The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  I was speechless; the plan’s audacity and thoroughness had taken me wholly by surprise. Arodias chuckled. “My wits and guile have been vital to my prosperity for more years now than I care to recall,” he said. “I would be foolish if I had no idea how to overcome a crisis.”

  “But our child – to lie to him about the very circumstances of his birth –”

  “Mary, my darling. Make no mistake – those who would use this to harm me would harm you and our child as well, without even a thought. Be guided by me on this, and we shall marry, with a child legitimate in the eyes of society and the law. He – and you – will be safe from calumny and ill-fame.”

  I could not fault his logic. Even should I decide honesty to be the better course and to take responsibility for my own weakness, how could I condemn an innocent child to suffer with me? “Very well,” I said.

  “We will find clothing that will conceal your condition as it progresses,” he said. “When your time of confinement comes near, another story will do – illness of some kind, brought on by overwork. You’ll leave the area for a spell – the Lake District, perhaps. When you return,” my husband-to-be went on, “you will be fully recovered, and our child will be cared for in secret. Then, as I say, we announce our engagement at the required time, marry, and finally – voila! – present the child as our adopted offspring. And so the crisis is neatly averted and we are a family. No?”

  I smiled. “It seems –” I wanted to say ‘foolproof’ but that would have felt too much like tempting fate. “It seems a sound plan.”

  He smiled back. “Indeed it is,” he said. “All that is required is that you trust me. And now...”

  With that, he began to kiss and caress me; I found I could not hold back.

  We made love again, and soon Arodias drifted off to sleep – but rest, even though I was cradled in his arms, eluded me.

  A life was growing inside me, that should have been cause for celebration and joy. But I could not shake the sense that any possible happiness was already tainted, because our marriage and our child’s birth would be shrouded in deceit.

  At some point, Arodias gently slipped out of bed. I pretended I was asleep too, and soon my bedroom door closed behind him.

  Outside, a storm-wind blew, and the branches of the gardens’ trees hissed and lashed the air, shedding falls of leaves. I lay sleepless and alone in my bed, coming – it shames me to say – to hate the child I bore for the shadow its scarce-formed life had already cast on mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sixsmythe

  31st October 2016

  THE INSIDE OF St Thomas’ Church was warm with low and gentle light when John opened its heavy wooden doors. Alice followed him across the threshold and inhaled that oddly distinctive smell that churches have – must and wood polish, old books, candlewax, fresh and dying flowers.

  She’d barely been in a church since she was a child, she realised. Her marriage had taken place in one and when Emily had been born, Alice had relented enough towards religion to have the child christened, if only to please Andrew’s parents and her own. The low light gleamed on polished wood and brass holders, gleamed on tall slender windows.

  Her footsteps clicked on the wooden floor as she walked up the aisle; even so, what caught her most of all about the church was its stillness. A Christian colleague had once spoken of going to church ‘in search of spiritual peace’. She’d thought it, at the time, a trite and pretentious turn of phrase, but now thought she understood better. Where else, in a city, in the howl of daily life, would you find a building dedicated to silence and stillness? This was a place where you came for quiet contemplation, to take stock and think; to step away from your life’s clutter and day-to-day concerns in search of meaning and understanding.

  Well, it was now, maybe always had been for the privileged few. For the common herd, it had most likely been the kind of place where someone would scream at you from the pulpit about original sin, eternal damnation, and how the Labour Party was the Antichrist – at least, she vaguely remembered her grandmother, a Catholic, claiming the local monsignor had declared as much back in the ’fifties when they nationalised the railways.

  She shook her head. She could quote chapter and verse – no pun intended – on the iniquities of organised religions, on the evidence of human hands in drawing up their rules and regulations to control the lower orders, of their deep loathing and fear of women – yes to all of that, you couldn’t deny what logic showed. But at the same time there was no denying this place had some quality that called to her, that made her wish she’d come here on some other day, by herself, without mysteries to solve or ghosts to exorcise – or, at least, not that kind of ghost. It was like the feeling she experienced beside a sea, a river or a lake, or the heart of an autumn wood as it breathed. A sense of peace, of stillness, of connection to, or awareness of, something bigger. It was what she’d gone to Browton Vale for in the past, until the presence she’d sensed there – the ogre? – had corrupted it.

  She’d picked a fine time to get religion, Alice thought; still, there was quiet and contemplation enough now. John seemed to feel it, too; Alice was grateful for that. She clicked her way down the aisle towards the altar. The pulpit stood to one side, a lectern to the other; a great cross of polished brass shone below the stained glass windows.

  “The life of St Thomas,” said a voice. Alice jumped, turned to see a thin, grey-haired woman limping determinedly towards them with the aid of a stick.

  “Sorry?” Alice said.

  The woman smiled, pointed with her free hand. “The windows,” she said. “They show scenes from the life of St Thomas. Only to be expected, of course, in a church named after him. Hm?”

  The smile was mischievous, as was the twinkle in her bespectacled eyes; Alice smiled back. The woman limped closer, and Alice saw that under her thick jacket the older woman wore black, with a white dog-collar at her throat. “Reverend Sixsmythe?”

  The smile brightened. “Ah – Miss Collier, I presume?” Sixsmythe switched her cane to her left hand, shook with her right. “Then this handsome fellow must be Mr Revell.” Another handshake. “Very handsome fellow,” she said. “If I were twenty years younger and didn’t have a heart condition...” She laughed. “I’m sorry. Your faces are a picture. Yes, yes – guilty as charged. Galatea Penelope Sixsmythe, Reverend, C of E. Local historian, tea drinker and devourer of cakes. Spiritual guidance offered at an affordable rate. Come this way!”

  Sixsmythe turned and limped around the front row of pews towards the left side of the church. Alice exchanged glances with John, and they followed.

  Sixsmythe had stopped before a particular spot on the wall. As they approached, Alice saw there was a good-sized brass plaque set into it, glinting dully in the light.

  “I think this is what you’re here about,” Sixsmythe said, tapping it with a bony knuckle.

  Of your charity, pray for the soul of

  ARODIAS THORNE

  1778 – 1851

  ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’

  – Matthew 7:1

  “Arodias Thorne,” said John.

  “A man so well-loved that this was the only place they could give his bones a safe burial,” said Galatea Sixsmythe, nodding at the wall. “But you know that already.” She looked at Alice. Her eyes were dark grey, putting her in mind of Welsh slate in the rain, or cold iron. Hard, unyielding, but a strength to be relied on. “So, you’re the new tenant at Collarmill Road?”

  “Owner,” said Alice, “I bought the place.”

  Sixsmythe smiled again. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever really owned that spot,” she said. “Not even him.” She nodded again at the wall. “Let’s sit.”

  Sixsmythe lowered herself into a pew. “Now,” she said. “I’ve heard some little from Mr Revell, but if he doesn’t mind keeping shtum for a minute or two, I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth – not that I’m comparing you to a horse, my dear, in spite of one or two superficial resembl
ances.”

  “Eh?”

  “Begin at the beginning, Miss Collier. I know Mr Revell well enough by reputation to guess that something’s afoot in that house. So kindly tell me what you’ve experienced. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Did Mr Revell tell you –”

  “That you’re worried you might not be right in the head? It’s a common enough concern, Miss Collier. But some things can’t be suffered without leaving a mark. I think you know that very well.”

  “What –” she glanced at John. “What did you –”

  “Mr Revell hasn’t breathed a word regarding your personal life, my dear, you can rest assured on that. When we spoke on the telephone, he was in an agony of indecision about how much to tell and how much to keep to himself. But I’m not blind. Apart from the usual – births, marriages and deaths – people tend to come to their vicar with problems of one kind or another. So I can see when someone’s been troubled. When there’s been grief, or loss, or... well. You don’t need me to tell you. In any case, the best thing I can suggest is that you tell me everything you’ve seen or think you’ve seen. If in doubt, spit it out. And I’ll do my best to decide. All right?”

  “Okay.”

  “All right, then.” Sixsmythe beamed happily, clasped both hands atop her cane and propped her chin on top. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

  Alice reeled off the whole catalogue of events, spending most of her time studying the polished floor, occasionally glancing up at Sixsmythe, who smiled benignly back and nodded her eagerly on, or at John, who sat studying her with a hand resting on the back of the pew – not touching her, but resting only inches away, close enough to take without effort should she need it.

  At last she was done. She omitted only the dream in her hotel room. She desperately wanted to believe that it had been only a dream, that the scraps of red cloth would prove to have a straightforward explanation.

  She looked up at John, but he was looking past her, at Sixsmythe. When Alice turned towards the rector, her head was bowed, lips touching her clasped hands as if in prayer. Slowly the older woman looked up, and nodded.

  “Well,” she said, “you have got yourself in something of a pickle, my dear. I think you’d both better come with me.”

  She stood, wincing slightly as she straightened.

  “Where to?” said Alice.

  “Why, to the Rectory, of course. I can offer tea, coffee, something stronger if required, and – if we’re very lucky – cake.”

  THE RECTORY WAS only a short drive away, in Irlams o’Th’ Height. Sixsmythe went in a small, battered-looking Honda, while John and Alice followed.

  “What do you think?” said Alice.

  “I think we should listen to what she has to say,” was all John said.

  They rounded the Broad Street roundabout, went off the A6 onto Bolton Road, then turned down Park Road. Night had already settled over Lightoaks Park, and the line of bristling trees stood out against the light-polluted sky. It was still quiet when they pulled up outside the rambling Victorian townhouse that served the Reverend Sixsmythe as home.

  Ivy clung to a trellis around the door, and a mock-Victorian lantern shone beside it. The lights were on inside, and a warm smell of spices and cooked dough washed out as the door opened. “Luck’s in!” said Sixsmythe cheerily. “Dora’s been baking, God bless her.”

  “That you, Rev?”

  Sixsmythe motioned Alice and John inside and slammed the door. “No, Dora, it’s the Yorkshire Ripper.” To Alice’s surprise, she was answered by a loud raspberry.

  A young woman emerged from the end of the hall, wiping floury hands on an apron. She had short brown hair, no make-up, and wore jeans with turned-up cuffs, together with boots, braces and a lumberjack shirt. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, Rev – I mean, Reverend – didn’t know we had guests.” She had a soft Welsh accent.

  “Yes, well, we do. Could you be a treasure, Dora? I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

  “Coming up.”

  Sixsmythe turned to Alice and John. “You?”

  “Er – coffee, please,” John said. “Black with two.”

  “White coffee, no sugar,” said Alice. “Please.”

  “We’ll be in my study, Dora,” said Sixsmythe.

  “Right you are, Rev. Will you be wanting cake? Just made some coffee and walnut.”

  “Oh, go on then.”

  Dora vanished back into her fragrant domain. Sixsmythe shooed Alice up the stairs, John following. “Dora’s my housekeeper. An absolute godsend. Cooks like an angel, too, as you’ll see. Now – this way!”

  Sixsmythe’s study was in a front room, overlooking the road and the park. Streetlights glowed in cages of shedding leaves among the trees opposite. The Rector switched the lights on. “Take a seat, take a seat.”

  A wide, leather-bound desk was beside the window, with a well-padded swivel chair. A couple of leatherbound armchairs were braced against a far wall. The rest of the room was taken up by bookcases, bulging with elderly volumes of one kind or another.

  “Unread, half of them,” called Sixsmythe, flapping her hand as she crouched before the desk to address the door of a square black object tucked underneath it – a safe, Alice realised. “Now whatever is that bloody combination? I have a great appetite for broadening my knowledge of Scripture and theology and much else besides, but it does rather outstrip my reading time. Ah!”

  She got the safe door open, and heaved out a large, heavy box-file.

  “Now these,” she said, “are just copies of the originals, which are in our safety-deposit box at the bank. As such, I can at my discretion let you borrow them. I suspect you’ll find them useful, but I think you’ll find it wiser and safer to peruse them elsewhere. Tuscany, maybe. I’m told that’s nice this time of year.”

  “What are they?” asked John.

  “Documents, Mr Revell,” Sixsmythe said. “Documents pertaining to the site in question – 378 Collarmill Road, and its environs – and to Mr Arodias Thorne, formerly of this parish. Smoke?”

  “Oh. No. Thank you.”

  “Miss Collier?”

  “No, thanks. I gave up.”

  “Very wise.” Sixsmythe slipped a packet of Sobranie Black Russians from a desk drawer, clasped a gold filter-tip between her thin lips and lit the black cigarette with a small silver lighter. She thumped a heavy cut-glass ashtray on the leather desktop before her and leant back. The smoke was richer-smelling than most tobaccos – in small quantities, even to a non-smoker, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Take it you’ve no objection if I do?”

  “Your house,” said John. “And you’re helping us out here.”

  “True. But it’s good manners to ask.” Another twinkle in the eyes. “Just as it’s good manners on your part to say yes. Anyway.” She leant forward and blew smoke from the side of her mouth. “I take it Mr Revell has put you in the picture?”

  “About –”

  “About Arodias Thorne, Springcross House, St James’ Church, the Red Man and the Beast of Browton, among other things?”

  “Not the last two, not yet.”

  “Mm. Well, we’ll come to them in due course. This is all connected in one way or another. But first, let me come back to the subject of Arodias Thorne. You know, of course, that he once owned the land your house stood on? That he built Springcross House on top of the hill now occupied by Higher Crawbeck?”

  “Yes. Yes, John told me. And that he paid for –”

  “The church, yes. St James’.” Reverend Sixsmythe took a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “That was quite a lot of money, as you can imagine. But you see, Miss Collier, Arodias Thorne wanted that piece of land. Very specifically, that piece and no other would do. So he was more than prepared to pay any price for it. The land – almost all of it – belonged to the Church. The old church on the hill – St Winifred’s – had served as a chapel of ease for some years in any case, and the new one would in fact be far easier to reach for local residen
ts. So the decision was made to sell. Personally, I believe that to have been most unwise. And others at the time felt the same way – it certainly wasn’t what you’d call a unanimous decision among the relevant authorities. But they were greedy. A terrible sin. Although comprehensible and forgivable, I think, where Dora’s coffee and walnut cake is concerned.”

  The study door opened on cue and Dora slipped in, bearing a tray with three steaming mugs, a large cake, a knife and three sideplates. She deposited it on the table. “Dinner’s in the oven, Rev,” she said, “an Irish stew. Just pop it on for half an hour when you get back from the service.”

  “Spot on.” Sixsmythe stubbed out her cigarette. “Thank you, Dora.”

  “Will that be everything?”

  “Oh goodness, yes. Get yourself out of here.” Sixsmythe smiled as Dora went out. “She has the loveliest little boy – her wife picks him up from school, but Dora always likes to be home in time for tea. Still, never mind that now. Where was I?”

  “Greed, I think,” said John, sipping his tea.

  “Quite. Which reminds me – who’s for some of this cake?”

  Having cut them all a generous slice, Sixsmythe went on. “Yes, there were those who didn’t feel the Church ought to part with that particular piece of real estate – and perhaps, too, those who felt that it certainly shouldn’t fall into the possession of a man like Arodias Thorne.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll get to that, my dear. Just to clear up a pair of loose ends first: Old Harry and the Red Man. You weren’t familiar with either of these?”

  “No. But this Red Man –”

  “In a moment.” Sixsmythe, Alice decided, took a downright pleasure in spinning her tale. Her lips were puckered in that mischievous smile again. “Old Harry, first. Well, you’ve seen Browton Vale for yourself. Very pleasant spot now, of course, but in older times – and bearing in mind that Browton generally was pretty desolate – decidedly less so. The marshes there were considerably more extensive, the woods a lot wilder – at least until they were cut down to build houses. The marshes were drained at the same time, but up until then, they were considered very dangerous; a lot of children went wandering there and came to grief. And that, in part, is held to be the origin of Old Harry, otherwise known as the Beast of Browton. Have you ever heard of Jenny Greenteeth?”