The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  “But you never found anything?”

  Lips pursed, John shook his head. “Nothing. Not in all those years. Not one damned thing that couldn’t be explained away. And then a couple of years ago I started using some of the gadgets the other ‘ghost hunters’ used – EVP recorders, that kind of shit. You know – the stuff that sounds scientific, but isn’t?”

  Alice chuckled. “Yeah. I seem to remember bending your ear a few times about what bollocks that was.”

  John laughed. “That you did.”

  Alice sipped more brandy. It made her feel warm, comfortable, for the first time in a while. Or was that John’s presence? Maybe it was both. She slipped off her shoes and stretched out on the chaise-longue.

  “Anyway – I was just trying to get a result. Something, anything. I started to think that maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe you couldn’t find what you were looking for with the scientific method. I was trying to work out some sort of equation to show maybe you did need faith... and then, well – you know how alcoholics talk about having a moment of clarity?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had mine. Saw myself. Christmas was coming up and it looked like I’d be spending it same way I usually did, with the family. Dad, Carol, and her husband and kids – and me, on my own. I’ve been teaching at a sixth form college the last eight years. Oh, I’ve applied for other jobs once or twice, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I’m pretty sure my little hobby didn’t help. Forty-plus, no wife, no kids, not much of a job, not much money – and, you know, what for?”

  “And that was it?”

  “Not quite. I suddenly saw my house as well. Total fucking mess, the state I’d let it get into – pots in the sink, carpets hadn’t been hoovered in months, all of that. And the spare room – that was my study. Walls covered in notes, pictures, this and that – I looked at it and it was like the diary of a fucking madman. And there was nothing scientific about it any more, nothing that wouldn’t be laughed out of court in five seconds. I wasn’t going to show anybody, not with what I had. I carried on a little longer, but I already knew, deep down. So, come New Year’s, I took my website down. Oh yeah, I had one of those. John Revell, Ghost Hunter. Took the link off my Facebook page. The only reason it still says paranormal researcher is because I’d been dusting off my CV and started looking for something new. Wanted to put something better than what I had for a day job. Right now?” He shrugged. “I’m still there, but I’m saving up to go back to college. Get my Ph.D, then try and start again.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Why do you think I was so pissed off at you? Well, one of the reasons, anyway. You had all that potential, and...”

  “I know. Shit, I’ve forgotten half the stuff we learned at uni. Quantum physics, shit like that? I had enough trouble getting my head around it back then.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s worth the effort, though.”

  “So I heard. You did pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “I did okay, yeah. Financially, anyway.”

  “Right.” John opened his mouth to speak again. He was going to ask about Emily, about Andrew; about the death, about the divorce. Alice didn’t want that, not now, not with the brandy soothing the rough edges away.

  “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How long do you think it’ll be before you can do that Ph.D?”

  “Couple of years, probably. If I’m lucky.”

  “What if you could go this year?”

  “Say what?”

  “Well, next year. The new academic year. What if you did one more paranormal investigation? A paid one? So well paid you could go back on the next course that’s open, and not have to worry about student debt?”

  “You any idea how much money that would cost?”

  “Yeah. I can afford it, John. I was very well-paid. And I got half the proceeds of the sale on my old house. Homes in Sussex are a lot more pricey than they are in Manchester. Believe me.”

  “I do. Well, about the house prices. But this? You’re talking five figures, Alice.”

  “I know. But I want to know what’s happening, John. I want a rational explanation, I want something where I can go well, that was a load of old bollocks. And I think I can trust you to do that.”

  John chewed his bottom lip, frowning.

  “Well? You going to help me, John?”

  He looked at her long and hard, then finally nodded. “Okay,” he said at last.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thanksgiving

  The Confession of Mary Carson

  LIFE AT SPRINGCROSS House was ordered, and ordered by Mr Thorne at all times. Its equilibrium changed only rarely, and any disruption was brief. Order meant a great deal to my employer; any new element was either rejected, or incorporated into the whole.

  So it was with my piano recitals. They became a part of my work day. When the daily round was concluded, I made my way to the music room with Mr Thorne, and played for an hour. My repertoire was somewhat out of date, but he seemed not to mind. Alongside other works by Beethoven, I played Pleyel’s sonatinas, sonatas by Sterkel and, for variety’s sake, Scottish and Irish airs – and, should I feel daring, the occasional piece by Mr Dibdin. You would not remember him, Mrs Rhodes, and even Mr Muddock’s memory is unlikely to stretch so far, but in his day he was considered somewhat humorous, and even risqué. Throughout the whole performance, Mr Thorne would sit in the front row of the music room – now cleaned daily, and the piano regularly tuned – and would listen, eyes closed, showing every sign of deep content.

  My pay, already generous, was further increased. I had no complaints on that score; indeed, I was pleased. I had little to occupy my time away from my labours, and the fatter my bank account grew, the happier I would be.

  Our luncheons, however, were once more conducted in silence. Nor, after that initial display of confidence and intimacy, did Mr Thorne speak again of his wife, or of any topic of a personal nature. I accepted that I was, still, a mere servant, piano playing or no. He had learned I had an additional skill, one that he could make use of, and he had done so, nothing more.

  I was fortunate, in many ways. He could, after all, dismiss me whenever he chose, and might well be tempted to, for now I might know him better than he was comfortable with. I assumed my competence and discretion, along with my musical skills, had impressed him to a sufficient degree that he preferred to retain me.

  The piano sessions having been incorporated in my routine, I assumed there would be no further alterations. I was wrong, of course. With hindsight, it’s hard to see how I could not have been.

  Weeks became months; spring became summer. The air was warm, the days long. After the piano sessions, I would wander in the grounds with a novel and parasol. The gardens of Springcross House were in full bloom, the air rich with heady scents. The leafage was so thick it was easy to forget, at times, that I was in the grounds of a great house, near a populous city; I could almost believe I wandered in untouched woodlands, like those I played in as a child.

  Looking back on my time at Springcross House, I recall this period fondly. It was the closest I came to real happiness there. But that time of innocence was destined to be short.

  In literature and on the stage, Mrs Rhodes and Mr Muddock, life is full of omens. Reality, however – at least in my experience – is a far more deceitful business, either devoid of omens or filled with those that falsely promise joy, rather than sorrow. If I am gay and happy today, with my husband and my children, it is because I have learned to treasure what I have while it is still mine, knowing that tomorrow, or sooner, it may all be dashed from me in suffering and shame.

  The next phase of my time at Springcross House began – once more – on one of my days off. Mr Thorne was out, and I sat beneath a parasol outside the music room, reading. The music room overlooked a particular part of the gardens of which I was very fond, where a statue of a knight with a broken sword stood, a quotation from Ecclesiast
icus on its plinth. Outside the French windows, a veranda stood above the statue, on a high embankment which made it impossible to see into the room from the garden itself.

  Most of the staff were also out, but one or two chose to keep to the house – among them, on this occasion, Kellett. I did not hear the doors open, and was only aware of his presence when his shadow fell upon me.

  I started; Kellett saw this, and made no effort to conceal his amusement. Though we remained publicly civil, our initial mutual dislike had only increased with time. I had found no friend or confidante among the other servants, but I had seen – and heard – what I had seen. Kellett was much given to casting lascivious glances at the prettier maidservants, and at night in Springcross House, sounds carried.

  More than once I was much inclined to speak to Mr Thorne of Kellett’s behaviour, but am ashamed to state that I always shrank from the task. Kellett had been in my employer’s service for many years and was trusted implicitly; it was hard to believe Mr Thorne was unaware of his nature. More likely my employer valued Kellett’s services to the extent that he overlooked his peccadilloes. As I have said, few of the staff showed what one might call a high moral character; Mr Thorne, it seemed, chose to wink at such practices under his roof.

  Even so, I was troubled, for more than once I heard pain and protest in the cries from Kellett’s room. I told myself, over and again, that the servants he consorted with were willing parties to his acts – you may be shocked to learn, Mrs Rhodes, there are said to be those who take pleasure both from receiving and inflicting pain. From snatches of overheard gossip, I gathered his days off involved more depraved activities still, although at that time I struggled to conceive what these might be.

  Despite my loathing, I did my utmost to maintain a polite demeanour towards the man, which was far more than he did. Even now, as he stood over me, his gaze roved over my body. “Miss Carson,” he said.

  “Mr Kellett,” I replied. Though fully clothed, I felt a strong urge to cover myself, but resisted it; he would only take pleasure in having discomfited me. “What can I do for you?”

  Kellett ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip, and I genuinely felt a moment’s unease. Surely he would not dare take liberties with me? But if I was so sure, why should I feel such disquiet? In the event, he only gave his usual oleaginous smirk and said, “There’s a gentleman asking to see you. A Mister Hardman.”

  “I know no-one of that name.”

  “Nonetheless, he’s most insistent.”

  I sighed. “Very well. I will receive him in the drawing-room.”

  “Very good, Miss Carson.” As I went back into the music room Kellett called after me. “What would Mr Thorne say about your receiving gentleman callers in his absence?”

  I refused to be drawn. “The drawing-room, Mr Kellett,” I said.

  When I saw Mr Hardman, my first thought was that I should have received him elsewhere. He was small, with a podgy belly and thin, rattish face, dark with grime, and sported a weak moustache over a mouth filled with brown and yellow teeth, while his clothes – cap, kerchief, shirt, trousers and wooden clogs – were indescribably filthy. On seeing me, he swiped off the cap. “Miss Carson?”

  “That is my name, sir,” I said, sitting down and motioning him to another chair (over which Kellett or another servant had thoughtfully spread a protective sheet.) “But I confess I do not know you.”

  “No, of course not, Miss,” he said, perching gingerly on the indicated chair. “I know who you are, though. We all do at the Thorne Mill.”

  That pulled me up rather short. “The Thorne Mill?” I said.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “You are employed by Mr Thorne?”

  “Indeed we are, Miss, and, well, er – Mr Thorne himself gave leave for one of us to visit you here and convey our thanks.”

  “Your – your thanks, Mr Hardman? But whatever for?”

  He blinked. “But didn’t you know, Miss? Mr Thorne’s made a number of changes at the mill, all on your account.”

  “Changes? And on my account?” I realised I was in danger of sounding like a parrot.

  “Our pay has been increased, Miss Carson. There are to be repairs to the factory, and I understand that in winter it will be a good deal warmer...”

  I was quite astonished, as you may imagine, to hear this account of quite unprecedented reform at the Thorne Mill. If Mr Thorne maintained this course, his reputation would be quite as reformed as that of Ebeneezer Scrooge in Mr Dickens’ Christmas tale! Had I not been sitting down I would have been compelled to, else I might have fallen.

  “Forgive me, Mr Hardman,” I said at last, “but this all comes as something of a surprise – you say that Mr Thorne holds me responsible for these changes?”

  “Yes, Miss Carson.” Hardman screwed his face up. “He said you were a most – most excellent lady of the finest Christian virtue, and that your charity and goodness of heart were an example that had prevailed upon him to consider the lot of the poorest and meanest of his employees, alongside his own.” Mr Hardman, having recited the entire speech by rote, here paused for breath. “As though he were ruler of a prosperous nation or head of an illustrious family.”

  My astonishment was redoubled; I could not speak. After a moment, Mr Hardman cleared his throat. “In any case, Miss Carson, we were all most grateful, and Mr Thorne at last agreed that one of us might come to call upon you in person to convey our thanks.” He puffed out his chest in pride. “I had the honour of being so chosen.”

  I cannot recall what I said after that, so overcome was I. I stuttered out some few poor words of thanks, to my visitor and those he represented. After that, quite distracted, I retired to my room.

  I was still in something of a daze several hours later, when Mr Thorne returned. Hearing wheels rattle over gravel, I peered from my bedroom window to see his coach come up the drive. Seeing him climb the front steps, I ventured from my room onto the landing.

  Mr Thorne climbed the stairs and passed my room, almost without a glance at me – almost. But how great a difference such an almost makes, Mrs Rhodes! For Mr Thorne glanced at me and smiled – briefly, but with such warmth!

  Any words I had meant to utter went quite out of my head; I replied only with a smile of my own – doubtless larger and sillier by far than his. Mr Thorne inclined his head, and moved on.

  I returned to my room, my head all in a whirl once more. To think that I, alone, could have moved my flinty-seeming employer to such an extent!

  It was only afterwards that it occurred to me how eagerly I had awaited Mr Thorne’s return, how my heart had leapt at it – like a young maiden’s, I thought, in the presence of her lover.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Tatter of Red

  29th – 30th October 2016

  WHEN THEY CAME out of the Mark Addy, John steered Alice down past Salford Central Station and under the big viaduct towards Chapel Street. “Don’t know if you remember,” he said, “but Deansgate can get kind of rowdy of an evening.”

  “So we go up here instead?”

  “It’s a shorter walk, too.”

  “Okay, I’m sold.”

  He offered her his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and they began to walk.

  “Okay,” said John after a short while. “Ground rules.”

  “Ground rules?”

  “If I’m gonna do this –”

  “You already said you would –”

  “All right! But there are conditions.”

  “If this is some attempt to get sexual favours, Revell –”

  “Jesus, girl, have some respect for me. I hadn’t even thought of anything like that.” He grinned at her and winked. “But, now you mention it – ow!”

  He hopped a few paces before starting to walk normally again. “You were saying?” Alice said, with the sweetest and most innocent smile she could muster.

  “I was saying, there are conditions. Not that kind. But if I’m doing this, it’s for
one reason and one alone.”

  “Aw, thanks.”

  “Get over yourself. No, it’s because you’re claiming this is the real deal – that there’s stuff going on that doesn’t have a regular explanation.”

  “Hey, come on, John – I want there to be a regular explanation. Really and truly, okay?”

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll bite, but that means I come at this scientifically. I have to be a sceptic about all of it. Including what you’ve told me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The spearhead thing, for a start?”

  “What about it? I didn’t make the spearhead up. Go see Chris Fry, he’ll tell you –”

  “But he won’t have seen where it came from. The only evidence of where it came from is what you’ve told me. Same with the stone in your garden you told me about. I’ve only got your word you didn’t see it until after the... episode, whatever it was.”

  “Do you believe me?” Alice’s voice sounded very small, even to herself.

  John sighed. “Alice, it’s not about whether I believe you. I’ve got to think in terms of being able to produce compelling evidence –”

  Alice pulled away and glared up at him. Small as she was, she felt ridiculous; at least she’d managed not to stamp her foot. “I know, I know, I know – for Christ’s sake, John, I’m a scientist too – but do you believe me?”

  She glowered up at him and he looked down at her, all kindness and understanding. It made her want to kick his shins again. “Yes,” he said. “Okay? I believe you.”

  She breathed out, and let him take her arm once more. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”