by Sarah Rayne
I admit that at this point I was prepared to defend my home against this, or any other, intruder. But I could not use violence against a woman. Also, I could not believe any sane person would come into a strange house and start playing a piano, and, if this was some poor witless creature, I was chary of doing anything that might spark her into madness. I believe the insane have their own strength.
So I went quietly up to the piano, and put out my hand, thinking to take her arm and bring her to her senses – that is to say, to what senses she might possess. But as my fingers closed on her arm, I felt the most extraordinary sense of revulsion. Her skin was so cold and strange – like no flesh I ever touched – that I recoiled. And still she seemed unaware of me, still she continued to pour out her music.
I backed away to the door, intending to call to my servants, and to telephone to the local police for help. Then I saw that a second woman was standing outside the French windows, looking in. I could not make out her features, but I could see she was thin and from the way she moved I think she was not very young, although not old. A lady in her late thirties or early forties, perhaps. What I can be sure of is that she was watching the pianist with the most extreme intensity I have ever seen.
Before I could decide what best to do, the woman in the garden pushed open the French door and stepped inside. She held some kind of weapon – I cannot describe it, for it was not like anything I have ever seen. I could not sketch it, either. I can only say it looked as if it was made of iron and that it was not very large and appeared to be a semicircular shape. Perhaps it was the size of two handspans. I assumed it was some sort of restraining device, although I cannot imagine how it would work.
The woman crept forward, clearly not wanting to alert the pianist to her presence, and there was such menace about her that I drew breath to call out a warning. But I was too late. Her entry into the room brought a gust of wind from outside, and the curtains framing the French window, which hitherto had hung down limply, billowed out, obscuring both women. The gas jets flickered and went out.
It was barely two minutes before I found candles and the tinder box, but it was sufficient time for the pianist to escape and the woman with the iron contraption to go after her. I did not see them go, but they must have darted into the garden – that is the only possible explanation.
I certainly went after them, but I did not explore the gardens very thoroughly. I hope I am as courageous as any man, but I was convinced that the pianist had been some poor mad creature, perhaps escaped from a local institution. If so, the woman outside the house would be her keeper or even someone from her family, trying to recapture her. My first duty, as I saw it, was to ensure that my son and the two servants were safe. I went into my son’s room, then to the scullery where the two women were making their evening cocoa, and then telephoned to the police station.
I should liked it placed on record that Sergeant Kiddimore arrived promptly at the house, in company with a constable, and they made a thorough search of the house and gardens, finding nothing, but arranging for a constable to remain in the grounds overnight. They were courteous and efficient to me and my household, and considerate towards my son.
Signed: Ralph West
Statement made by Mrs Martha Hatfull, Cook and Housekeeper at Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public
I was sat in the scullery with Vi – that is Violet Needle – and the steak and kidney for tomorrow’s dinner had just simmered down nicely, which I was making on account of the master having two business friends coming to the house, and him asking particular for steak and kidney pudding, since one of them is a foreign gentleman the master has business dealings with as I understand it, and wanting to give them a real English dinner.
The kitchen clock had just chimed the quarter before ten and those pesky gaslights were going as they’re always doing. Violet and me was thinking it was time for our cocoa, when the master came in to tell us there had been an intruder.
‘Oh sir,’ I said, all alarmed, ‘is Master Esmond all right?’
But the master said everything was all right, so we went to the drawing room, and Sergeant Kiddimore come up to the house, which the master had telephoned him. We had to tell how we had been in the scullery all evening and say if we had heard any intruder, which we had not, for we had both been there ever since clearing away the master’s dinner at half past eight.
I was took all of a tremble afterwards, particularly when the master said a policeman would be in the grounds all night. Police in the house is not what I am accustomed to, having always worked in well-run, godly houses, and I had to have a nip of gin and a hot water bottle to my feet in bed or I should not have slept a wink.
I would like it wrote down that I am very happy with my position at Stilter House, having come from my previous place in Ashbourne where I was cook to Sir Gervais Warrenby, who died at Christmas, and now with Mr West since March.
Signed: Martha Hatfull, Cook
Statement made by Violet Needle, parlourmaid at Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public
I am house parlourmaid at Stilter House, and I was in the scullery all evening, having cleared away and washed up after the master’s dinner.
Me and cook – Mrs Hatfull, that is – had been making the steak and kidney pudding for tomorrow’s guests. I was just chopping the suet so as to have everything well forward, when the master told us somebody had broken in, but he had seen them off. He said the police was coming to the house and would want to talk to us.
Me and cook hadn’t seen nor heard nothing at all, save it might be the steak and kidney bubbling over on the stove once on account of the heat being too high, but we wouldn’t have heard anything going on at the front of the house, even if the entire 95th Derbyshire regiment had broke in, not that I would have minded that, on account of my young man being a lance corporal and off to fight the Boers any day.
I have been house parlourmaid here since the master moved in. It is a very nice place and the house lovely, saving it being built on the old Acton land. Everyone hereabouts knows about the wicked Isobel Acton who killed her husband. My mother, who was born in Caudle Moor says Isobel walks the land to this day, and folk sometimes hear her playing her piano music like she did after she poisoned her husband, the heartless hussy.
My mother says I’m to give my notice to the master, for if Isobel Acton is getting into the house of a night I won’t be safe in my bed, and better I should work as a skivvy in a house where the dead don’t walk, than be a parlourmaid with a frilly cap and apron in a place where the ghosts of murderers climb in through locked windows and play pianos.
Signed: Violet Needle, house parlourmaid
The next letters were typed, and were in very smudged blue ink, which left marks on Michael’s fingers when he picked them up. It took him several moments to realize that they must be early carbon copies; he had a half memory of someone in Oxford writing a rather tedious paper on late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century office procedures, and citing the use of early copying techniques, including carbon paper which had recently come into circulation. Michael’s crony in the history faculty, Owen Bracegirdle, who believed research did not need to be dull, had composed an unofficial riposte, painting a lively picture of several of the great diarists wrestling with carbon paper and photocopiers and fax machines. The article had unaccountably found its way to one of the more satirical student newspapers, incurring the wrath of the proctor, and Owen had been reproved, although the proctor had privately admitted to enjoying the descriptions of Samuel Pepys swearing when a copier chewed up his description of the Fire of London.
Michael grinned at the memory, and turned to Ralph West’s carbons, which were faded and blurred, but readable.
To: Farthing’s Domestic Agency, Derby
Dear Sir or Madam,
I should be obliged if you would arrange to provide me with a good, properly trained house parlourmaid at the earliest possible opportunity.
The household is small and consists of myself and my young son. I employ a cook, and local help three times a week for heavier cleaning. There is a little entertaining, mostly small luncheon or dinner parties, seldom more than six or eight persons, and occasional weekend guests, usually no more than three persons at a time.
Salary is £20 a year, all found, with every Sunday off and every Wednesday afternoon.
Your early reply would oblige.
Yours faithfully,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Mr John Bundy
Dear Mr Bundy,
Pursuant to our discussion of yesterday’s date, I am happy to confirm that as discussed you will undertake my son Esmond’s education in the area of literature, history, geography, and arithmetic. As you suggest, a suitable tutor for French and possibly German can be found in a year or two, when matters can be reviewed.
The salary agreed (£50 a year) will be paid to you each Quarter Day, and your hours in the schoolroom will be nine in the morning until three in the afternoon, with an hour for luncheon at midday, which will be served in the morning room. Esmond will be set suitable homework tasks for weekends and other holiday times.
Your written acceptance of this will oblige.
I am, sir, yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
From: Mr J Bundy
To: Mr R West,
Dear Sir,
I am very happy to accept the supervision of Esmond’s education for the next two years, and your terms are agreeable to me.
Despite his affliction, Esmond is a bright, intelligent and sensitive boy, and I have high hopes that a suitable path in life can be forged for him. In particular, his music develops apace, and I believe he has a rare gift, the nurturing of which is affording me great pleasure and satisfaction.
Yours truly,
John Bundy
From: Farthing’s Domestic Agency, Derby
To: Ralph West Esq.
Sir,
In the past three months we have supplied four parlourmaids for employment in your house. As you know, all have given their notice and left after only a very short time. We give below a summary:
Mary Pod: In your service for one month. Left because could not be doing with caterwauling music at all hours of the night and gloomy rooms where the gaslight never properly worked so you couldn’t hardly see your hand in front of your face.
Eliza Littledyke: In your service for three weeks. Left because it was ever such a scary place, with folk wandering around the gardens of a night, and Master Esmond not like any natural child a person ever met before.
Rosie Hannaford: In your service for one week. Left because it was a long way to the village and not so much as an omnibus to take a girl anywhere, nor shops. (Note from Farthing’s: Miss Hannaford has since obtained employment in Kendals Department Store in Manchester, selling bath salts and face creams, and clearly was not intended by nature to be a parlourmaid. We have removed her from our books).
Polly Waterside: In your service for two weeks. Left because bits of music paper got scattered around never mind how many times you tidied them away, and a piano playing by itself, as well as the gas suddenly dying and plunging a person into darkness, which isn’t something a person likes.
I am sorry to tell you I do not feel we can provide you with any more domestic help. Indeed, perhaps you may be better served by employing local girls.
Have you ever considered having the electricity brought to your house?
I remain, sir, your obedient servant,
S Mackling
(For and on behalf of Farthing’s Domestic Agency, est.1880)
To: Derby Gas, Coke and Light Company
Sir,
I write to protest in the strongest possible terms about the gas supply to my house. It is erratic and weak, and on a number of occasions has plunged my household into a Stygian darkness, which is both inconvenient and dangerous. I have employed a person knowledgeable in gas fittings to inspect all the gas mantles and cooking facilities, and he reports that all are in excellent working order.
At a time when you are trumpeting your expansion into other areas, it is sad to find that you cannot provide a reliable gas source to your existing customers.
If the situation does not improve within one month I shall be forced to transfer my custom to an electricity company, which, I venture to suggest, may result in loss of business to yourselves, since it would make electricity power available to a great many people in this area.
I await your comments with interest.
Yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Mr Alfred Frinton,
Piano Tuner of Ashbourne.
Sir,
I should be obliged if you would arrange to call on me at your earliest opportunity to tune a piano, which is, I believe, of a size termed a boudoir grand. It has developed a disconcerting habit of emitting sounds – actual musical chords and notes – when no one is playing it. This is upsetting to my servants, and I should wish to remedy matters as soon as possible.
The piano is a Broadwood, and has been carefully looked after. It was brought from my previous home in Derby and had belonged to my late wife. It was, of course, tuned after being moved to Caudle Moor, but I suspect the tuning may not have been sufficiently thorough. I am advised by my son’s music teacher that the equal temperament may be misaligned, and that the interaction among the notes of the chromatic scale may need adjusting. I hope I have these technical terms correctly.
Your early attention would be appreciated.
Yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Prebendary, the Rt Reverend Edgar Gilfillan.
My Dear Prebendary Gilfillan,
I am in receipt of your most recent missive, and wish to thank you for your concern. However, I feel myself perfectly able to deal with problems on my own land, and can give no real credence to the various legends attached to the place – interesting though they may be.
Perhaps, therefore, you will do me the courtesy of refraining from further approaches of this nature.
With kind regards,
I am, sir,
Yours truly,
Ralph West, Esq.
Michael laid these pages down thoughtfully, and leaned back against the windowpane, staring unseeingly at the gardens beyond.
It was a curious tale that had unfolded – although it was surely only a portion of the whole. Even though the police statements were couched in flat, official police language, the characters of the main players came over vividly. The young Violet Needle’s account of Isobel Acton walking the land could be put down to the credulous mind of a village girl. Subsequent reports from her replacements could have been influenced by local gossip. But Ralph West was neither credulous nor village-bred and was unlikely to have heard or listened to local gossip. Michael, rereading Ralph’s statement, had the impression that Ralph, while conscientiously telling the truth, had been striving to keep the incident within the boundaries of normality.
The description of the woman who had tapped at the window and had carried some kind of iron weapon almost exactly matched Nell’s account of what she and Beth had seen. Michael was able to dismiss the possibility that Nell had read Ralph’s statement or been told of it. If Nell had known about Ralph’s encounter, she would have said so.
But they all heard the music, thought Michael, uneasily. I heard it, too. He picked up Violet’s statement again. Violet had said that Isobel walked the land and that people sometimes heard her playing piano music. Like she did after she poisoned her husband, Violet had asserted. It sounded like a typical old country ghost tale, part truth, part legend, part embroidery of facts by succeeding generations.
Yes, but Isobel had existed, and Nell had said sh
e had been tried for her husband’s murder at The Pheasant. The Pheasant said so, too; they had seemed rather proud of that fragment of the building’s history. Would records of the trial still exist?
There was one more letter left in Ralph’s file, and it bore the heading of Dr Brodworthy’s surgery.
My Dear Sir,
I beg to enclose the report from Sir William Minching whose consulting rooms you attended last week, in company with Master Esmond. You will see Sir William has addressed the report directly to you.
I do not know if you will find it of help, but it is certainly interesting.
With kind regards,
I am yours faithfully,
E. Brodworthy. M.D.
SIXTEEN
Report on Master Esmond West.
I find Esmond West a perceptive and sensitive child. He appears to be of slightly above average intelligence for his age.
The usual methods of approach to a child are through games, school, school friends, and hobbies – but because of Esmond’s affliction none of these were possible. He is, however, devoted to his music, and is also quite widely read. I was able to elicit that a particularly favourite book is The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. Having the book on my own shelves, left during a nephew’s visit to my house, I used this to try to reach him. After some initial suspicion, he seemed – albeit cautiously – to accept me as someone he might trust.
The book’s concept of a child who finds itself in an alien environment (i.e. below the water, having drowned), but later earns the right to return to the world of humans, seems to exert a fascination on Esmond. The description of the humans who ‘do as they like’ in the story, but who consequently lose the power of speech, also appears to have a strong hold on his imagination.
Having studied the book’s illustrations with him, I then suggested he might try his hand at drawing some of his own illustrations – not of The Water Babies, but of his own life. At first he seemed unsure what was required of him, so I explained he might draw anything he liked, but I should very much like to see a picture of the house where he lived, and also the things he liked to do. For example, I had been told he enjoyed his piano lessons. This found favour, and my nurse provided drawing paper and a selection of the coloured chalks and crayons I keep for my young patients, then we left him alone, with a glass of lemonade and some sweet biscuits.
