The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  “I thought I saw blood on the chest.”

  “Maybes some got splashed on it when you cut your finger.” I brought the candle closer to the box. “I can see nothin’ on it. I fear you’re imaginin’ things, Mistress Mary. You’re in a strange place, when all’s said and done.”

  “Look there – that dark patch on the lid.”

  “That could be anythin’. Butter, or a wine stain, or even just some weatherin’. Tell you what, I’ll take rhubarb leaves to it in the mornin’. If there’s blood, they’ll shift it, never you fear. Let me pull the curtains round your bed now, mistress, and you can settle down for the night.”

  I was impatient to go back to the kitchen. There she was, hoaking for things to worry about, when some of us hadn’t far to look. Still, the chest started nagging at me, as well. Old Mistress Haltridge told me it was in the house when she arrived into it as a bride. It was a gift to Minister Haltridge, she said, from a member of his kirk called Castle. She made a joke of it, saying such a chest belonged in a castle. I didn’t pay much notice at the time. But thinking it over, I remembered my da telling me about a family by the name of Castle, gone now from Islandmagee. The reason he mentioned them was because we were out for a stroll, past Philip Magee’s house, and he said the Castles moved in there after all the Magees were killed.

  At that, my hand flew to my mouth. When I took it away, I made the sign against the evil eye.

  Back in the kitchen, instead of getting on with what I needed to do, I dilly-dallied by the fire. I was like a dog sitting on a thistle – wanting to make a start, but loath to leave the fireside. Mary Dunbar had left me unsettled, with all her talk of blood and killing, and the turf rustling in the grate didn’t comfort me like it usually did.

  Time and tide, Ellen, I reminded myself, and stood up. I had no choice but to take my fate into my own hands. I put water on to boil above the fire, and lifted the knife out of the drawer in the kitchen table. Quickly, I chopped the herbs I had gathered earlier from Peggy’s patch, muttering a prayer, though by rights I shouldn’t be calling on God’s help for what I was about. Next, I poured myself a beaker full of my master’s stolen brandy. “It’s not wrong to take the bottle from his store – he’s the one got me into this mess,” I said out loud. To stiffen my backbone, I took a long swig of the dark golden drink, waiting for the water to heat. When it was bubbling, I stirred in the herbs, adding more brandy to thin it down.

  I drank the potion standing up. The heady sweetness of the brandy could not mask the sharp taste of the herbs laced through it, and I shuddered as I swallowed. Then I sat fornenst the chimney corner, waiting for the brew to take effect. As I did, I fretted. Maybes it would have fitted me better to worry about what I had just done. Instead, my mind fell to picking at what was going on under this roof – I daresay I couldn’t bring myself to study too close on the ifs and ans of the drink I took, and why.

  Whether Peggy admitted it or not, what was happening at Knowehead was a bad handling. I always knowed it was not like other houses. But I told myself if I didn’t bother it, then it wouldn’t bother me. People whispered about an impish presence there, before ever I went to work for the Haltridges. Why it should be, I can’t tell, but Knowehead was no ordinary house. You might go to set down a bowl, and miss the table altogether. Or trip over a step if your mind was elsewhere. Chairs were cowped up, eggs broken, flour scattered on the floor. At times, you’d feel a cold draft where there was no cause for it. Or a door might swing open with nobody behind it. You grew accustomed to such things. If you didn’t make a fuss, if you just waited it out, everything settled down again. I never paid much attention to these quirks – they were part of life at Knowehead House.

  But they became more noticeable during the old dame’s illness. The house acted up during those months. The young mistress thought it was the ghost of Hamilton Lock tormenting a dying woman, and she wasn’t alone in holding that suspicion. If he was able to leave Hell when it suited him, where else would he come but here? This patch of land had been his home. Everything went quiet after Mistress Haltridge was taken to meet her Maker. Too quiet, maybes. Hamilton Lock might only be biding his time.

  I counted the chimes on my master’s tall clock in the hall: eleven o’clock, half past eleven, midnight. Shortly after the twelfth bong faded, a pain in my belly doubled me over. It was like the kick of a horse. Beads of sweat sprang up along my hairline, and more sweat trickled between my paps. My stomach rose to meet my throat. Gagging, I managed not to give way until I staggered outside to the midden pit, where I heaved everything up. What came out of me was lost amidst all the family’s waste. When I was done, I lay on the ground, not caring about the filth.

  By and by, I pulled myself to my feet, took off my cap and put my head under the pump, opening my mouth to the gush, letting the cold, clean water wash everything away. Dirt, doubts and all.

  Back indoors, I threw a shawl round my damp shoulders, put a hot jar to my aching belly, and fell into the battered old rushbottomed chair by the fire. I knowed I should slide in beside Peggy to catch a few hours’ rest, for whether well slept or not, screek of day would bring no let-up from work. How and ever, the thought of climbing that ladder was too much for me. I nodded off where I sat.

  Until a cry came from upstairs. It wasn’t a scream – not much more than a kitling’s mewl, but I’m a light sleeper and the house was still as the grave that night. It sent me shuffling to the passageway, hunched over and nursing my tender front. Was one of the childer having a nightmare? Sarah had been disturbed by all the pother with her granny, bless her heart, and it had got to the stage where she wouldn’t go near her for love nor money. But once my master’s mother was bedded down in St John’s graveyard, there hadn’t been a peep out of the wee lassie.

  I listened, but there was only the hoot of thon big owl that liked to rest himself on the tree outside Mary Dunbar’s bedchamber. Maybes I dreamed it. Little wonder if my sleep was restless that night. Into the silence, the clock bonged three times, and the cry came again. This noise was made by no child: it was a woman, and she was in distress.

  I was still a bit fuddled, between the brandy (and what was in it) and boking it all up afterwards. Along with whatever else was in my belly. But those cries weren’t answered by the slap of feet upstairs, so it was up to me. Moving slowly, my insides tender and my throat raw, I went and held a candlewick to the embers of the fire. Then I lifted the brass nutcracker from the drawer in the kitchen table and slipped it into my apron pocket. Shielding the flame, I picked my way through the house.

  At the top of the stairs, I took a moment to think. The call had to be down to one of three people: the mistress, Mary Dunbar or Peggy. Peggy was furthest away, under the roof. The mistress and Mary Dunbar were on the first floor, in rooms near-hand to each other. I tiptoed along the passageway, quiet as a mouse, and checked under both doorways for a line of light. Nothing. Now what? The mistress had taken a sleeping draught, and would be crotchety if I disturbed her. If I was making a mistake, I guessed Mary Dunbar would be less put out. I opened her door a crack.

  “Isabel? Oh, it’s you, Ellen. Come in.”

  She was sitting up in bed, without a candle lit, the casement shutters open to the moonlight. There was a full moon, and by its light I could see the bedchamber was in a shocking state of disorder. The young lady must have been searching through her clothes, because the lid of her chest was open, the contents spilling out and scattered willy-nilly.

  “I thought I heared you call out, mistress. Was there something you wanted?”

  “The moonlight’s strong. It woke me.”

  “Pardon me, but it stands to reason you’ll be disturbed if you leave your shutters unhooked.”

  “They were shut when I got into bed. Someone opened the curtains round my bed, too. You drew them closed yourself, when you fixed my candle.”

  “I must’n a fastened this latch right. There’s a trick to it. You tuck it in here. It stops it flyin’ open. Were
you after somethin’ in partic’lar from the chest?”

  She gazed round at the jumble, and I was pleased to see she didn’t take it lightly because her hand flew to her mouth. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  I lifted her cloak, rumpled in a heap beside the wooden box, and shook it out. “We’ll soon have everythin’ shipshape. I hope you found what you were after.”

  “None of this is my doing.”

  I smiled. “Jamesey says the same when he gets things in a muddle.”

  “You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Whatever you say, mistress.”

  “It was like this when I woke up. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I realized it was no dream. Someone went to the chest and took out all my clothes.” Shocked, and scared too by the look of her, she leaned back against the iron headboard. “Don’t you see? Somebody’s rummaged through everything I own. There’s my spare nightgown, inside-out on the chair. And look at my comb – some of the teeth have been broken off!”

  Weakness from what I dosed myself with earlier made me sit down without asking her say-so. Never had I done such a thing in front of a lady or gentleman, but my legs refused to hold me up any longer. “Maybes you did that to the comb yourself, mistress? Tuggin’ at a knot?”

  “Why would I damage my own belongings? See my ribbons, dangling in the water jug, and my best gown tossed in a ball on the floor. I think the lace is torn.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Are the children playing a trick on me?”

  “If they are, they’ll be punished sore for it.” Master Jamesey had become contrary, inclined to be disobedient, although Peggy said it was only the boy’s attempt to draw his father’s attention. As for Sarah, she did her brother’s bidding. Still, I could not believe Jamesey and Sarah would tease their cousin in such a hateful way. Yet if Mary hadn’t done this herself, I couldn’t easily explain it away.

  Mary Dunbar threw back the covers and got out of bed. She paced about in her bare feet. “Why does my cousin jump like a scalded cat when I mention her husband’s mother? She changes the subject every time.”

  “She cud’n a been kinder to my master’s mother during her illness. She used to sit with her of an evening, and read to her from her favourite book, Sermons on the Covenant. That was a book that belonged to the aul’ minister. His lady was terrible taken with it.”

  “Well, of course Isabel looked after her well when she was ill, it was her Christian duty. But why should she mind talking about her now? Do you know what Mistress Haltridge died of?”

  “It’s not my place to make guesses.”

  “Her name was mentioned by some of the coach passengers.”

  “Take no heed of waggin’ tongues.”

  Contrary though she sounded, I could tell she was looking to have her mind set at ease. There was only a year between us. But the more I saw of her, the more childlike she seemed to me. I had to give up being a bairn at the age of twelve, when I was packed off into the world to earn my keep on account of the clatter of wee’ans Ma had after me. But Mary Dunbar was left to grow at her own pace, a slow one in most ways. Apart from how she was with men. That came natural to her, as I saw when she dimpled at those who bowed to her at the meeting-house, and allowed our neighbour, Hugh Donaldson, to pick up a glove she dropped. I had a half-notion she dropped it deliberately, to win the courtesy. Anyhow, I tried to give her some reassurance.

  “The elders prayed in every room of the house durin’ Mistress Haltridge’s sickness,” I said. “All was left peaceful after she passed.”

  “Why did they need to do that?”

  “They judged it prudent.”

  “Why?”

  “Prayer never goes to waste. There now, that’s enough questions. Back to bed with you.”

  “Please, Ellen. Why did the elders say prayers in every room?”

  “If I tell you, do you promise not to let on where you heared it from?”

  “I promise.”

  I spoke in a whisper. “They thought there was somethin’ let loose in Knowehead House. Somethin’ hungry. And pitiless. They were afeared of what it might do.”

  Mary Dunbar stopped her racketing about the bedchamber and came right up to me, her face inches from mine. Her voice was a blade. “Hungry for what?”

  I knowed I’d said too much. “Never you mind. Now, I’ll redd up here in the morning. It’s too late to clatter about doing it the-night, and I’m a wee bit the worse for wear, tell you no lie. Must be somethin’ I ate. You hop back into bed. We’ll leave this candle burnin’ for you, Mistress Mary. It’ll be a comfort in a strange house, so it will.”

  She let me hap her up, gentle as a lamb, and I managed to get myself off to the attic, though it’s a mystery to me how I managed to mount that ladder. My head was spinning, between what I had just seen and what I had done earlier. What if the things we chose to brush away during the old dame’s illness – candles blowing out for no reason, footsteps in the yard, shadows on the wall – turned out to be the build-up of something more than simply mischief? And what if trouble on a grander scale was unfolding now?

  Spooning my poor sore belly into Peggy’s warm back, I closed my eyes and tried to fight off wave upon wave of dread washing over me.

  Chapter 4

  I dropped off in the end. The next thing I knowed, Peggy was tugging me awake, saying everyone in the house had overslept. Yawning, I rubbed at the crick in my neck, from lying at a funny angle. Something warm and sticky itched between my legs, and I sat up. Hardly daring to believe, I put my hand down to feel what was flowing out of my body. Blood. A weight flew off my shoulders. Peggy was grumbling away about something and nothing – how I’d need to get the fire going so she could make a start on breakfast, and the hens were back in another flap and not laying again so there’d be none of the boiled eggs Master Jamesey liked – but nothing could spoil my relief. She could have told me there’d never be another egg laid anywhere in Islandmagee, and still I’d have wanted to kiss her. I scrubbed myself with water from the jug, and found one of the rags I used at this time of the month. Then I followed her downstairs with a light step, blood-stained nightdress balled up in my hand and needing a soak.

  Peggy was outside hunting for eggs, just on the off-chance there might be the odd one hidden away, when the house boiled over into uproar. Mary Dunbar showed the mistress the state of her bedchamber, before I had a chance to set it to rights. The bairns were suspected right away. The poor wee pigeons were threatened with a cuff on the ear if they didn’t own up, and were left feeling miserable – nobody likes being accused in the wrong.

  “Go home. I don’t want you here no more,” said Jamesey to Mary Dunbar.

  “Me neither,” said missy, his sister. “Keep your ribbons.”

  “Make your apologies to your cousin at once,” said the mistress. “If your father was here, you’d be thrashed with his belt.”

  “If Father was here, he wouldn’t blame us for something we never did,” said Jamesey.

  “Wait till he hears how you cheek me behind his back. He made a point of asking if you were being good in that letter I had from him yesterday. Now I’ll have to write and tell him how naughty you are, for a big boy and girl of eight and nearly seven. The worry it’ll give him, and your father trying to do his best for us all, so far away in Dublin. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  The children hung their heads. They were sent to copy out the Ten Commandments in their best script, with special attention to the fifth, and forbidden to go outside for the rest of the day. I thought it hard on them, and was surprised at the young lady for not speaking up on their behalf. But the danger which had passed me by left me inclined to make allowances for everybody. Maybes she believes them to blame, I told myself. As for Jamesey and Sarah, I’d sneak them in a treat as soon as I could.

  Mary Dunbar was as out of sorts as missy and the young master. To please her, the mistress suggested they take the ass and cart and pay a call on a neighbour
above in Gransha. This was a great concession to the young lady. But Mary told her she was in no humour for small talk with strangers. So the pair of them sat with long faces, working on a new rug for the parlour. The mistress was determined to have it finished by Easter Sunday. I had my eye on the old rug for the loft. The wind whistled between the boards, up there at the top of the house. I was waiting to catch Mistress Haltridge in a good mood, but this wouldn’t be the day, I could see that.

  Moods are catching, and soon everybody was downhearted. Bar me, I have to confess. Tender though my body felt, my spirits were released. What I had done with my master – what I must never do again – would go unpunished. At least in the here and now. I’d have to answer for it in the hereafter.

  Anyhow, a visit from Frazer Bell was welcome in our gloomy household, carrying the crisp air of outdoors into the parlour.

  He tossed his slouchy grey hat onto a side table. “I’ve come to pay my respects to your guest, Mistress Isabel. I promised James to keep an eye on things while he’s away. But I’ve been guilty of shameful neglect. It’s all hands on deck during lambing season.”

  “I know how it is at this time of year, Frazer. Ask Noah for help if the lambing gets busy.”

  “We’re over the thick of it, touch wood. Where are the bairns? Do they know about the ducklings on Donaldsons’ pond?”

  “They’re in disgrace. The ducklings will have to manage without them.”