“Not quite, Miss Carson,” he said. “Our nightly visits have been few and far between of late. I believe I have denied myself the pleasures of the bed too long in deference to your condition. But we shall remedy that now.”
“Never!”
He sighed. “You disappoint me, Mary. I thought we had established that you would be reasonable.”
I glared up at him. “What will you do, Arodias? Will you force me when I carry your precious child, and endanger its life?”
He laughed. “Why, when where is no need? The asylum, Mary, the madhouse. It is only to my advantage to keep you here if you are not troublesome. Now” – he reached for his belt – “for now, remain kneeling, if you please.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Grail Spring
The Confession of Mary Carson
BE WARNED: THERE is more to come, much of which will be hard for either of you to believe. I was there, and struggle to credit it. At times I could almost believe what followed was a delusion or fever dream, but only almost. It was real. However, I do not require your belief. Only that you record what I have to say.
After Arodias had done with me, he left me in the room, weeping and bereft. But if I had thought my humiliation complete, in truth it had barely begun.
The following day, he resumed his accustomed routine with me as though nothing had happened. His nightly visits resumed in frequency, also. He was neither rough nor violent – there was the child to consider, after all – but he took me always without tenderness, revelling in freedom to use me however he wished, and his demands grew more... perverse. And it shames me to admit that I feared him too greatly to do anything but acquiesce.
The New Year came and went, and 1837 passed into history. And then, on the last night of January, 1838, he came to my room as had become his wont, but what he did that night – I still consider it something of a minor miracle I did not miscarry from the horror of it. God alone knows what my fate would have been had I done so.
At the time the only explanation I could think of was that perhaps mere obedience had not been enough. Perhaps he had seen glimmers of hatred and defiance in my eye, and resented even that level of resistance. I thought so at the time, but... now, when I look back, I think the explanation is a simpler one.
Arodias had revealed himself to me in a way that he did to few others – most of them already corrupt and loathsome individuals such as Kellett. There was a special pleasure to be gained in it for him. All that mattered to Arodias Thorne was himself – his pride and vanity, his belief in himself as superior, magnificent, a man of genius, as one who had shaken off the bonds of convention. My horror and disgust was a source of pleasure to him – the fear of a sheep for a wolf.
And so, I believe, it went against the grain for him to conceal any part of his intentions, or any part of cruelty. That is the only explanation for what took place that night.
He had come to my room and made his accustomed use of me. Having satiated his desires, he left me on the bed and dressed, not speaking a word, before finally calling my name and beckoning me, without even turning round.
I rose from the bed and approached, still unclothed. Arodias turned to face me. He was smiling, and such was the gloating cruelty in it that I took a step back at once.
“Kellett!” he called.
The key turned in the lock behind me, and the butler slipped through. I cried out, trying to cover myself. What fresh perversion was this? Was I to couple with Kellett now, for Arodias’ amusement? It shames me to say, Mr Muddock and Mrs Rhodes, that that might have been preferable to what was to follow.
Arodias motioned to me. “Restrain her, would you Kellett?”
“With pleasure, sir.” The butler kicked the door shut and locked it, pocketing the key. Before I could move to evade him Kellett caught my arm, twisting it up behind my back. I howled. Surely someone must have heard – I remember thinking that very clearly. But then, I had never had any friends at Springcross House. Only Arodias, and I had been wrong even about that. I could scream all I wanted, and no help would come.
“Oh, and show a little care, Kellett.” Arodias smirked again. “She’s carrying my child.”
“Of course, sir,” said Kellett, pressing himself against me. He was aroused; I could feel it, and it make me sick.
Arodias came closer as Kellett pulled me to my feet. “I’m going to show you something, Mary,” he said. His breath blew hot and rank in my face, like that of some panting beast, and it stank like carrion. “I’m going to show you what manner of man I truly am.” His lips were wet; he wiped them on his sleeve. “The key,” he told Kellett. The butler handed it over.
“Good,” Arodias said, unlocking the door. “Bring her.”
AS ARODIAS STEPPED outside and Kellett dragged me to the door, I heard voices – male and female – and realised the landing outside my room was occupied.
I gasped and dug my heels into the carpet. Surely Arodias would not allow this, I thought. Surely he would at least cover my nakedness, or wait until all was clear before dragging me outside.
But then I heard laughter from the landing, and I realised the truth in the moment before Kellett forced me over the threshold.
The maids and manservants of Springcross House were gathered on the landing – Arodias’ creatures, his spiritual brood – and as I was paraded before them they howled and jeered. What a fool I had been, to wonder why the servants had all seemed low, venal and unpleasant: such were the people Arodias Thorne surrounded himself with.
And now you look pale, Mrs Rhodes, for which I can hardly blame you. Nor you too, Mr Muddock. Perhaps you doubt my honesty – or my sanity. No matter. If you do not doubt it yet, be assured you shall have ample cause to do so before we are done.
I had one arm free, and struggled to protect what modesty I had left – but should I seek to cover my breasts, my womanly parts or the belly that proclaimed me a fornicator, bearer of Thorne’s bastard? My arm went from one to the other, until Kellett decided the issue, shifting his grip on my twisted arm to hold it fast with one hand, then seizing my free arm at the wrist. That arm too was twisted painfully behind my back, leaving me totally exposed as I was manhandled down the stairs to the hall.
As God is my judge, Mrs Rhodes, I do not think I have ever came so close to genuine despair as then. I do not mean that I despaired of escaping or surviving – although if not, I came close to it. I mean despair at the world, at humankind itself. Had my father claimed the African as part of that family, the white man’s equal? If so, he had ill-served them. If these around me were men, they were vile creatures indeed, baying like dogs and gloating at another’s misery. I looked from face to face, seeking not help, but a glimmer of pity or compassion. There was none; only a revelling delight.
Kellett shoved me down a darkened corridor; Arodias led the way with a raised lantern. For all his talk of a child, I was half-certain they meant to kill me – but at least that baying crowd was gone. At least my death would be a private affair. Truth to tell, Mrs Rhodes, by that point I would have at least half-welcomed it.
Arodias flung open the doors to the music room. “Through here,” he snapped, and marched inside, towards the French windows. Outside, the icy wind raged and white snow swirled against the glass. I shrank back, thinking perhaps he meant to cast me outside, naked as I was, into the gardens I’d once loved.
Kellett twisted my arms up tighter, sniggering through his teeth. Foul, foul, hateful man. I loathed him even more than my treacherous lover just then. Should I ever find the opportunity, I vowed, he would die a thousand deaths.
At the French windows, Arodias pulled the curtains shut, then knelt and pulled back the carpet. Underneath, set in the bare wooden boards, was a trapdoor. He flung it open, and cold air blew into the room from below. Arodias lifted the lantern; its light played over his face as he smiled that smile at me again. And then he’d climbed down through the trapdoor and disappeared from view.
Kellett dragged me
to the trap and threw me down on the floor, then lit a lantern of his own. “Get down there,” he said. “Right now. Or I’ll take a whip to your pale arse and stripe it.”
There was undisguised lust in his voice when he said it. I hurried to obey, just to escape him. Below the trap was a kind of chute of glazed red bricks, like the inside of a chimney. The light from Arodias’ lantern gleamed off them, and on a series of metal rungs. Arodias was at the bottom, staring up. I didn’t dare look at Kellett, who, just then, I feared even more than him. I began climbing down.
I must have climbed twenty or thirty feet, which I guessed placed me below even the level of Springcross House’s cellars. I gasped in pain often as I went; my feet were bare and the rungs were not only searing cold, but narrow and almost jagged in places with rust. It was worse still when I reached the floor below, which was a mix of earth, water, gravel and loose rock.
We stood, I realised, inside a brick tunnel. The dank air was bitterly cold and I shivered, teeth chattering, stumbling away from the chute as Kellett climbed down. Arodias, almost gently, draped a blanket around my shoulders. I flinched but didn’t move away; better even him than Kellett. Or so I thought until Arodias leant close to me and whispered in my ear.
“Have you finished your snivelling, Mary, or is there more to come? It is most irritating, I must say. But not uncommon down here.”
As I listened, I heard other voices, echoing down the tunnel. They seemed to come from either end and were little more than whispers and moans, but one resolved itself into a sobbed, despair-filled “Please...” such as I never wish to hear again.
“Shut up!” barked Kellett.
“Quiet,” said Arodias. “Or there will be punishment. Yes, punishment.” He turned to Kellett. “I’m going to show Miss Carson what all this has been for. But actions speak loudest, so I believe a demonstration is in order. Fetch a specimen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For preference, whichever one just called out.”
“Very good, sir,” said Kellett, and moved away from us down the tunnel.
Arodias smiled at me and caressed my cheek. I wanted to recoil, but was too afraid to move. “Ha!” he said, then twisted a handful of my hair until I cried out. In the glow of the lamp I barely recognised him: neither as the tender yet virile lover – that pretence was destroyed beyond hope of restoration – nor the stern patriarch I’d met on my first day. His face was greasily slick with sweat and his breath came in hoarse panting sounds. His eyes never blinked and his mouth stayed twisted into that leering grin, save when he licked his lips.
“With me,” he breathed at last, and leant close to lick sweat and drying tears from my face.
He pushed me along the tunnel, my hair in one hand and the lamp in the other. As we went I saw metal doors set into the tunnel’s brick walls at regular intervals on either side, each with a barred window. From each came moans and cries, and a reek of filth and decay – and fumbling through bars came outstretched hands, almost black with filth but, under it, sickly-pale from lack of light.
“Back!” cried Arodias. “Back in your holes. I’ll make use of you soon enough.”
The tunnel bent around. He forced me along – my feet were soon cut and bleeding – until at last it opened into a semi-circular chamber in which the only sound was the dripping of water. The air was colder still – I could see my breath now – and the ground damper underfoot. Something else was different about this ground, I realised; it was uneven, and, although still gritty, softer than the tunnel floor.
Arodias turned to me.
“I shall,” he said, “now endeavour to shed a little light on our situation.” His smile was calm, composed, though no less cruel. “That means I must leave you where you are. You might be tempted to act foolishly. To run. You will understand, of course, why that would be silly. Even if you evaded Kellet and I and retraced the way you came, back into the house – what then? No servant of mine will help you, or look the other way. You would have to run into the winter’s night, naked as the day you were born. And what then? Who will believe your wild stories about a respected local businessman? The asylum Mary – remember, the asylum. And be assured, Mary, that I will still have what I want.” He motioned to my gravid belly. “If however, you’re a good girl – if you do exactly as I tell you, exactly whenI tell you – then you might not only leave Springcross House alive, but without a stain on your character and with every prospect of a secure and happy future. Well?”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” I sad at last. It was, I know, a poor response, Mrs Rhodes, but when one makes allowance for the circumstances I could have managed far worse. Arodias smiled.
“Probably not,” he said, “although it is, in fact, true. I do, however, know you will believe I have both the means and the will to consign you to such a fate. Do you have any such doubt, my pretty little naked Mary?” His gaze roved over my body in the lantern-light.
“No,” I said.
He smiled at me again, and the lantern’s glow shone in his eyes like fire. “Then you’ll see,” he said, “that any slender hope of your escaping the madhouse rests on your continuing to please me. So I believe I can trust you to remain where you are.”
Without another word he released my hair and vanished into the trickling shadows of that place. There was a scraping; a match flared. Light blossomed from a second lantern, hanging from the ceiling. A few moments later, he struck another match, and with it lit another. He repeated this procedure three more times; when he was done, the light filled the chamber and I could see where he had brought me.
The walls were stone and brick. The stone ceiling, about ten feet above the ground, was buttressed by heavy wooden beams. The floor was raw earth, dotted with mushrooms, in which worms and beetles crawled, and curved very slightly upwards, like a low hillock or knoll.
The room had only two features of note. The first was a sort of chair, although no chair in which I would want to sit – a single glance was enough to tell me that. It was bolted to a large steel plate, which in turn was bolted fast to the floor. There were leather straps to hold limbs and head into position, and clamps that I could only suppose were to prise the sitter’s eyelids open so that they could not choose but look at what was before them. But these, Mrs Rhodes, were not the worst.
Mounted on the chair’s frame on a variety of metal armatures was an array of probes, blades, hooks and wires, all connected to a sprawling, intricate clockwork mechanism fitted beneath the chair. Jutting up from this was a long brass lever with a carved handle of ivory, which, I assumed, set the whole monstrous engine in motion. Once the picture had formed in my mind of what the thing would do, I flinched from the very sight of it.
The room’s other distinguishing feature was a sort of alcove, set into the centre of the semicircular room’s straight wall; in it rose a broad thick hump of rock, about half again as tall as me. Dirt and chunks of moss clung to it, and there was an irregularly-shaped hole in it, large enough for a grown man to enter if he stooped – the entrance, I realised, to a cavern of some kind. I could not see how far back the cave went, but it echoed with a sound of trickling water, and from its mouth ran a bright, glittering rivulet that poured down the rocks to collect in a pool beneath.
Even in the dim lamplight, I could see the pool’s water was crystal-clear. The bottom of it was smooth, almost polished-looking rock, with the thinnest layer of sand. I recall thinking that it could not be a natural formation, because in shape it was a perfect bowl. From it led a small, brick-lined channel that conducted a steady stream of water across the chamber to a grille at the chamber’s outer edge.
“A spring,” said Arodias. “Where we stand, Mary, was formerly Collarmill Height – the summit of what the locals, in my youth, called Redman’s Hill. There was a church here, once; before that, a shrine of one kind or another. There was a crossroads too, of course. People once came from far and wide to visit this spring, as it was considered a holy well. Its waters healed t
he sick, gave sight to the blind, imparted knowledge of the past or future. Hence, Springcross House.” He did not look at me as he spoke; instead he studied the streamlet and the pool.
“It took many years of patient work to restore this,” he said. “Cromwell’s barbarians filled it in during the Civil War. So much to be done, and all in secret. So I heaped fresh earth over the church’s ruins, and built Springcross House atop them. And then under it all, I dug, and I searched, until I found what I had sought. And then reshaped the earth again to fit my design. It took much work, and great expense. But the shrine has been uncovered, the source allowed to flow free again.”
“Source?” I demanded. “And why must it all be secret?” I was tired, angry and afraid, and had had my fill of his games. Of course, no sooner had I given vent to my brief flare of defiance than I flinched in terror of its consequences. Arodias, however, only chuckled.
“The source of the Craw,” he said, “which flows yonder to join with the Irwell. Hence, Crawbeck. Craw – or, in earlier times, Crawl, from Graal, or Grail.” He pointed at the spring. “The spring-waters once granted much to those who drank or bathed in them, Mary. But there is more – much more, as you shall see.”
He turned and looked at me. “This, Mary, is far more than just a spring. As I say, it was a holy place for centuries. Thousands of years. Before Christ hung from his cross on Golgotha – if, indeed, he ever did. Perhaps even before Moses wandered in the desert or took down the Commandments on Mount Sinai. The spring itself is no more than a symbol, if you can imagine that. Perhaps you can – an intelligent woman like yourself, an educated one. You accept, do you not, that there are two worlds? Yes?”
“Two worlds?”
“Worlds, Mary! Worlds! The one we see and live in, day to day, and the one we cannot see. The invisible world. The realm of angels and demons, gods and monsters. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said at last. It wasn’t quite the language of my father’s faith, but I understood its meaning clearly enough.
The Feast of All Souls Page 27
