The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  Our late client’s family has expressed in the strongest possible terms their unwillingness to be associated with this document in any manner, and indeed their desire to have it suppressed or destroyed on the grounds that it clearly demonstrates derangement on our client’s part. Nonetheless, our client’s wishes are the principal consideration here, and therefore we believe that the proper authority to undertake any study or action with respect to the enclosed rests with the Church.

  On a private note, I would like to add that Mrs Wynne-Jones was a valued client of many years’ standing. At no time during that period, nor at any time throughout the dictation of the enclosed, was I given any cause to doubt either the soundness of the lady’s reason, nor her sincerity.

  In the event of any query, or any further service that you may require, I remain,

  Yr. obedient servant,

  Elkanah Joseph Muddock

  Huddled together, leaning back against the bed, they began to read.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day

  The Confession of Mary Carson

  AUTUMN DEEPENED STEADILY into winter, and I settled into my new routine.

  A few days into December, I was relieved of my secretarial duties. “You are now in a delicate condition,” Arodias told me, “and should on no account strain or over-exert yourself.” I protested – my mental faculties were quite undimmed, and my work required no physical exertion – but he brooked neither contradiction nor appeal.

  I ventured out only rarely, especially when December came and snow fell lightly on the grounds. I was in a delicate condition now, carrying the master’s child. I kept largely to my rooms, and the word was put about that I was unwell. I was uncertain how widely the truth was known throughout the household. Kellett knew, of a certainty, but whether or not he had told others I did not know. All depended on Arodias’ commands.

  Arodias, Arodias – always Arodias. By then he was supreme master of my fate. My entire future was in his hands. Ruination awaited should I stray from the path he’d drawn for me.

  I began at length to chafe at the degree of control my lover exercised over me. Even the most loving correction – for example, if he chid me for one of my now-rare walks in the garden, because of the cold – now seemed to have a ring of command, such that I was disinclined to remonstrate.

  He never did command me, as such, or remind me of his power to cast me out – but, somehow, the threat always seemed to be there. It was no longer a conversation between lovers, or even between employer and employee: he was the master, and I must do his bidding.

  And so, for the most part, I retreated to my rooms, where I could lie abed with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of novels, undisturbed save for the servants bringing me pots of tea, bowls of broth, or portions of steamed whiting.

  A great fir tree was installed in the drawing-room, candles and baubles on its branches. Christmas was in the air; I wondered if it had always been thus, if Springcross House’s chill atmosphere had ever thawed at this time of year, or if this change, too, I had brought about.

  Nonetheless, I felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it was that I had never felt the unstinting love a mother should for the child I carried. Perhaps that hint of ruthless command behind Arodias’ words and deeds, which made me ill at ease no matter how I berated myself for harbouring uncharitable thoughts towards my beloved. Even all these years later, I can’t be sure.

  I saw less of Arodias. He did not come to my room every night now, and on those I spent alone, I stewed in fear and uncertainty. On the nights he came, I found myself pathetically relieved to know I hadn’t been forgotten. It was, he told me, the pressure of work. The new secretary he had take on while I was indisposed was not as capable, and it was harder, with pay increased and conditions improved, for Thorne Mill to produce as great a profit as in earlier days.

  It was a bitter thing, Mrs Rhodes, to see the lines of care carved into my lover’s face and know they were my ultimate responsibility. Therefore I contented myself with my lot. He had done much for me and pledged more still. To complain would have been demanding, selfish and ungrateful.

  And then came Christmas Day...

  What? My apologies, Mr Muddock, I was quite lost in recollection. Might I trouble you for a glass of the excellent brandy my husband spoke of so often? My thanks.

  I was woken on the morning of Christmas Day by Arodias, bringing me gifts in bed. He brushed aside my apologies at having failed to buy any for him – how could I have, confined as I was? – and later, despite my protestations, I was brought downstairs in a bath chair for Christmas dinner. It was the bath chair I protested at, Mrs Rhodes, not the meal. Good Lord, I was chafing at the bit for a meal with some flavour and richness – one more plate of steamed whiting might have provoked me to murder! But I yielded to it. After all, he loved me, and I him.

  Or so I told myself. I’d begun to wonder if my feelings for him were not at least equally rooted in desperation and necessity. One thing was for certain: I carried his child, and now depended on him.

  We dined on roast goose, although ‘dined’ in my case might be an overstatement. I was permitted three thin slices of breast meat, a boiled potato and the merest dribble of gravy, followed by no more than a morsel of plum pudding, ‘lest it prove too rich.’ After much deliberation on Arodias’ part, I was also permitted a sip of wine.

  Arodias was kindness itself throughout the meal – indeed, those familiar with his reputation would have been astonished by the warmth of his manner. To me, though, who had come to know him far more intimately, there was a distance. We were seated at opposite ends of the table, with Kellett in constant attendance, and Arodias’ table talk consisted only of conventional solicitudes.

  It is more than possible, I can assure you both, to feel lonely beyond all words when every outward indication should point to the contrary.

  “You look tired, Mary,” said Arodias, wiping his lips with his napkin. “Kellett, please take Miss Carson back to her room so she may rest. I merely follow the doctor’s advice, dearest,” he added when I tried to object. “He understands your present needs far better than either of us.”

  He came to my end of the table, gently drew his fingertips down my cheek and kissed my hand. Then he leant in close and whispered, “I shall come to you later tonight, my dear.”

  AND SO I waited in my room, and I read because there was nothing else to do. Soon bored, I sat by the window and looked over the snow-covered gardens. For what seemed the first time, my gaze rose to take in the city beyond them, spread out like a black stain upon the land, a foul jumble of mire, brick and pain, its chimneys pouring black smoke to stain the pale sky. For an instant, I even thought I heard a thousand voices, crying out in anguish...

  I tried to return my attention to the garden, but couldn’t; that is, I could no longer simply blot out what lay outside Springcross House’s walls. I felt as though I were on the brink of – dare I say – a revelation? Some great change in my understanding of things? But at that moment, the bedroom door opened and Arodias came in.

  “Darling,” I said, forcing a smile, but he neither answered, nor did his face show a smile in return. He locked the bedroom door, crossed the room and did the same to the windows before pulling the curtains shut.

  At last he turned to face me, then crossed the room to sink into a chair. “Oh,” he said inconsequentially, “something I had forgotten to mention.”

  “Yes, Arodias?”

  “Yes. What was it – ah, that’s right. There will be no wedding.”

  He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a match. “You’ve no objection, I take it?”

  “What?” I said.

  He held up the cigar. “To my smoking, I mean.”

  I shook my head. I confess I was utterly bewildered, Mr Muddock – that single casual phrase, if I had truly heard it, if it was sincere, had shattered everything. I could not believe I could have heard aright. “But... the wedding, Arodia
s?”

  “I told you,” he said, as if to a slow child, “there will be no wedding.”

  “But...” I sat on the bed, swaying, feeling weak. The room seemed to spin around me. “But... Arodias, why?”

  “Christmas,” he said. “Oh, I should probably mention that as well: it’s quite meaningless to me from the religious point of view. All that fol-de-rol about fearing God’s judgement and the life to come – all nonsense, I’m afraid, although it was rather useful, wasn’t it, in gaining your affections?”

  “Arodias, this joke is very poor taste – ”

  “Joke, Mary? Whyever should you think I am joking? As I was saying, Christmas is a meaningless event to me as far as religious feeling goes, but it is, by tradition, a time of celebration, of joy, of the giving of gifts. And so this is my gift to myself, Mary: honesty. You have no idea how wearying the pretence has become.”

  He drew deeply on his cigar and smiled in satisfaction. “I suppose I ought also to tell you that you are sadly in error regarding your influence over me. Your work as my secretary was purely a matter of convenience. And in the unlikely event that you haven’t already realised, your influence over my actions or judgement is non-existent. I have done nothing, since engaging you, at variance with my own will.”

  As he said this, he smiled while watching me as a naturalist might study some new-caught animal.

  “When first I heard of you, you were of little interest to me, until reports of your physical charms followed. When I met you in person, I knew you would be perfect for my purposes, which were twofold: satisfying my carnal appetites, and providing myself, through you, with a child.” He smirked. “Neither was particularly difficult.”

  Does that shock you, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes? It shocked me. I thought I had found love, and instead I’d found only the cruellest deception. The worst of it was the casual plainness with which he told me, as if to say, Yes, I have done this.What can you do about it? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Conditions at the Thorne Mill remain exactly as they were before, and profits high as ever as a result. The gentleman you met, Mr Hardman? An actor, Mary, nothing more. I trust he gave a creditable performance? He was well paid for it.”

  Still he watched me, gloating over every sign of distress – and these were plentiful, for I could not hold them back. Arodias Thorne used words as a vivisectionist uses knives.

  Forgive me, Mr Muddock, forgive me – I will need only a moment. To revisit such memories, even after so long, can be painful indeed.

  “But why you, Mary, why you?” he went on. “That’s the question you ask yourself now, isn’t it? Out of all the women in the land, why you? Why not simply marry? Well, I did. I did. And she was entertaining in her way, for a time. But now she’s gone, I’ve no desire to surrender myself once more to domesticity. I wanted a child. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  I gripped the bedsheets in handfuls. They were solid and tangible, and therefore real. I sought to cling onto some sense of reality. “Surely any common whore or slattern would have served your turn, for sufficient pay.”

  “True.” He shrugged. “But even discounting the threat of disease, what good could come of breeding with such degenerate stock? No, my child must be clean, and the mother refined and educated and above all, if possible...” Oh God. I can’t forget how he smiled then, or the look in his eyes when he said it. “...a virgin. You were all this, and pious, moral, upright. I will admit that I enjoyed the game. And there was some incidental pleasure gained from the whole business. In my experience, the more pious the woman, the more licentious she is at heart, if only she can be induced to admit it. But now I’m weary of the pretence.”

  I don’t know if you will understand me if I say I felt the world was disappearing from me, falling apart and leaving me in a void. Everything – everything was being taken away, or had already been. My faith, my trust, any sense of my own worth or value. I could have died at that moment. I certainly wanted to.

  “You were interesting, anyway, for a time,” he went on. “Most people only pretend to be motivated by anything other than their own appetites. With them it’s just a case of finding some acceptable cover. But you were one of those few who delude themselves. So I had to construct a more cunning and elaborate tale to snare you. Still, if nothing else, I think you’ll agree in the end that I have made you a sadder but wiser woman.”

  I was torn between wanting to die and wanting to kill him. Had I only been able to lay hands on a weapon, any weapon, I would have flung myself on him. His life first, and then my own. But there was nothing to hand. My lover had been careful in these matters.

  Very well, then. He had ruined and shamed and destroyed me and in the eyes of all decent society I would be at best a fool, at worst a whore, but I would not stay to see him gloat. Rather would I spend my night on the streets and sleep in honest filth, or drown myself in the Irwell, than give him another moment’s satisfaction. Galvanised by the decision, I scrambled from the bed and hunted for my dress.

  “Well,” said Arodias, “what’s this then? Wherever do you think you’re going, Mary dear?”

  “You have had your enjoyment from me, Mr Thorne,” I told him – I did tell him, I did – “but you’ll have no more. I would rather starve than spend another night under your roof.”

  He roared with laughter, but when I started for the door, having gathered enough clothes to achieve some semblance of modesty, he called my name liltingly. I tried to pretend he was not there, but of course, the door wouldn’t open, and I finally looked back to see Arodias dangling the key to the room. The smirk upon his lips was so vile and self-contented I could have killed him for that alone.

  “The key, please, Mr Thorne,” I said.

  A snorted giggle escaped him and he shook his head. “Do you really think you could escape, in your condition?” he said. “Or that if you did, you would not be found?”

  “Give me the key, Arodias.”

  He shook his head. “You’re mine, Mary. Bought and paid for. And what I have, I hold. Nobody leaves me until I allow it.”

  I closed in on him. There might not be a knife or pair of scissors to hand, but I wasn’t entirely without weapons. My fingernails were more than long and sharp enough to rend the flesh of his cheeks, to blind him if I could only get to his eyes. Do I shock you, Mr Muddock? Mrs Rhodes? Oh, but consider what he had done to me. Is it any surprise that in my desperation I felt capable of any act of violence against him? After all, I hardly had anything left to lose by now, and the man or woman pushed to that extremity of desperation is to be feared. For they may be capable of anything.

  Perhaps that same thought occurred to him just then. More likely it had occurred to him long before, of course, because when I took another step towards him his smile vanished. He made as if to retreat – then lunged forward, taking me by surprise. He caught my hand and bent two fingers back, and instantly I cried out in agony. He forced me to my knees and stood over me, smiling grimly down.

  “Understand me, Mary. You will, as you put it, remain under my roof, or you will find yourself in lodgings far less congenial. I will have you declared insane, Mary, and committed to an asylum. You have no other kin, after all, and as your concerned employer I shall act in loco parentis. The child? A bastard conceived by some below-stairs dalliance, the father unknown or absconded. You will have gone mad from disappointment, and no-one will credit your fantasies about your upright and respected employer Mr Thorne. In any event you will carry my child to term: I shall see to that. And the child shall come to me, for my purposes. That will happen, no matter what. But once in the asylum, Mary, there you shall remain. Mad, Mary, mad. In filth and alone, and the plaything of the brutes that administer such places. For all the days of your life. Have I made myself clear?”

  I had never been to an asylum for the insane, but had heard enough tales of what abuses might be practised on its helpless inmates. Such a fate would be the closest thing to a living Hell that I could imagine. With A
rodias’ wealth and influence, such a solution would be simplicity itself, far easier than murder: no inconvenient corpse to dispose of, and anything I said dismissed out of hand as a madwoman’s ravings. Indeed, telling the truth would only confirm my lunacy. It gives one pause for thought – does it not, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes – to think how many poor wretches in such places may in truth be innocent victims, of men like Arodias Thorne?

  “Or...” he continued, “you can be sensible. Reasonable. Amenable to my will. If you do so, you will not only escape the asylum, but I shall see to it that you are well-provided for.” A smile. “For services rendered, one might say.”

  I said nothing, for in truth what could I say? In a matter of minutes my whole world had fallen apart – my hopes and dreams for the future, every foundation I had built on for the remainder of my life. I was as lost as a drowning sailor, clinging to a spar in the stormy sea. And he knew that, and delighted in it.

  He studied me. “I think I see a hint of defiance in your eye, Mary. A pity, but no matter. It will pass.” He released my hand. “We understand each other now. I think you can be trusted to behave in a reasonable manner.”

  I must now beg a moment’s indulgence of you, Mrs Rhodes. And, perhaps, your forgiveness. There are things we do not speak of, not in so-called polite society. You may feel I have spoken more than enough of such matters already. But I must make my confession in full. You would have an old woman’s eternal gratitude, Mrs Rhodes – for whatever that is worth – if you could steel yourself to record it.

  Thank you. So, to resume my tale:

  I bowed my head, my hands clenched into fists in my lap. “Is that all, Mr Thorne?” I said, with all the cold formality I could muster. I was determined to salvage what dignity I could. Of course, that was easier on my feet than on my knees, so I began to rise. But his hand descended on my shoulder, pushing me back down.