s mother, of course, came from a different stratum of society; her family said she married beneath her. “Trade” they said about me, disparagingly, and were very cool and distant to her after our marriage. She was never bitter, though, at least I never saw any signs of it. She retained her gentility and her refinement until her death. I was pleased about that, and it did me no harm with business friends. Often, after a dinner party, she would play the piano to them, and they were always appreciative and admiring.
After she died her family would have nothing to do with me at all, and I, in retaliation, swore they should have nothing to do with Esmond. And wasn’t it better that way anyway? Isn’t it better that Esmond is kept safe and kept close, in this isolated rural pocket of the countryside? Isn’t that my whole plan, for pity’s sake! He must be kept in silence, in silence, in SILENCE . . . In Holland the word for silence is stilte. I know that – I have acquired a smattering of Dutch – also German – from my dealings with both countries. That’s why I’m calling my house Stilter House. No one here will know what that word, Stilter, means, but I shall know. It means Silence. This house is really Silence House.
Yet again, these last three sentences were heavily crossed out, but again Michael was able to read them, and to see how the writing suddenly deteriorated. Esmond must be kept in silence, Ralph had said, and he had even called the house ‘Silence’, using the Dutch word to mask the real meaning. Michael felt a chill brush against his skin. Had Ralph West been a little mad?
Friday 24th: Today I commissioned Carter Paterson to pack all the furniture and belongings in this house, and transport it all to Caudle Moor in two weeks’ time. The house is completed and Burlap has done a good job. Stilter House is sound and sturdy and filled with the scents of new timber.
> The landlord of the local inn – Mr Poulson of The Pheasant – has undertaken to see to the engaging of domestic staff – that is to say his wife has agreed to do so. They are both Caudle people, born and bred, and have family and friends in the area. I do not think they will cheat me, or hire unsuitable servants.
I have written to the local sawbones – a Dr Brodworthy who apparently inherited the practice from his father, and is said to be well regarded. I received a courteous response from him, which I shall include in this file.
As Michael reached for the next page, paper of a different colour and texture met his hand, and he saw it was the letter from Dr Brodworthy that Ralph had referred to. It was typewritten and was headed:
Doctor Brodworthy, The Surgery, Caudle Magna. Consulting Rooms open 10.00 to 12.30 each weekday. Members of Mutual, Benefit or Friendly Organizations, and Oddfellows Societies, seen on Wednesday afternoons by appointment.
My dear Sir,
I am in receipt of your esteemed communication of 10th inst., and beg to inform you that I should be very happy to add your good self and your young son to my list of patients.
I am today in receipt of the medical notes sent to me by your erstwhile physician in Derby, and have studied the details of Master Esmond West’s case. It seems to be a curious condition, and although it is outside my field of expertise I shall do all I can to help. In your place I would certainly continue to encourage the boy’s affinity with and to music, since this could be something that will help us to reach him and to bring him back to what I could perhaps term normality.
At your request, I am communicating with a colleague who specializes in the care of children and is on the governing board of St Mary’s Hospital in Manchester, which, as you may know, has an excellent reputation. I shall request a consultation for you and your son and shall let you know when and if this can be arranged.
I do not know of any piano teachers in the immediate area, but with your permission will make suitable enquiries with the village schoolmistress and also the local vicar.
Once you are in residence at Caudle Moor, I hope I may call to introduce myself, and, of course, to meet Esmond.
Kind regards,
I am, dear sir, respectfully yours,
E Brodworthy. M.D.
Attached to this was what seemed to be a draft of a further letter, in Ralph West’s hand. There were one or two crossings-out and insertions, and Michael guessed that West had later made a fair copy from it, which had then been sent.
My Dear Mr Bundy
Your name and direction have been passed to me as being a qualified teacher of the piano, and as currently living some eight or ten miles from Caudle Moor where I shall shortly be residing. My son, Esmond, aged nine years, has received piano lessons in Derby and I am keen for him to continue with these. His mother was a gifted pianist, and I believe him to have inherited something of her talent and love of music. Esmond’s present teacher assures me the boy has a considerable gift. He has so far achieved Grade IV in the exam syllabus set by the Associated Board of the Royal School of Music, which I am told is a very good achievement for a boy of his age.
A note of your fees and qualifications would oblige, together with some intimation as to whether you could undertake Esmond’s musical education for the next year or two.
The next sentence was so heavily crossed through that Michael could only read a few words. Whatever Ralph had written, included tragedy and terror. But in the end, he had merely closed his letter saying that Esmond was rather an unusual child, although apparently intelligent and sensitive.
The next page was in a different coloured ink; again there was no date, but it seemed to have been written some little while later.
I had closed and put away this file, but have reopened it this evening to add other papers. Recent events are, after all, as much a part of the house’s history as the registering of the land and the building of the walls.
The copies of the three statements made to the police describe the events of last Tuesday evening – the 10th. It seems prudent to keep a private account – one day I may be glad to reread the statements, my own in particular, which I set down while my mind was clear. Or do the mad believe themselves clear in mind . . .?
The main facts are plain enough, though. I had just finished dinner, that is the first solid fact. I remember thinking that the two servants found by Mrs Poulson were proving excellent. I had had a half bottle of Chablis with my dinner – I am a fairly abstemious man, but even the Bible allows a little wine for the stomach’s sake. I am not sure if the Bible also allows a modest measure of brandy to follow, but that is what I had, regardless of Biblical approval. I was not, however, in the least affected by either the wine or the brandy.
Esmond was in bed. He had gone to his room apparently quiet and contented – probably because he had had a music lesson with Mr John Bundy. Esmond has taken to Bundy who, for his part, appears in accord with the boy and unworried by him. (This is a great relief to me, although in the privacy of these notes, I confess it occasionally disturbs me very much to see him seated at the piano in the way his mother used to be, and to hear his attempts at pieces she used to play with such ease.)
The piano lessons seem to have progressed amicably, although to pursue my afternoon’s tasks to repeated scales and arpeggios is not what I should have chosen. Happily, however, Mr Bundy generally ends the lessons with a selection of simplified light pieces, including, I believe, some Chopin, which Esmond particularly likes playing and which is certainly very pleasing to the ear. I appreciated Bundy’s care in finding out Esmond’s preferences, and have said so to the man. Indeed, we have discussed the possibility of Bundy undertaking more of Esmond’s education, since he has several years’ experience of teaching in a boys’ school.
After dinner I wrote a few business letters, the outcome of perusing the quarterly accounts sent me that very day. The company I founded all those years ago is in healthy shape, and although since my wife’s death I have taken a less active part in the day-to-day management, I have retained my place on the Board.
Those, too, are sound facts and they reassure me, for I do not believe I could have studied columns of figures and understood them if I had been suffering any kind of brain seizure.
The copies had to be sworn before a Notary Public, but Sergeant Kiddimore raised no objections, and a suitable local solicitor was easily found.
FIFTEEN
Statement made by Mr Ralph West of Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public
On the evening of Tuesday 10th I was in my drawing room after dinner, writing letters. My son, Esmond, was in bed and my two servants were in their own quarters at the rear of the house.
At about nine o’clock I heard what seemed to be a tapping on the window. It was very light and soft, and at first I thought it was merely a tree branch, disturbed by the wind.
But the tapping came again. It was not loud enough to be someone wanting to attract my attention; rather it was the soft furtive sound of someone wanting to see if there was anyone in the room before breaking in. In case an intruder was prowling around, I opened the curtains to look out. The gas supply had flickered during the evening as it so often does, making the light rather poor, but I assured myself no one was outside and returned to my letters.
The tapping ceased, but I had the strong impression that I was being watched and I could not dismiss the suspicion that someone might be standing outside the window, just beyond my sight. I was making up my mind to investigate further, when the floorboards outside the drawing room creaked.
This ought not to have been alarming. The logical explanation was that the parlourmaid was making a round of the house to close curtains and make sure all doors were locked. Perhaps she was even putting out candles against a complete failure of the gas, which was still dipping and flickering. But there was a soft,
stealthy sound to the steps, as if someone did not want to be heard. I was uncomfortably aware that I was in the house with only two female servants – one not young – and my nine-year-old son in bed upstairs.
As I crossed the room to the door, another sound broke the silence – a sound that was so unexpected, but so familiar I ceased to be alarmed. Someone was playing the piano.
I immediately assumed Esmond had crept downstairs and into the music room, and that the footsteps I heard earlier were his. However, half past nine of an evening is not the proper time for a child to be practising the piano, so I accordingly went along to remonstrate with him.
The flickering gas mantles in the hall made the shadows creep and shiver, and the hall seemed unnervingly filled with stealthy movement. Earlier I had felt reassured by the music, but I was starting to be increasingly uneasy, because it was being played with far more skill than Esmond could manage. I was not overly concerned about burglars though, for the average housebreaker was unlikely to sit down at the piano and play Chopin.
The gas mantles in the music room were turned low, and the curtains were open to the garden. The light was strange – the smoky blue twilight was edged with red from the gas jets, but I was able to see the silhouette of the pianist framed in the windows. I could not see the features, but it certainly was not Esmond. It was a woman, and she was so deeply absorbed in her playing she was unaware of me.
