The Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  I returned to the room after three quarters of an hour.

  The drawings Esmond did during that time are a salutary indication of his state of mind.

  There are four sketches. Superficially they are mere childish scribbles – although he may have a latent gift for drawing which you might care to allow to develop, for he has the trick of conveying life and movement in his figures.

  The drawings seem to form a definite sequence, which is unusual in a boy of this age. The first is of a lady seated at a piano. A child – clearly intended to represent Esmond – is standing with her, either singing to the piano music or just listening to it. It is not a very good drawing, but the main details are easy enough to discern.

  The second picture is better, and is of the same lady lying prone – either on a bed or sofa. Scarlet marks disfigure her face and neck, and two figures, a man and a child, stand over her. The lady in both these drawings I believe to be Esmond’s mother, who I understand passed away some eighteen months ago. It seems reasonable to assume the two figures are Esmond and yourself.

  The third picture is of the same child sitting at the same piano, but the room in this sketch is very different, and I think it may be your new residence in Caudle Moor. There are open windows behind him, and Esmond has sketched in trees and bushes. However, when I examined this drawing more closely, I saw that woven into the trees was the unmistakable figure of a woman – a thin lady, only partly formed, so that it was hard to make out where the trees ended and her outline began.

  The fourth picture is the one that seems to me to provide the key to Esmond’s affliction, for, in this one, the amorphous female has taken definite shape and is standing in the open doorway of the room, with the child at the piano. Even in the childish sketch it is possible to see the fierce concentration the boy is bringing to bear on his playing, and also the fact that his head is tilted towards the open window in an unmistakable attitude of the most intense longing.

  It is my conclusion that Esmond is in some way convinced he can bring his mother back to life through music – perhaps music she used to play. I have no notion as to where he could have acquired this idea; bringing the dead back to life through music is not, as far as I know, a legend or a myth that appears anywhere in children’s fiction or, indeed, in any other fiction.

  I do not, of course, know the circumstances of your wife’s passing, but the second drawing suggests Esmond was there when she died. That is something that would have a very great effect on a sensitive child of seven or eight (as he was at the time). It may help to talk to him about his mother’s death – to emphasize the happier side of death, if you can possibly do so. If you find that too distressing, perhaps there is a family friend, doctor or clergyman who could do so. The Christian side – for instance the certain belief that she will be reunited with others who have passed over – could be stressed to him.

  Before Esmond left, I examined what I will call the death sketch more closely. What I found disturbs me greatly. Esmond had managed to draw several pieces of furniture fairly recognizably – table, chairs, and so on. On the wall behind the dying or dead woman, is what I take to be a tapestry or a large framed piece of embroidery, not depicting an actual scene, but simply a pattern made up of scrolls and curlicues. Within the scrolls Esmond has drawn, in heavy black pencil, two narrow, slanting slits. Through those slits, quite unmistakably, eyes look out.

  I drew his attention to this, saying I found it quite unusual, and asking why he had shown eyes there. Surely there had been no eyes in the tapestry, I said.

  He stared at the sketch for a long time, as if puzzled as to how they had got there. Then he reached for the pencil again. Carefully and deliberately he wrote this:

  The Eyes told me I must never speak.

  I believe this is why Esmond never speaks. There is no physical defect to prevent him talking, and by your admission, he possessed normal speech until his mother’s death. You have told me that your previous doctor in Derby suggested the shock of her death could have caused the condition, which is known as mutism. However, I would take that a step further, and say it is directly attributable to his having seen something connected with her death. Whatever he saw, someone told him very forcibly that he must never speak of it. I cannot dismiss the idea that someone was in the room when she died, and if the evidence of Esmond’s drawings and his written statement that ‘The Eyes’ told him he must never speak, can be trusted, it might be that someone was hiding behind a screen, watching. Whoever it was, that person told him he must never speak of what he had seen, and Esmond was so terrified he has never spoken since.

  There will, I am sure, be a normal explanation. Perhaps a nurse was measuring medication behind a screen, or perhaps a clergyman was preparing for the Last Rites. However, I hope, sir, you will forgive my asking a question which may be of vital help in reaching Esmond. The question is simply this: how, and in what circumstances, did Mrs West die?

  I would be happy to arrange another session with Esmond if you should wish. Perhaps you will communicate with me if you decide in favour of that.

  ‘I didn’t expect,’ said Nell, laying down the last page of William Minching’s report which Michael had given her along with the rest of his discoveries and which she had read curled up in the window seat, ‘to find that Beth might have a wife-killer in her ancestry.’

  ‘You think that’s what happened?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘It’s certainly one’s initial reaction,’ said Michael, carefully. ‘Ralph killed his wife, Esmond saw it all by accident—’

  ‘And Ralph told him he must never speak of it.’

  ‘Ye-e-s. But let’s not leap to any conclusions. That stuff about eyes watching Esmond and telling him he mustn’t speak – that could be interpreted several ways, in fact Minching came up with a couple of sensible possibilities. A nurse or a doctor might have been preparing some unpleasant procedure and not wanting to give prior warning—’

  ‘Like leeches? An enema?’

  ‘Yes. Or maybe a priest was sloshing around holy water and anointed oil.’

  ‘That’s a good thought,’ said Nell, eagerly. ‘Esmond’s mother might have been a Catholic, and they wouldn’t want her knowing she was on the way out.’

  ‘They might not even have wanted Ralph to know. Say he was a rabid Quaker or Baptist and didn’t approve of Catholicism, and a servant or the doctor smuggled in a priest at her request. She might have been Irish and—’

  ‘Oh God, not Irish, not after that mad outing last year,’ said Nell.

  ‘I’d rather we were facing a closet Irish Catholic or a jar of leeches than a ghost.’

  ‘We aren’t facing a ghost,’ said Nell, firmly.

  ‘You still don’t believe in them, do you?’

  ‘What I believe,’ said Nell, speaking slowly as if she was assembling her thoughts, ‘is that there might be things in the world – phenomena – that have an explanation we haven’t yet stumbled on. After all, we don’t understand how birds in flight can suddenly form themselves into wonderful patterns and fly in those beautiful formations. At least I don’t understand it. So maybe there’s a power of some kind we haven’t yet discovered – something we don’t know exists – that could explain paranormal activity.’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘Imagine,’ said Nell, pursuing her line of thought, ‘just imagine trying to demonstrate electricity to a medieval man or woman. Or phones or television. They simply wouldn’t understand. But there’s a rational, scientific explanation of how television works. So there could be a rational explanation for paranormal activity. Something to do with light – sound – even telepathy. I’ll give you telepathy,’ she said. ‘I will give you that.’

  ‘Always the pragmatist,’ said Michael, smiling.

  ‘Yes, but here’s another thing about Esmond,’ said Nell. ‘Have you thought that his grisly remark about The Eyes might have been pure fantasy? He sounds rather an imaginative child, doesn’t he?’


  ‘Minching had his share of imagination, as well. That suggestion that Esmond had got hold of some curious belief that he could bring his mother back through the music . . . That’s really odd. I’ve never heard of anything like that, and I’ve heard of some peculiar things.’

  ‘Ralph doesn’t seem to have replied to Minching’s question about how his wife died,’ said Nell. ‘Or if he did, he didn’t keep a copy.’

  ‘Or it’s been lost.’

  ‘Yes. I wish we could find Esmond’s sketches,’ said Nell. ‘But I think that’s too much to ask for. And Minching probably filed them with patient records and they’ve long since been destroyed.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in Esmond.’

  ‘I believe in Esmond as a person, because clearly he once lived here. But Esmond as a ghost, yes, I do find that difficult to accept.’

  ‘You saw him though,’ said Michael. ‘So did I. And I think Beth saw him, as well.’ He briefly considered whether to tell Nell about the email Beth had sent him. We played a kind of duet, Beth had said of Esmond. No, it was better not to mention that yet. And there was the figure he had himself glimpsed in the outbuildings. Had it been one of the women Ralph had seen? And what about that hunched shape that had stood between him and the door for those nightmare, trapped, moments? Had the closing of the door been merely due to an errant gust of wind?

  He was trying to decide whether to tell Nell about this when Nell said, ‘Brad wrote about seeing Esmond, as well.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he? He said they played a duet. And the letter you found – the letter Brad left for Esmond – was inside The Water Babies. Brad knew it was Esmond’s favourite book.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything. Charlotte could have talked to Brad about Esmond – in fact she might have shown him the book.’

  ‘And from that Brad created an imaginary friend for his holidays here? And made him a boy from the house’s past?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nell, rather defiantly. ‘He might have spun his encounter with Esmond from Charlotte’s stories.’

  ‘To the extent of writing letters to that friend?’ said Michael, doubtfully. ‘Was Brad that kind of person?’

  ‘Well, no, not when I met him, but he might have been different as a child. Things happened to him while he was growing up – quite traumatic things. He lived abroad for a few years – his father was attached to the Foreign Office so Brad was uprooted from everything he knew when he was about nine – quite abruptly, I think. He had to leave his friends, school, the house he had lived in, all in one fell swoop. It couldn’t be helped, but it happened. And then his parents both died when he was sixteen. That’s something that could change you quite radically,’ said Nell.

  ‘It might create an armour,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘You’d set up a guard against emotions, and you’d force yourself to focus only on the practical things in your life. You’d blot out anything else.’ He hesitated, not wanting to take that line of thought any deeper, then said, ‘But let’s suppose Esmond really is still around – no, I don’t pretend to understand how that could be any more than you – but just suppose. What would be his motive?’

  ‘Do ghosts need a motive?’ said Nell, her expression relaxing into a near-smile for the first time for an hour.

  ‘Of course they do.’ Michael was relieved at the lighter note they had struck. ‘They don’t just turn up because there’s a vacant slot at the moated grange, or the grey lady at the old rectory wants someone to make up a fourth at bridge. The classic thing is that they’ve been cheated out of something. Or punished or defrauded of an inheritance. Or,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘they might be charming gentlemen in Elizabethan outfits, hinting slyly that they know where an undiscovered Shakespearean folio is buried.’

  ‘You do get carried away, don’t you?’ said Nell, smiling properly this time. ‘You’re missing out murdered Tudor queens or spectral bridegrooms or walled-up nuns.’

  ‘I was coming to that.’

  ‘You’re also missing out that ghosts can be murder victims.’

  They looked at one another. ‘You think that?’ said Michael at last. ‘You think Esmond was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘Michael, I keep getting an image of Ralph killing Esmond’s mother, and Esmond seeing it happen. And – and that it was Ralph behind the screen, who told him never to speak of it. Then later, Ralph having to shut Esmond up. They’re dreadful images, and I can’t get rid of them – I wish I could, because—’

  ‘Because you keep seeing Brad in Esmond’s place?’ said Michael, carefully.

  ‘Brad – or Beth,’ said Nell, and Michael felt the barriers that occasionally reared up between them snap into place.

  But, speaking in an ordinary voice, he said, ‘How about that builder’s statement you found? Didn’t he see some odd things?’

  ‘Samuel Burlap,’ said Nell, eagerly. ‘Yes, he did – you haven’t read it yet, have you? But it sounded as if he had some kind of mental breakdown, so everything he saw could be hallucination.’ She said decisively, ‘I don’t believe Esmond is haunting this house, I really don’t. But I’d like to know what happened to him. If we find he lived to a ripe old age and died in his bed at ninety-five, you owe me a lush dinner at Il Forno’s.’

  ‘Fair enough. It should be easy enough to track down a death certificate. But if we find Esmond vanished one dark and stormy night, and there’s a local legend that he walks the lanes when there’s a full moon, you’re the one buying dinner.’

  ‘OK.’ Nell hopped down from the window seat. ‘Where shall we start?’

  ‘How about the estimable Poulsons and their useful family connections stretching back for God knows how many generations?’ said Michael. ‘We can have lunch while we talk to them.’

  ‘Good idea. You can read Burlap’s stuff as well – oh, and the newspaper account of Isobel Acton’s trial,’ said Nell, scooping up Ralph West’s various papers. ‘She’s someone else I could bear knowing about. She rather intrigues me. She might have been a murderess – if Samuel Burlap can be believed, she certainly was. But she sounds like a complete temptress.’

  ‘If anyone’s going to be chasing temptresses, it should be me,’ said Michael. ‘But thinking about it, I’m not sure if could cope with another temptress in my life.’ He held her against him. ‘I wonder if The Pheasant has a double room free for tonight?’

  ‘I thought we were leaving after lunch?’

  ‘You don’t fancy the idea of a double bed in a seventeenth-century inn? You heartless wench,’ said Michael. ‘What happened to “all my fortunes at thy feet I’ll lay and follow thee throughout the world”? Why are you smiling like that?’

  ‘I can’t help it. I do love you when you suddenly wax poetical.’ Nell stopped and turned abruptly away.

  Michael grabbed her hand. ‘Say it again.’

  ‘That you wax poetical?’

  ‘The other part. You’ve never said it before.’

  ‘You’ve never said it, either. In fact,’ pointed out Nell, ‘you haven’t said it now.’

  She had not turned back to look at him, and Michael released her hand, knowing the sudden moment of emotion had passed and the barriers were still there. Was that because Brad’s ghost still lingered in this house? He said, lightly, ‘Oh, that’s because I need the scenery and the props. A moonlit garden, roses, music, wine . . . Even a seventeenth-century inn. Which reminds me, it’s already one o’clock and The Pheasant doesn’t serve food after two.’

  ‘So much for romance and moonlit rose gardens,’ said Nell, more cheerfully. ‘But now you mention it, lunch is a good idea. I’m starving.’

  The ever-helpful Mr Poulson was charmed to be approached for information about the old Acton trial. He was not sure whether the official police records would be obtainable; what he did know was that his great-grandfather – maybe another couple of ‘greats’ – had been foreman of the jury at that trial. And his own grandfather used to s
ay there were jury notes of the trial. If so, the likeliest place to find them would be the attics.

  ‘Attics, always attics,’ said Nell, sighing half humorously.

  ‘Could we possibly have a look?’ asked Michael. ‘We’d do the searching ourselves, so as not to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘And put everything back afterwards,’ said Nell, with a sideways glance at Michael.

  ‘Yes, of course we would. It’s only to make some notes – to find out a bit more about the history of Stilter House.’

  Mr Poulson said bless them and save them all, Dr Flint and Mrs West could make notes until the Last Trump if they wanted.

  ‘It’s an offer we can’t refuse,’ said Michael, rather apologetically, as they ate their lunch.

  ‘If you’re going to accept, I think I will refuse, though,’ said Nell. ‘For one thing I think you’ll be better on your own, and for another it’s not really fair to coop Beth up in an attic. I can’t expect Mrs Poulson to watch her again. And I’d quite like to have a look round the village.’

  ‘All right. Shall I book us in for another night here?’

  ‘Probably not, but see how far you get with the search,’ said Nell. ‘If you think there’s more to unearth, we can stay until tomorrow. If not, we could set off around five – it’ll still be light, and we can drive in convoy and stop off somewhere to eat.’

  ‘That sounds fine. Let’s meet in the bar around four,’ said Michael.

  Beth was gleefully pleased at the success of her morning’s cookery, and had carefully written out the recipe for the Bakewell tart, promising Mrs Poulson that they would bake it in Oxford, and tell everyone where it came from. Asked by Nell if she would like to take a look round the village after lunch, she said that would be super-double-cool, especially if they took some photos.