The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  Sex, moving in, marriage, babies. Was that still her personal equation? If not, what was? Celibacy? Or stolen afternoons of rutting with handsome young builders? She wasn’t sure if she found the picture ludicrous or depressing.

  She made coffee and shuttled, restless, between the kitchen and the front room. She couldn’t quite bring herself to go upstairs. Christ, what next? Already she was letting her hallucinations confine her to one small part of her house. She needed to see Dr Whiteley again, and quickly, before she had a complete breakdown.

  Except that it hadn’t been an hallucination, no matter how much she wished otherwise. Or was she hallucinating the physical evidence too? The broken pane, the bruises, the spearhead – the spearhead most of all, because the other items were more easily rationalised. If she showed the spearhead to someone else, what would they see? A rusty old kitchen knife, perhaps.

  She went outside, nursing the coffee cup, and sat on one of the lawn chairs. It felt a little safer than the house, although not much – last night, this had been the garden, after all. And there’d been the ogre – but she refused to think of that. Instead, when she’d finished the coffee, she nerved herself to go back and get the few gardening tools she’d brought – clippers, hoe, fork and trowel, gardening gloves and secateurs.

  For the next hour or so, waiting for Darren to come back, she uprooted weeds and hacked at the brambles that overgrew the flowerbeds. She might leave a patch of them – after all, that would mean her own personal blackberry crop come the summer, which could hardly be bad. She filled a pair of bin-sacks, although rents soon gaped in them where the bramble-thorns had slit the plastic.

  The clipper’s blades clanked on something hard. Alice frowned, knelt, parted the brambles. Hidden beneath the hard, cable-like creepers was a hard grey block of stone, canted at an angle in the ground – buried, perhaps, but pushed slowly to the surface. Something about it made her want to look more closely; she took the secateurs and began snipping the brambles away.

  Yes; she could see it better now. It was very regular in shape, or had been. On three sides it was neatly squared, the corners filed off, but the fourth side was jagged and uneven, as if cracked. Yes, that was it; this must be part of a larger whole. She clipped away at the brambles, until she was left with the thick knot of the central mass. She set to work with the trowel and fork. After that, a little more hauling with her gloved hands was all it took before the plant tore free of the earth, trailing roots like so much dead hair. Earth rained onto the grass, and over the stone; worms writhed in the hole where the bramble bush had been.

  Alice reached out and brushed earth away from the stone. There was something about it; something familiar, she was sure, but she couldn’t say what. Then she did see it; it was partial and worn and faded, but it was definitely there. Something had been carved on the stone.

  She cleaned away more earth, peered closer, and saw it. Just one word, and a fragment of another, but it was enough: ...eth forevermore.

  Chapter Nine

  A Question of Judgement

  The Confession of Mary Carson

  FOLLOWING THE INCIDENT in the music room, I passed the remainder of the day on tenterhooks. Mr Thorne had not seemed displeased, and yet... I was not wholly ignorant in the ways of men – or, indeed, women.

  My father once warned me that most people have an image of themselves, of who they are or wish to be, but that this image is oft-times at war with their true desires and nature. Some care first and foremost for presenting an outward image to the world, and practise sin in secret – many are those who preach chastity in public, but in secret slink off to dens of vice.

  But they, my father said, were as nothing to those who deceive themselves. Lustful men who believe themselves chaste; cowards who believe themselves brave; cruel men who believe themselves kind.

  Or, sometimes, perhaps, might a man pride himself on his hard-heartedness, but at depth harbour softer emotions he dare not acknowledge, for fear they might rob him of the qualities that had earned him his wealth?

  In either case, I remembered too well what else my father had said. “Such men are to be feared, for they will seek to silence the truth they do not wish to hear. And in doing so, they will strike out at any who behold them as they truly are.”

  From the first, Mr Thorne had shown me a face of unrepentant hardness, but now I had seen beneath it. What might he do to punish me for that?

  It was no help to recall that if our next meeting ended in my discharge, I could blame but myself. If I had only stayed out of that wretched music room! But I had not, and must now accept the consequences.

  You can, I am certain, imagine the trepidation with which I approached Mr Thorne’s office the following day, Mrs Rhodes. My one hope, I thought, was that he might choose to behave as though the episode had never occurred; if I did the same, all might be forgotten and life resume as before.

  Nothing had changed. The fire crackled in the grate – even in spring, the house was often cold – the portrait of a younger Mr Thorne stared down from the wall, and Mr Thorne himself sat waiting behind his desk, jotting down some note or other, barely glancing at me as I entered.

  I waited for him to speak. At last he finished the note, but only glanced up and said, “Ah, Miss Carson. Take a letter, please.”

  He began dictating; I took it down, and so the rest of the day passed. By the time it was done any memory of what had happened in the music room felt like a dream. I breathed easily again: clearly he had decided the matter best forgotten.

  So I was allowed to think, at least, for several days. We resumed our old routine and roles: the stern, flinty employer and the efficient, emotionless secretary. Soon I had almost entirely forgotten the music room, and then...

  It was Mr Thorne’s custom that we take luncheon in the study at noon each day, for a period of precisely half an hour – no more, no less. There was a small dining-table and chairs by a window overlooking the garden; when the clocks chimed twelve Mr Thorne stopped speaking, sometimes in mid-sentence, and made his way there.

  At that same moment, each day, the study door opened and Kellett entered, bearing a cold collation on a platter in one hand, and a pot of tea, with milk, sugar, cups and saucers, on a salver in the other. Mr Thorne and I would dine in silence until the clocks chimed the half-hour, at which he would return to his desk, sit and, as the chimes ended, begin where he had left off. And woe betide his secretary should she fail to be ready at her station when he did!

  On this particular day, I happened to glance at the clock as I ate; I recall, quite vividly, that the hands stood at nine minutes past the hour, for it was at that exact moment that Mr Thorne, breaking our accustomed practice, spoke.

  “Miss Carson?”

  “Mr Thorne.” I was startled.

  “I would like to speak candidly to you, if I may.”

  “I would like to think you have always been able to, Mr Thorne,” I said, but my stomach was tense and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  “It concerns what transpired in the music room,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  I put down my knife and fork. I could not have eaten another morsel; indeed, it was with difficulty that I swallowed the food in my mouth. Mr Thorne put down his napkin. After a moment, he began to speak again.

  “I said at the outset that I come from humble beginnings. Allow me to clarify that statement. I was born not far from here at all, in Browton. My father was a farm labourer who drank most of his pay and beat my mother when unable to perform the sexual act. Do I shock you, Miss Carson? No matter. It is necessary that you fully understand.

  “I was one of twelve children. A thirteenth was stillborn. Of all that brood, I am the last alive. Five never reached adulthood. Life, it seemed, was to be squalid, fearful and desperate – that, and short.

  “When my father died, I and two of my brothers set off for Manchester and found work in a local mill. For lodging, we shared one room in a rat-infested tenem
ent with six others, on a street no wider than I am tall, down the middle of which a constant stream of liquid effluent ran. Within two weeks of our employment, my elder brother caught an arm in the machinery and it was torn off. He died two days later.

  “I contrasted the conditions of our lives with those of the mill owner, and concluded, as any man with a scintilla of intelligence would, that the second was infinitely preferable to the first. Therefore I sought knowledge – knowledge that would permit me to rise in society. For I had also observed that many mill owners had risen from lowlier stations in life. I knew what I desired was not impossible.

  “On the one hand, I ingratiated myself with my employer. On the other, I set out to improve my own prospects. I could not read or write, but another employee at the mill could. When he received rough treatment at the hands of his more loutish colleagues, I persuaded them to let him alone.” Mr Thorne’s tone persuaded me not to enquire how this had been achieved. “In return, he taught me. Out of the money I should have sent home to my mother and younger siblings, I purchased books with which to educate myself. In the longer run, after all, my family would benefit.”

  The clocks struck the quarter hour. Mr Thorne paused to sip his tea; when the chimes had finished, he began again.

  “I gained promotion at work, and with it came better and better understanding of business. I saved money, and was able to convince others to loan me theirs. Until, at the age of five-and-twenty, Miss Carson, the illiterate farm labourer’s son could buy his own plot of land and build a mill thereon. A small operation to begin with – I was careful to select those employees who would work hardest for the least pay. My brother I employed as a foreman, but he proved incapable. I was forced to dismiss him – I ensured he found work at another mill, as an ordinary labourer. It would have been humiliation to reduce him in status and force him to work alongside... those others, in my employ. I shock you, Miss Carson?”

  “No,” I lied. “Not at all, sir. A business is a business, after all.”

  “And has no space for sentiment. You grasp, Miss Carson. There is, I fear, only one morality in commerce, one commandment: thou shalt make profit.” He actually smiled; it was a startling sight on that sombre face. “Forgive me. I forget myself – or rather, I forget that you are a good Christian woman.”

  I wondered if he was mocking me, but his tone gave no hint of derision.

  “Nonetheless, it is true. Whatever awaits us in the next life, in this one we must live – and, for preference, do more than simply scrabble for scraps to survive, and perish leaving the world no different for our brief presence there. And no, Miss Carson, I have not forgotten that you too have known hardship. I mean no disrespect, but you were not born to it as I was; you did not have so high and steep a climb. To learn things you were taught in your cradle required great work and sacrifice on my part. I dared not fail – there were no guarantees of success, and it is easier, by far, to fall than to rise.

  “And so I prospered, intending always to install my mother and siblings in comfort and luxury. Unfortunately, the intervening years were not kind: hunger, cold and sickness took its toll on them all. Only two of my younger siblings still lived; my brother took them in, but they were too weak from their privations to live long. As for my mother – she was by now a wreck, a shell. I ensured she was well-cared-for, for her few remaining days.

  “And then I met Antonia. A fine woman. I found her, picked her out of many others. She had been born to better circumstances than mine, but, like me, she sought to rise. I saw her hunger, her determination, and something else besides: that to be a rich man’s ornament would not content her. She became my ally, my helpmeet. We married – for years she was my secretary, as you are now, Miss Carson. In business, in life, she was my constant and unfailing companion. In only one regard did she fall short: I have, as you see, no heir. She conceived more than once, but none ever carried to term.”

  I struggle to describe his tone of voice. It was calm, sober, without emotion, yet that only made its impact on me stronger. Arodias Thorne, I understood, was a man of iron self-control, of will above all else, and he laid out the facts of his life before me in plain. Had he made shows of remorse or grief, I would have thought them feigned; as it was, I believed he suffered, but concealed it well.

  If nothing else, I felt I understood him better. He had, truly, had little option but to be single-minded, even ruthless, to succeed. And succeed he had. Considering the odds he had faced, it was impossible not to respect his achievement, or the personal qualities that had brought it about. Too, I now understood his disinclination towards sentiment or reflection; the cost of his prosperity had been such, he dared not look back.

  At least, not until now.

  “My wife’s passing was unexpected,” he said. “She was still a young woman – younger than I. It was a wasting illness. One day, without warning, she experienced pain and weakness; four months later she was a skeleton clothed in skin, in constant pain, barely capable of motion. And with her death, I am alone. I am no longer young, Miss Carson. When one finds oneself alone at my time in life, it’s only natural to take stock. I am financially secure, as far as anyone can be – but sooner or later, I shall die. Without friends, heirs, family – what legacy, what memorial shall I leave? This house, my business, my properties, will pass to others or pass away. And it will be as though I never was. And then, of course,” Mr Thorne took another sip of tea, “one’s thoughts turn to the life to come.”

  He paused for a moment, seeking, it seemed, for words.

  “All my life,” he went on at last, “I have had little use for fear. It breeds hesitation, irresolution. Things I cannot afford. Time and again, I have steeled myself to press on regardless. But now, Miss Carson, there is a fear I cannot simply leap over or push aside.”

  Mr Thorne studied me carefully. Then he looked down, and began sawing at the remnants of his chicken with knife and fork.

  “Judgement, Miss Carson,” he said. “I fear judgement. What will they say of me when I am gone? How shall I be remembered?” He snorted. “I have hardly to guess, have I? I’m no fool: I know what’s said of me behind my back. Old skinflint, greedy swine... do you know, Miss Carson, they say that I have never done a kind deed in my life?”

  He pushed a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. After a moment, he sighed, placed his knife and fork together on his plate, and looked back up at me.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “they’re right. Of course, once I’m dead, words are nothing. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones’, as the saying goes. But...” the grey eyes were intent upon me now “... but it is not the judgement of men I fear.”

  At last I found breath to speak. “Do you mean God, Mr Thorne?”

  “Well, His is the judgement all men must fear – is it not, Miss Carson? It cannot be hidden from or ignored. And no amount of wealth will buy Him off.”

  “No,” I agreed. I was no theologian, but I – everyone, I would have thought – understood that much about God.

  “Therefore,” he said, “as I still have some years left, I ask myself if it’s possible to atone for my past actions.”

  I have no idea how I must have looked in that moment; I think I stared at him in uttermost astonishment. In fact, I know I did, because Mr Thorne chuckled. Chuckled! Perhaps you can guess how startling a sight that was. The smile had been out of place, but this was as though a lion had padded up to me and begun singing a comic song. “I’m sorry, Miss Carson,” he said, “but your face was an absolute picture. In any case, what do you think?”

  “Think, Mr Thorne?”

  “What should I do? How might I devote myself to expiating my sins?”

  Now my astonishment was complete. “Mr Thorne – you are asking my opinion?”

  “Why, of course I am, Miss Carson. Who better?”

  “Sir, I am no priest –”

  “Your father was.”

  “But – surely there are clergymen you could ask –”


  “Fools and hypocrites, for the most part,” said Mr Thorne. “They spend the bulk of their lives flattering men like me, soothing them that their wealth will be no barrier to God’s grace, no matter what measures they obtained it by. And always, always, their eye is on acquiring some donation for themselves. No, Miss Carson; I would be naïve to trust such men. You, on the other hand...”

  “I?”

  “I will not insult you by calling you a simple woman, Miss Carson – I have no doubt of your intelligence. However, you are not a trained religious. Your skills lie in administration and organisation: thus you helped your father’s cause. You haven’t been trained in clever sophistries. You have your father’s example and, I believe, faith that is not simple but straightforward. Direct. Do you think that a fair accounting?”

  “I – yes. Perhaps, yes.”

  “Good. That is what I have need of, Miss Carson. Now, tell me truly – without fear or favour. Am I, do you think, beyond all hope of redemption?”

  “My father always taught me,” I said, “that no human soul is beyond redemption. If there is repentance, true repentance, there can be salvation.”