The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  “Don’t.”

  “Okay, okay. But it’s true. He still thinks you’re amazing.”

  And what did John think she was now? Alice was annoyed with herself for caring, but she did. “So you got hold of Chris,” she said, “and...?”

  “And there wasn’t much he could tell me. There was some, but – here’s the weird part – a lot of what we need to know is held by the church.”

  “St Thomas’?”

  John got in the car, unlocked the passenger door. “Let’s talk on the way.”

  “Okay,” said Alice, and got in.

  “When I say it’s held by the Church,” said John, starting the motor, “I mean Church with a capital C. Basically a whole load of documents ended up in the care of the Church of England – mainly, I think, because nobody else wanted to take responsibility for them. Hence our appointment with Galatea Sixsmythe.”

  “And who the hell is she, exactly? Can you tell me that now?”

  “Yeah,” said John, guiding the Volvo down Collarmill Road. “She’s the current rector at St Thomas’. I spoke to her on the phone. She’s expecting us.” He glanced sideways at Alice. “And she confirmed that she had no idea who you were.”

  “But you still gave me the third degree?”

  “Hey. She might not have known you, but that wouldn’t stop you from knowing who she was. Anyway” – John made a right turn onto Blackburn Road – “you want to hear the story so far or what?”

  “Fire away. Please.”

  “Okay. Well, Crawbeck as a settlement goes back the best part of a thousand years, maybe further. Started out at the bottom of the hill. It expands later, and that’s when it becomes Lower and Higher Crawbeck. There used to be a church or chapel on the hilltop. But then in the early 1800s, along comes Arodias Thorne.”

  “Who was?”

  “A mill owner. A filthy rich one. He bought the whole damned hill. The man was loaded. Get this – not only did he build himself a brand new home – all-singing, all-dancing – on top of the hill, he actually paid for the cost of building a brand new church further down.”

  “That wouldn’t have been cheap.”

  “Certainly wouldn’t. You’ll have seen the church he built. Fact, there it is on the left.”

  Alice turned her head, just in time to glimpse the tall black silhouette of a buttressed, turretted square tower looming above the rooftops. “St. James’ Church?” she asked.

  “Just a few sidestreets down from you,” said John.

  “I remember the place. Went past there one night, back in the ’nineties, when I first lived up here. It was winter – about a couple of weeks before Christmas – and there was an evening service on. You could see the windows lit up. Beautiful stained glass.”

  John eyed her over the top of his glasses. “You just say something nice about religion?”

  “I said the place looked nice. That’s just an aesthetic judgement.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “John, do not start trying to make out I’ve found Jesus.”

  “Okay, okay.” John smiled, kept his eyes on the road. On the pavement, Alice caught a flicker of red. She started, looked, but it was just a child in a scarlet devil costume, accompanied by a witch, a werewolf and a sheeted ghost. Trick or treat, trick or treat, give me something good to eat. “St. James’ is closed now. Back in 2002. Only congregation it’s got these days are the local winos. Anyway, Thorne built this huge house that covered the whole top of the hill, including the part that eventually collapsed into Browton Vale –”

  “And including the bit my house is now parked on?”

  “Who’s telling this story, me or you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “And including the part now occupied by number 378, Collarmill Road.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was called Springcross House, big stone mansion with a wall around it and ornamental gardens. Quite a place, apparently. The source of the Craw is up there somewhere, culverted.”

  “The Craw?”

  “Craw, as in Crawbeck? It used to come out further down the hillside. Then the Fall happened and now it comes out somewhere in Browton Vale before feeding into the Irwell.”

  “What happened to the house?”

  “Thorne didn’t have any kids, and he wasn’t a popular sort of guy. ‘Never did a kind deed in his life,’ was what someone said about him. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement.”

  “Nineteenth-century mill owners,” Alice said. “They weren’t exactly known for being softies.”

  “Even still,” said John. “A lot of them liked to play the philanthropist. You know, build a public drinking fountain, give some land to the City Corporation as a park, that kind of shit.”

  “It was pretty much de rigeur in those days.”

  “Uh-huh. ’Specially when you start getting older and thinking about the next life.” John chuckled. “One way of keeping yourself in the Big G’s good books, anyway. Except our boy Arodias didn’t seem to give a shit about that, because he never gave a penny.”

  “That is a little bit out of the ordinary.”

  “Here we are.” They came up to the Pendleton roundabout, which the A6 ran across, changing from Broad Street into Bolton Road. St Thomas’ loomed above them, lit up by floodlights. A St George’s flag fluttered from the top of its tower.

  “Same design as St James’,” said Alice. “Or close.”

  “Waterloo churches,” said John. “Commissioned after the Battle of Waterloo. Manchester, Salford – they were both growing cities back then.”

  He pulled into the small car park. “Church used to have a lot more land,” he said, nodding to Brindle Heath Road, a small highway sloping down from the church towards the industrial estate below. “Those new houses there? That’s where the old chapel of ease used to be. And just past them, there’s the oldest Jewish cemetery in Manchester.”

  “Or Salford.”

  John laughed. “Or Salford. The Jews bought a plot of land next to the church for burials, used it up until they built the Great Synagogue out in Cheetham Hill.”

  “Mine of information, aren’t you?”

  “You look up teacher’s pet in the dictionary, baby, you’ll find a picture of me.”

  Alice snorted and shook her head.

  “How you doing now?” No more third degree; when she looked, John’s eyes were warm and kind.

  “I’m better. Thanks.”

  “’Kay. Anyway, point being, you can only see a few graves and tombs round here. There’d have been more, back in the day – including one for Arodias Thorne.”

  “Is it gone now?”

  “Probably. But not the man himself.” John nodded towards St Thomas’ floodlit façade. “He’s in there.”

  “What? Is it haunted or something?”

  “Not exactly.” John got out, walked round, and opened her door. “Thorne’s body was interred in the walls of St Thomas’ after his tomb was repeatedly desecrated.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No shit. This rassclaat was not popular.”

  Alice grinned: John had spent a lot of time in his youth with the ‘old school’, as he called his parents’ generation; his command of patois was pretty damned impressive, and had a habit of popping up when you least expected. She’d forgotten that. She took his arm. “Thanks for bringing me along.”

  His answering smile was awkward. “I kind of had to.”

  “Eh?”

  “Should have told you, really. Gave the Reverend a call before I came back to Collarmill Road – you know, I needed to know when I could see her. Anyway, I told her what I had on my hands here, what you’d told me, and...”

  “And?”

  “And she insisted I bring you with me.”

  Alice swallowed hard. “Right.”

  “It was all such a neat fit, like I say,” John said. “That was like the last straw, got me thinking it had to be some kind of set-up. But since it’s not, I think we’d best get in a
nd see her. She’s expecting us any minute now.”

  Alice’s stomach had clenched, fist-tight. She turned and looked out for a moment. She’d forgotten how spectacular a view you got from here, stretching out across the whole Irwell Valley. So many trees and patches of woodland; you could easily think the whole landscape was forest, with only the occasional piece of concrete escaping the green stranglehold. It would be beautiful come the summer; Alice wondered if she’d be there to see it.

  “Alice?” said John.

  She turned to face him, nodded. “Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Together they walked towards the looming outline of the church.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Conception

  The Confession of Mary Carson

  TIME PASSED, YET seemed to stand still. The memory of that summer remains almost precious to me; sorrow and delight are so bound up with my experiences at Springcross House I cannot recall one without the other.

  Each night Arodias came to my bed, and each night I found fresh delight there. The difference in our ages seemed to disappear – in the dark, grey hairs were far less visible, and all that remained was his body’s leanness and strength. His kisses were passionate and deep; his caresses, when our lovemaking was at an end, tender and consoling. I could not remember being so happy. I was loved, with the prospect of marriage, children and a secure future, and a husband I had redeemed from his earlier harshness.

  It was like a dream, I admit – not least because, in daily life, we still played our accustomed roles of employer and secretary. Even our luncheon conversations rarely touched on any topic they would previously have avoided. From morning until night I outwardly remained the upright spinster; smartly dressed, a pillar of rectitude. But after dark, when he came to my room... ah, then I lived in another world, Mrs Rhodes, one so glorious that when I woke some mornings I could no longer be certain what was a dream and what was not.

  Below the hill on which Springcross House stood, the city churned out soot and murk, but the house’s gardens were clean and bright. It was a glorious summer, at least to me; one, seemingly, without end. And yet, one morning I looked out of my window and saw the garden’s brightly-coloured blooms dead or dying, the trees’ leaves turning red and gold and brown, and falling to the paths. Autumn had come.

  The days began to shorten. I, in my turn, took advantage of the evenings before they drew in too far, walking through the gardens after dinner to savour the rich scent of fallen leaves decaying into loam. There is a peace and stillness to autumn no other season quite possesses. It is a beautiful time, yet melancholy, for its beauty is born of dying and heralds the coming of winter. After walking, I would retire to my rooms to make ready for my lover.

  And if, on those autumn walks, any doubt ever intruded as to my lover’s promises, I dismissed them. I was happy, and wished to remain that way; and besides, to doubt my lover was to dishonour him.

  Yes, that’s how I thought. I was by then five-and-thirty years of age and thought myself wise enough, but in these matters I was as green and foolish as a young maid.

  The end of my brief idyll – not that I so recognised it at the time – came one October morning, when I awoke feeling bloated and queasy. I waited as long as I dared for it to pass, but I could not delay rising indefinitely. When I did, I was forced to run to the water closet, where I was violently ill.

  I assumed that I had eaten something that disagreed with me, although I had no idea what. The cook, Mrs Cowling, was as charmless and coarse-spirited a soul as any other servant at Springcross House, but her deficiencies did not extend to her kitchen skills: Arodias, after all, was scarcely likely to settle for a sub-standard bill of fare.

  My nausea passed quickly. I made my toilet as per usual and went on to enjoy another day in that now-familiar pattern. But the following day, the sickness seized me again; and then, once more, the day after that.

  Discreet enquiries among the other servants assured me that no other member of the household had suffered any digestive upset in recent days. I continued in my duties and daily routine, but I knew something was awry. To Arodias I said nothing; I did not want to voice my suspicions. Indeed, the two or three nights that followed were more abandoned than the rest as I sought to forget my worries – and to hope that the following morning would find me with settled stomach, the attacks of vomiting no more than a memory.

  But, of course – as I am sure you, Mrs Rhodes, if not you, Mr Muddock, will have doubtless guessed already – that was not to be. The bouts of morning-sickness continued, and then, worse still, my monthly courses, normally regular as the tides themselves, did not come as usual that month. Nor, indeed, I realised with horror, had they arrived the month before.

  Of course, it had been foolishness to believe I could sin without consequence. Had I but waited until Arodias and I were married, all would have been well, but as it was, what faced me but disgrace and the life of an outcast?

  I could only hope Arodias was the man I hoped him to be, and would not prove some pious hypocrite. The thought had never occurred to me before, but I could not keep it away. I was no longer a woman of certain prospects, but one whose entire future hinged on whether one man chose to keep his word or not. He had been so concerned hitherto about his reputation, after all, not wishing to marry too early. How many times worse would this be? How much easier to cast me adrift and damn me for a whore, with child from some other servant? What would my word be against his?

  I was surprised at the sudden sharpness of my fear and suspicion of the man I loved. Time and again I told myself that I was wrong to entertain any such doubt, but still almost a week went by before I dared tell him.

  “Arodias, I am with child.”

  That is how I said it, Mrs Rhodes, in the middle of our customary half-hour luncheon. He went still, halting in the midst of chewing a mouthful of cold chicken, and looked at me for a long moment. Then he put down his chicken leg, swallowed a long draught of tea and set the cup down before saying, “You’re certain?”

  I nodded. I felt tiny, fragile, a withered leaf the first strong wind would blow away.

  Arodias picked up a napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “We will talk further this evening,” he said, “at the accustomed time.” It was the first thing he’d ever said that made reference to how we spent our nights. He looked at my face, and doubtless read the fear and confusion there. For all my attempts at composure, I was, doubtless, an open book. Then he smiled, reached out and touched my hand. This, too was unprecedented, being the first display of affection he had made towards me anywhere outside the bedroom. “Don’t worry, Mary,” he said. “All shall be well.”

  Of course, his words only served to worry me more. I picked them apart and studied them as if under a magnifying glass throughout the hours that followed. What did he intend? There were those who could abort a child, once conceived: there were draughts you swallowed, or surgical instruments, intended to preserve life, bent to the opposing purpose. Was that his plan? And what then did he intend – to pay me off and dismiss me, or continue as before and marry me when the times were convenient? Could I countenance such a design? And if not, what else might he propose?

  I passed the day in a daze, barely picking at the evening meal, wandering through the gardens in the twilight until it was very nearly dark. When I realised that the hour for our nightly assignation had almost come, for the first time I went reluctantly to the rendezvous.

  I had no idea what Arodias expected. If he wanted to postpone all discussion until we had coupled, I was not sure I could oblige him. Thankfully, he spared me that. Entering the room as he usually did, in his brocaded robe and bearing a candelabra, he quickly set the latter down, sat beside me upon the bed, and took my hands in the tenderest fashion.

  “My dearest,” he said. “I am so sorry. This is all my fault. It should not have been a great hardship to wait, not for so little time as a year. I am to blame.”

  I had not expected this. I had e
xpected blame and recrimination, so much so that I said, “So am I, darling. I should have thought to take precautions of some kind –”

  But he was already shaking his head. “You’re an innocent, my dear,” he said. “Before you came to Springcross House, you were pure, unsullied. I am a man of the world. All my life I have had to consider the consequences of my actions, in order to ensure I attain my goals. It was always obvious that there was a risk of matters ending as they have.”

  “Ending?” The fear was back again, but he squeezed my hands gently.

  “Developing, I should say. This is no ending. Rest assured of that, Mary. We will still be married. This changes nothing, do you understand me? Nothing. But... we must be wise.”

  “How do you mean, wise, Arodias?”

  “As I told you, there are those who would care nothing about the conditions in my factory, however harsh, but would seek my ruin for a transgression such as this. It was politic to delay our engagement until a suitable time had passed. It is even more so that this matter be kept quiet.”

  My hands went, almost automatically, to my belly. “It will be a hard matter to keep quiet, surely.”

  “You rarely go far from the house. Work, and, if necessary, illness, can provide an adequate excuse for a low profile on your part until the child is born – and you may be certain that I shall ensure discretion on the servants’ part,” he added, “lest you have any concerns on that score. After the child is born, you can be seen in public again, and soon enough after that, our engagement can be announced.”

  “And the child?” I asked.

  Arodias merely shrugged. “We will adopt him,” he said. “He – or she – will live here, in secret, until in due course it can be announced that Mr and Mrs Thorne, unable to conceive children of their own, have chosen to adopt one whose lot would otherwise be bleak. And if we have more children” – he smiled – “we shall have confounded the doctors. It will hardly be the first time one of those quacks has been proven wrong.”