“Dinner is served, my lady,” and placed spout to feeding hole. The immediate result was electrifying. Without actually waking up all that remained of Caroline Fortescue, writer of genius, peer of Dickens, Thackeray, Hardy and Emily Bronte, took on a kind of grotesque life. Greedy, sucking, gasping life. What served for lips clamped round the spout, and I witnessed a sucking, bubbling, body writhing absorption of nourishment. Although a lot seemed to me wasted as the white liquid dribbled down her ladyship’s chin and formed a little pool in the hollow below her throat.
Jenkins kept dabbing her with a red handkerchief.
I watched Caroline Fortescue dine for perhaps a full minute before running out on to the landing, where I was violently sick on the doubtlessly priceless, but faded carpet.
Jenkins prepared a room – made up the bed and opened the windows – that was two doors from Lady Bramfield’s own.
I fell into an uneasy sleep in complete darkness and awoke in full moonlight. There were no curtains to the windows, for this was a room – according to Jenkins – that had not been used for half a century. Every item of furniture stood out in stark relief; the massive mahogany wardrobes, their long mirrors slabs of blazing light; the dressing table that crouched like some ill-shaped beast in the far corner; a tallboy that reared up against a side wall, creating an oblique shadow that tapered to a sharp point on the dust-infested carpet.
There was a complete absence of sound. It was as though the universe had yet to be born and my tiny atom of awareness was floating on an unlimited sea of nothing. The room, the furniture, even the moon, were only reflections of what would be in some far off time. Then I was rocketed into the present. Sound was reborn.
Running footsteps in the corridor that lay beyond the closed door, accompanied by a trill of laughter. I did not move for a long while, trying to analyse the sounds. Swift, light foot treads, girlish laughter. A running girl that laughed.
I climbed out of bed and put on a thick satin dressing gown that had been supplied by Jenkins, then – not without some trepidation – went out into the corridor. Here the moonlight was only permitted entry through a solitary window situated at the far end; three quarters of the passage mocked a low wattage bulb that created a tiny oasis of yellow light in a desert of writhing shadows. A long way off a door groaned the protest of oil starved hinges, suggesting that someone had pushed it stealthily open – and I, fired by that damnable curiosity that has reputedly killed many cats, stepped fearfully forward – on naked feet – to investigate.
I came to the landing and looked down into the darkened hall. Not there. The lower part of the house slept the sleep of centuries. I turned left and roamed through the shadow congested bowels of Bramfield Manor, seeking a rational explanation. Presently I was rewarded by seeing a wedge of light that sliced through an eternity of darkness and revealed a partly open door.
As I crept nearer I again heard that trill of girlish laughter, a sound that brought some measure of reassurance and a promise of an exciting adventure. Why should I be frightened of a girl, even if she was mad enough to go running through an old, darkened house? When I reached the door I pushed it fully open and attempted to record the entire contents of the room in one swift glance.
Sheet shrouded furniture basking in brilliant moonlight. Dust-carpeted floor, cobweb-festooned windows – and a young girl standing by a white marble fireplace.
She alone merited my entire attention. Tall for a girl, perhaps five foot nine, slender, attired in a flowing white dress, long black hair framing a pale oval face. A face that had a beauty that one sometimes dreams about, but rarely sees. Large, dark blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a straight nose and a full-lipped mouth that was now parted in a mischievous smile. When she moved the gown slid off one creamy shoulder – and the vision of virginal beauty was complete. Her voice was captivating, enhanced by a slight lilting tone.
“Hello, who are you?”
It took some little while for my voice to rediscover its normal function. “I might ask the same question. I’m a guest- well sort of. But unless old Jenkins has been singularly remiss, you must be an intruder.”
She stopped in front of one window looking so young, appealing and unattainable in the moonlight. “I am – in a way. It’s fun to roam through old houses at night, don’t you think? Chase your shadow by moonlight. Listen to the voices of those who were once and are no more. One has to be slightly mad to enjoy night running.”
“But where do you come from?” I asked.
She jerked her head back in a most enchanting fashion.
“Back there – in the woods. I live with my parents in a sweet little cottage. You must come and see us. In the daytime when the sun sends golden spears down through the whispering leaves.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Nothing dies there, you know. How can if? Nature is eternal. Is and ever will be.”
Despite the ambiguity of her words, her demeanour was flirtatious, tantalizing as though she were deliberately trying to draw me into a meaningless, but purposeful argument. I said:
“You are most certainly mad. What would your parents say if they knew you were talking to a strange man in an old house?”
She giggled. “They’d have a fit. Mother in particular would take me to task most severely, but be most understanding afterwards. But when you meet them don’t mention where we became acquainted. What the ear doesn’t hear, the heart won’t grieve over. Has anyone told you that you are very handsome?”
“No one,” I replied. “But I’m telling you that you are very beautiful.”
She nodded with evident satisfaction. “I’m so glad you think so. That means we’re both beautiful people. Wonderful. I don’t like ugly men. As for that matter I don’t like ugly women either. I always say – if you have a face that frightens horses, then stay at home. My word, but you have a most wonderful smile!”
I bared my teeth into an even wider grin and wondered why I had not been long ago enraptured by my reflection in the shaving mirror. “You are a lovely liar. Now I must see you home. How did you get in anyway?”
She shrugged. “Oh, there’s always an unlocked door, an unlatched window. But you can’t see me home because you’re not wearing shoes. But you may see me to the front door.”
Side by side we went out into the dark passage, only it did not seem so dark anymore, then wended our way back to the landing, while she talked in that enchanting lilting tone that sent a tingling tremor along my nerve grid and aroused sleeping memories of something that had happened long ago. In another lifetime.
“I think we’d better say we met in the lane and you had hurt your ankle and I tied it up for you with my handkerchief. And being a perfect gentleman – which of course you are – you are calling to thank me for my kindness. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
“But it’s not true,” I protested.
“Nonsense. Truth is what the majority believe and the minority cannot disprove. A little while ago you said I was mad . . .”
“But delightfully so,” I interrupted.
“Of course. But surely you realise that madness is the sanity granted to the selected few. To really enjoy life you must turn the world upside down and not be in the least worried if people are shocked at what you say and do. Do you think I’m a genius?”
I nodded gravely. “No doubt of it.”
“I think so too. That’s why I talk sideways and only those who have a sense of the ridiculous understand me. Have you a sense of the ridiculous?”
“Maybe. But I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
She looked up at me and her eyes glittered in the gloom.
“Think about it. You will.”
We descended the stairs and into the hall; I saw the front door was slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to paint a stripe of silver light across the floor. When I opened the door to its fullest extent and stood to one side, she went out on to the top step; became glimmering white and faintly disturbing. But her dazzlin
g smile and above all that enchanting voice, succeeded in reestablishing a measure of reassurance.
“I am going straight home now, but you must visit us tomorrow. I will tell Mummy and Daddy to expect you, which I am sure will cheer them up a great deal. They don’t have many visitors.”
“How far away is your house?” I enquired.
“Not far. Just cross the drive and follow the path through the woods. You’ll find our cottage in a clearing.”
She descended the steps, then walked slowly across the drive while my bemused brain tried to determine why I should be suddenly attacked by a fit of violent trembling. There was something wrong about that graceful, receding figure, but I could not at that time decide what it could be. Then she entered the shadow cast by the first tree and after turning and giving me a parting wave, disappeared from my sight.
I closed the door and went back to my room, there to lie sleepless on that vast bed, racked by both fear and excitement. I was somewhat relieved to discover that the eerie silence had been dispelled by any number of normal sounds; the distant hoot of an owl, the murmur of breeze-teased leaves, the occasional creak of contracting floorboards.
Presently a black cloud bank obliterated the revealing moonlight and the ensuing darkness did little to comfort, but in the space which separates one thought from the next, I slipped into the pit of oblivion and knew no more until Jenkins roused me. He placed a silver tray on the bedside cabinet and inclined his head.
“Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well. I have taken the liberty of bringing a light breakfast to your room. I remember from the old days that gentlemen appreciate these little attentions.”
I sat up and sensed the day was already well advanced.
“There was really no need for you to go to all this trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir. On the contrary. It is a positive pleasure to have a guest in the old place again. It is a beautiful day and I am delighted to say her ladyship is more like her old self. I do think this is going to be one of her good days. She’s quite lively.”
I found this hard to believe but could do no less than crease my face into an inane grin and express counterfeit delight.
“That’s marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! When will it be convenient for me to see her?”
Jenkins hesitated before replying. “I was wondering, sir, if you would be so kind as to sit with her later on this morning. When it’s one of her good days I don’t like leaving her alone and it is necessary for me to go down to the village. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to have a little chat – hold an interview, I believe you call it.”
Hope raised a tiny head and I said: “She really can talk then?”
“Did I not say so, sir? How remiss of me. When you have finished breakfast you’ll find the bathroom down the corridor. Razors, toothbrushes and such like are in the wall cabinet. I will await your pleasure, sir.”
The bathroom was lined with teak, the bath tub encased in rosewood; but hot water came from a comparatively new wall heater that looked very much out of place. In a cabinet I found several bone-handled toothbrushes, ajar of pink tooth powder and a leather case that contained seven cut-throat razors, each one embossed with a day of the week on its ebony handle. A shaving mug, brush and cylinder of soap completed this collection of Victorian toiletry. Having shaved (with difficulty) and bathed I returned to the bedroom and found my suit had been sponged and pressed, my shirt washed and my shoes cleaned.
When I entered Jenkins’ room I found him sitting in an armchair, wearing a black overcoat and bowler hat, nursing a voluminous shopping bag on his lap. He rose and smiled bleakly.
“Ah, there you are, sir. Now you are here I’ll pop down to the village. Look in on her ladyship whenever it’s convenient. She is expecting you.”
“Right. Will you be long?”
“Not more than an hour, sir. But there’s no need for you to be concerned: her ladyship has been attended to.”
I quickly decided not to think about that statement, then – just as he reached the doorway – asked the question that demanded a satisfactory answer.
“Jenkins, are you aware that a young girl roams this house at night?”
He became as a man who has been robbed of all movement by a certain combination of words. I heard his voice; low – tremulous.
“Indeed, sir! Would she have been a young person in a white dress?”
“Yes. A very beautiful girl. Apparently she lives in a cottage in the woods. With her parents.”
He turned his head and spoke slowly, seemingly jerking each word out with great difficulty.
“I know of . . . this . . . young person, sir. It might be well . . . if you . . . did not encourage her. Make no contact . . . whatsoever. Above all . . . I beg of you . . . do not touch her. Never . . . never touch her.”
I tried to laugh, but the effort all but choked me. Instead I managed to ask:
“Why not? Who is she?”
“Please don’t ask questions, sir. Don’t make me regret allowing you to enter this house. Just ignore . . . forget and never touch. Do what I do . . . turn your back and walk away.” His voice rose to a near scream. “Shut your eyes, block up your ears and try hard to understand.”
He went into the hall, shoulders squared, bag gripped firmly in his right hand, frozen fear expressed in every line of his upright figure. I waited for the sound of the front door closing, before making my way to Caroline Fortescue’s bedroom.
I steeled myself to endure that awful stench, but found it less pungent than the day before. The creature on the chaise longue looked much the same; motionless, eyes partly open and betraying no sign of life. So much for Jenkins’ assertion that she was awake and expecting me. After watching her for a few minutes, I went over to the book shelves and began to examine the bound manuscripts.
Without doubt they were priceless. Written in a clear, round hand, with a space between each line so as to leave room for corrections, here were the original manuscripts of the literary masterpieces that had enthralled three generations. I turned over the pages of Moorland Master and marvelled at the concentration and sheer energy that writing something like a quarter of a million words with a pen and ink, must have involved. But of one thing I was certain. Every book had been a labour of love. The faultless penmanship, the neatly ruled out words of lines, with the substituted prose written above, testified to the masochistic pleasure that is the reward for arduous work well done. A sheet of faded blue notepaper had been pinned on page one and on this was written in the same clear style:
Life is what you make it
A simple philosophy and one easy to follow for a rich young lady in the nineteenth century. I closed Moorland Master and was reaching for the next manuscript when a low, almost masculine voice made me jerk round in sudden alarm.
“Young man, come here.”
It took courage to approach the chaise longue, then look down at Caroline Fortescue. She had not moved, the eyes were still half closed, but the mouth was wide open, as though the lower jaw had dropped. I managed to say:
“I’m Brian Radcliffe . . . a . . . a guest in your house.”
The rasping voice spoke again, but I could detect no movement either of the mouth or tongue. I could only suppose she had taught herself to speak with the stomach muscles, but each word was pronounced with precision.
“Of course, I had forgotten. I am inclined to be absent-minded these days. Time has become fluid, it ebbs and flows so that today often merges with yesterday. More, it sometimes recedes beyond yesterday. I daresay you are confused.”
I shook my head. “No . . . that is to say I am trying to understand.”
“That is fortunate. Poor Jenkins only thinks he understands. But our time is short for I shall soon drift away and next time we meet . . .” She paused and I heard a ghost of a chuckle. “I’ll not be entirely myself. There is a question you wish to ask me.”
I swallowed and tried to select one question from an entir
e army. “Yes, why did you stop writing after 1911?”
“Because there no longer existed the need to write books. I was able to live them. If that is an unsatisfactory reply, I can only add – think on what you have already seen and heard. Then you will . . . There is I believe a feeding cup nearby.”
I looked around and saw the china vessel with a long spout standing on the mantel shelf and on taking it down found it contained a small amount of the white liquid.
“Yes, I have it here.”
“Then be so kind as to pour liquid nourishment into my mouth. I am conscious of a drying up, purely illusory no doubt, but no less real.”
With an unsteady hand I poured enriched milk into that gaping hole, then withdrew the cup when the mouth filled. Little riverlets of white moisture spilled over and ran down the chin, but the remainder gradually disappeared, although I could not detect any sign of swallowing. The stuff seemed to be merely sinking down her throat. The harsh voice spoke again.
“Thank you. But I fear the result is not satisfactory. I am slipping away again . . . slipping away. Remember not to . . . to . . . or all will be . . . lost . . . lost . . .”
I waited for a long time, hoping (but dreading) she might speak again, but although the mouth remained open, no further sound came from it. Presently the door opened and Jenkins came tip-toeing across the room, his face lit by a gentle smile.
“Did you have a chat with her ladyship, sir?”
I nodded. “Yes, we had a brief but interesting conversation. But, Jenkins, how does she talk? Her mouth . . .”
“No questions if you please, sir. Now I see her ladyship has gone back to sleep. Splendid. I’ve prepared a light lunch, so if you would care to come downstairs, we’ll leave her to rest.”
I did not encourage the old man to speak during lunch for there was a distinct feeling that if I pressed him too hard, he would tell me something I did not want to hear. In this I was aided by his built-in compulsion not to speak when a superior displayed signs of wishing to remain silent, and this I did by frowning when he so much as cleared his throat. At last the meal ended and I volunteered to help him wash up, a suggestion he dismissed with something akin to horror.
The Mammoth Book of Terror Page 28
