The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  The mistress was shivering. I took one look, and poured her a full glass of port wine, without adding water as I usually would. Then I busied myself at the fire, adding timber rather than turf to build it quickly. When I looked up, the minister was mouthing something at her.

  “You may speak freely, Mister Sinclair,” said the mistress. “Ellen Hill has my fullest confidence. She has been with this family for seven years, and has never disappointed.”

  My ears burned. She never spoke flatteringly about me in my hearing. Indeed, I was the cause of friction between her and the master, because of his insistence on tutoring me.

  “Admirable. As I was saying, I see no reason to make a connection between these episodes involving your young relative and the unfortunate incidents surrounding the death of Mistress Haltridge Senior. Granted, she was laid to rest only recently. But I think the fact you are experiencing further, ahem, disturbances, is no more than coincidence.”

  “But, Mister Sinclair, you led the elders in prayer in every room in the house. I don’t understand why our troubles are back.”

  “Aye, I did indeed. As the Good Book says, ‘If any be sick among you, let him call for the elders of the Church, and let him pray.’ James 5:14.”

  “But why are we plagued again?”

  “I cannot answer that, Mistress Haltridge. However, I fear there is a malevolent force afoot in Islandmagee. The Devil is rightly named the Spirit of Fornication, and I’m just now dealing with a pair of fornicators not three miles from this door. No doubt you have seen them chastised at the meeting-house – Samuel Orr and Ruth Graham. A minister must spare no effort to curb debauchery and excess. We have a commission from God to do it. Our vigilance against the Prince of Darkness and his snares can never be relaxed.”

  “Could that malevolent force you speak of be a restless spirit which has managed to get into this house, Mister Sinclair? The spirit of a man so depraved with vice that he can flit about on earth long after he should be roasting in hellfire?”

  “Men and women have an infinite capacity for sin. But spirits, no matter how degenerate, cannot withstand the strength of prayer.”

  “But what if prayer only keeps such a wicked spirit quiet temporarily? What if its evil is rooted too deep to dig out?”

  “Beware the temptation to surrender to despair, Mistress Haltridge – another sin. Prayer and faith conquer all. But I’ll make allowances, in view of the circumstances.”

  “My cousin came to this house with a blameless character, but now she’s behaving like one possessed. I fear she’s being acted upon by something odious. Just as my late mother-in-law was.”

  “Calm yourself, dear lady, you are overwrought. Entirely natural, but you must be strong. Sit down – you’ll tire yourself out pacing around.” He tapped his chin with his fingers, the way he did when a windy elder was droning on too long at the meeting-house. “The situation of the house is a wee bit lonely, I’ll grant that. But you have to control your imaginings. You must pray, aye and fast too, for the courage and strength to overcome the obstacles God chooses to set in your path. Remember, two children are in your care while your husband is away.”

  “But it’s happening again – things that can’t be explained. What if the shadow that used to cover the wall by Mistress Haltridge’s bed comes back? And instead of staying a shadow, it takes shape as a man? What if someone else dies?”

  “What if, what if? Dinna fash yourself, Mistress Haltridge. The-morrow, I’ll bring the elders to pray here, and if there be malice in this house it will be forced to turn tail and retreat to the place from whence it came.”

  “If there is malice? You still say if, after what you witnessed tonight? Hamilton Lock’s ghost is at work here, there’s no other explanation. He’s behind this!”

  “That name should not be spoken in a God-fearing household.”

  “Don’t you see? He’s toying with us. I dread to think what he intends.” As she spoke, she birled the stem of her glass until it snapped, and wine splashed over her gown.

  I rushed forward to take away the broken pieces before she cut herself. As soon as he decently could, the minister lifted his hat and bag, eager to be away.

  I followed him to the door.

  “Has my mare had a handful of oats?”

  “And a drink of water, forbye. Sir, you have’n forgot about Lock’s Cave?”

  “Aye, the cave needs to be searched. I’ll organise a party of men to do it in the morning. If a coven of witches is meeting there, they will be dealt with severely. Have no fear on that score.”

  When I went back to the mistress, she asked me to make sure all the doors and casements were bolted before I retired – the master’s last task at night, and hers in his absence. But this night, she hadn’t it in her.

  After locking up, I looked in on the bairns, and was glad to see the pair of them sound asleep. But I could not make myself check on Mary Dunbar. Enough was enough. I dragged myself up the ladder to my nest in the attic, where, unusually, Peggy lay awake.

  “The mistress should send thon lassie straight back to Armagh on the next coach. She’ll cause merry mayhem here afore she’s much older.”

  I took off my cap and unpinned my hair, letting down the plait. “Maybes it’s not the young lady behind the mayhem. You hinted as much yourself the other night in the kitchen.”

  “Aye, well, I daresay I should’n blame her. She’s part of this, but not the cause. Still an’ all, her bein’ here is stirrin’ things up. The Haltridges have aye been respectable folk: men of the cloth and men of business. They come from right, sound Presbyterian stock. I bain’t sayin’ it’s the lassie’s fault. But she’s doin’ harm to the Haltridges’ good name.”

  “The Haltridges’ good name is already muddied. We might not like it, but that’s the truth.” She turned her face to the wall. “We’ll need to start bakin’ early the-morrow if we have the elders ploughterin’ through the house again. All that prayin’ gives a man an appetite. Say your prayers and blow out the candle, lassie.”

  “Peggy, what’s goin’ on here bain’t Christian. First the aul’ mistress sees things, now the young lady does. It’s e’ther witchin’ or hauntin’. An’ maybes it’s both.”

  Chapter 6

  Next morning, I brought the young lady breakfast in bed. Her face was like a lump of bleached driftwood. I knowed before I put the question to her, but I asked it anyway. “What sort of a night did you have, Mistress Mary?”

  “The witches came again. They took my candle, and burned me with it, laughing at the stench of scorching flesh. They said it reminded them of their master.”

  “Their master the Devil?”

  “Aye, he’s a devil, but he has a name. Their master is Hamilton Lock.”

  That name again. There was no escaping it. “How many witches came?”

  “A nest of them. At least six – maybe more.”

  She pushed away the food, and as she did so something caught my eye. I pulled back the sleeves of her lawn nightgown. Burns like giant, angry skitter-jabs stood out on the backs of Mary Dunbar’s totie wee hands. It was impossible to look on them without flinching. “My Lord above, you need salve for that. I’ll fetch some, and tell the mistress to come and see about you. Them burns look desperate sore.”

  She swung her legs out of bed and walked barefoot to the casement. Something in her manner made me reluctant to leave her, even though the burns needed attention.

  “What are you lookin’ at, mistress?”

  “I’m trying to see the Gobbins.”

  I wondered if the search of Lock’s Cave was under way yet, and what it might throw up. Mercy Hunter would have the news on that before I did.

  “You know you can’t see the Gobbins from here – the direction’s wrong. But stay away from them cliffs, for the love of God. Imagine if you took a fit by them. Besides, those are rain clouds in the sky. This is a day for the ducks and nothing else.”

  “Tell me a story, Ellen.”

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p; “Later, mistress, after we see to your burns.”

  “Where do you find all your stories?”

  “From my da. The yarns he can spin – there’s nobody to match him.”

  “I asked Noah about the slaughter at the Gobbins, the day he picked me up from Carrickfergus. You want to have seen the look on his face – I thought he was going to make me get out and walk.”

  “You must’n go broodin’ on the like of that, mistress. It’s no good for you.”

  “Why does nobody ever want to talk about it? Noah denied any such bloodbath took place. He said it was a tale put about by the Irish to stir ill-will. And when I asked Isabel, she told me it was just a story used to frighten children, and probably all exaggerated.”

  “We don’t go in for idle talk here on the island. Nobody could call us blabbermouths. We believe in silence. Least said, soonest mended.”

  “But why deny what happened?”

  “Some folk prefer to forget.”

  “You can feel it in your bones, Ellen: things happened there. You can smell it in the air.”

  “Aye, well, I’ll give you no argument as to that.”

  She pressed her poor burned wee hands against the cool glass on the casement. “What did the Scotch people on Islandmagee do while the Magees were being killed?”

  “They closed their ears and their doors.”

  “Hadn’t they neighbours and friends among the Magees? Couldn’t they have warned them, at least?”

  “The Irish were – what’s the word my master told me? – presumptuous. They thought this land belonged to them. What happened at the Gobbins taught them different.”

  “Are there any Magees left here?”

  “Never a one.”

  “Weren’t even the children spared?”

  “The soldiers could’n risk it. Childer grow into men. Men able to carry a grudge. And a sword. Now, I’m away to get salve. Eat your oatcakes and butter. You need to get your strength back – you look frail.”

  “Mistress Anne has forbidden me to eat so much as a crumb. She says it’s my punishment. She’s angry with me because the preacher came to the house.”

  My heart gave a judder at the mention of that name. “Who’s Mistress Anne?”

  “She’s chief among my persecutors.”

  “I thought their leader was a man.” I lowered my voice. “Hamilton Lock?”

  “He’s there in the background, giving the orders, but he has a woman who passes them on to the others. Her name is Mistress Anne.”

  “Who told you she goes by that name?”

  “You sound vexed with me. I heard the others call her it.”

  “Was that all? Did they call her anythin’ else?”

  “No, just Mistress Anne.”

  “And you’re certain-sure Mistress Anne was the name they put on her?”

  “Positive. How could I forget anything about my tormenters?”

  “Did you get a look at her?”

  “I’m never able to see her face – I see the others but not her. I don’t understand why you’re sharp with me, Ellen. It’s not my fault I’m terrorized. A dog wouldn’t lead this life.”

  I busied myself making her bed, to give me a chance to think. Some believed if you were witched into your grave, your spirit would be unquiet. Folk would be only too willing to believe the worst of Mistress Anne Haltridge. She was a decent soul – much good it did her, when push came to shove. Folk were slow to blether about the old dame while she lived. But dead and gone, her name could be blackened.

  Did Mary Dunbar know what a wasps’ nest this would stir up? Maybes she hadn’t added up two and two. Or maybes she had.

  “Should I not tell anyone about Mistress Anne? Will it make everyone as cross as you?”

  I forced a smile. “I’m not cross, mistress – worried is all. Every man Jack of us is in a pother about this. If you know the names of any witches tormentin’ you, then it would be wrong to hold them back. But these matters are beyond me – sure what do I know about witchcraft? Best talk to the minister when he comes again with the elders. He’ll keep you straight.” I went to the casement. “Let me take a look at them clouds. Aye, it’ll pour from the heavens the-day, so it will.” I breathed on a pane and traced some letters on it with my finger. I never could resist showing off my writing skills. “Now, Mistress Mary, if you cannot eat, at least you can wash. You rest here, whiles I fetch hot water and clean linen. You’ll feel the better for it.”

  I almost said cleanliness was next to godliness. But I stopped myself in time.

  * * *

  The household was on edge, waiting for Mister Sinclair and the elders. I brought the childer into the kitchen to give Peggy and me a hand with the cooking, and to take their puzzled wee minds off the goings-on. But they hadn’t the heart for helping with Peggy’s broth, although usually they begged to be allowed to toss the chicken feet into the pot. Instead they asked questions we let on not to hear.

  It was a sin to see their worried faces looking up at us, wanting reassurance. Their father was what they needed, not a helpless maid and an ancient cook. I wished my master’s work did not take him so far from home, but it was like wishing day was night, because it was either business or the Church for him – and his nature lacked that certainty you see in men of the cloth, where they feel able to tell others how they should live. He was not a man to judge others by too strict a code. Nor to live by too strict a one either, as I knowed only too well.

  “My babby has run away,” said the wee missie.

  “Has she indeed? Why would she do that?”

  “She doesn’t like it here.”

  “That ugly bunch of rags is a silly moo, just like you,” said Jamesey.

  Sarah burst into tears.

  “We’ll find your babby-doll, never fear,” I told her, before rounding on Jamesey. “Now look what you’ve done. You’re her big brother, your job is to mind her, not set the poor lassie weepin’.”

  “This handlin’ is goin’ to get worse afore it gets better,” said Peggy. “It’s bad for the bairns, so it is. The master ought to be sent for.”

  “Aye. But till he is, we’ll have to do our best to look out for the wee’ans. Same as the last time.”

  Jamesey’s eyes darted between our faces. “Little jugs have big ears,” I said to Peggy, walking past her to the back door, where I threw a handful of grain to the hens. They came flocking and clucking, but the rooster did not stoop to mingle with them, even for food. He remained on his perch on an overturned wheelbarrow.

  “Isn’t that just like menfolk?” Peggy indicated the fowl. “Leave the women to root in the dirt, and let the men stay above it all. Even a man like our master. I ken how it’ll be. We’ll see ne’ther hide nor hair of him till this sorry business comes to a head.”

  I did not like her attacking Master Haltridge, but I recognized the truth in her words. Still, I was determined to do my best for his two wee pigeons. For their own sake. But for his, too. Above the rooster’s coxcomb, the clouds were melting away, blue showing through in gaps. Maybes the rain was going to pass over, after all. I turned to the bairns, who were watching me as if I could turn black to white, dear love them. “The rain might on’y be a bit of a mizzle. The pair of yiz could go and play with the Baxters.”

  “They’re not our friends any more,” said Sarah.

  “Quarrels can be mended. Run up to their farmhouse and see if they want to play.”

  “No.”

  “Do as you’re bid, like a good lass.”

  “They won’t play with us. They said our granny won’t stay in her grave. She went in the ground but she won’t lie in it.”

  Peggy’s eyes latched on to mine.

  “Never worry about them,” I said. “The middle boy of the Baxters is a born troublemaker – you’re as well away from him. How about if the two of you go callin’ on the Widdy Patterson instead?”

  “She smells,” said Jamesey. “I’d rather go hunting for birds’ nests.”
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br />   “You leave their eggs alone. Besides, your sister is too wee to be climbin’ trees. Goin’ to see the widdy would be a Christian act. You know how she loves to hear all the news. She allus gives yiz peppermints.”

  “Would’n the widdy jus’ love to hear the news from this house,” warned Peggy.

  “Say nothin’ about your cousin’s dizzy spells,” I said.

  “Can I tell her about the ribbons she brought?” asked Sarah.

  “Yes, tell her all about the ribbons, chicken.”

  “I don’t want to sit about with no Widow Patterson talking about no ribbons,” said Jamesey.

  “Now, Jamesey, you know right well she’ll let you ride her donkey if you ask nicely.”