A Gathering of Ghosts

by David Haynes

  The thought filled him with dread, yet it was a chore he could not neglect. Not unless he wished to put his position under threat. He sighed and turned to walk back when something caught his eye, something quite out of place in the copse. He crouched and peered between the overlapping gnarly trunks. There it was, a wooden cross.

  He stepped quickly into the thicker undergrowth, kicking away the brambles which tried to pull him back. The cross was a mere dozen strides from the path but it had become so covered in weeds and vines that it was almost obscured entirely. Indeed, had he not paused in that very spot it was likely he would have missed it completely. As he drew closer, he realised with dismay what he was looking at.

  He took hold of the vines and pulled them away. A single name had been crudely scratched into the wood. Slee traced his finger over the letters and read the name aloud: “Isabel Thorne.” He stepped back for he knew this was a grave and he wished not to stand on it any longer.

  “I.T,” he whispered.

  *

  “You enjoyed your walk, Mr Slee?” Lord Feltham asked.

  Slee took a sip of his tasteless coffee and smiled. It felt false but he hoped it did not show. “Very much, although the rain remains persistent.”

  Feltham looked to the covered window but returned his gaze quickly to Slee. “Yes, I fear your return to London may be delayed somewhat. I trust this causes you no problem?”

  Slee’s stomach turned violently at the thought of another night in that room. “Of course not. I am grateful of your hospitality.”

  “And I am grateful of your expertise.”

  A moment of silence passed between them before Slee spoke. “Do not think me impertinent, sir, but who is Isabel Thorne?”

  Feltham’s face took on a thunderous look. “Isabel Thorne? From whom have you heard that name?”

  Slee became flustered. “From no-one, Lord Feltham. I was walking in the copse and I saw her name on a cross. I did not mean…”

  Feltham slammed down his cup, slicing a shard of china from the base. It span across the space between them and struck Slee on the cheek. He felt the sting as it bit into his flesh.

  “You must not speak that name again, or you shall return to London without a single painting to show Sutcliffe.” He rose quickly and stormed from the room.

  Slee was in a state of shock. Feltham had proved to be an unpredictable man but he had not expected quite so hostile a reaction. He set down his cup and stood. If Isabel Thorne’s name was quite so disagreeable to him, then why did he have two of her paintings hanging in his house?

  Slee left the dining room and returned briefly to his room. If Sutcliffe did not grant him a full partnership after this then he would leave and work for someone who appreciated him. This had become an exasperating and disturbing assignment.

  Although there did not seem to be any hope of returning to London today, Slee worked diligently on the remaining paintings. He wanted to be in a position to leave as soon as the road was clear. If a coach was unavailable then he would sooner walk across the moors and risk the teeth of the Barghest than spend another night with Feltham. Nevertheless, his spirits were cheered by each addition to the ledger because with each inclusion came the chance for wealth in his own pocket.

  “Is there a chance a coach could get through tonight, Fletcher?”

  The solitary servant shook his head. Fletcher was busy lighting a fire in Slee’s bedroom. “I am afraid not, sir. The morning may hold more chance but there is no hope for this evening.”

  “Tell me, Fletcher, how long have you been in the employ of Lord Feltham?”

  Fletcher stopped his work. “I couldn’t exactly say, sir.”

  “No? Whyever not?”

  “Because it’s been so long I stopped counting. I was born in this house, as was my father and his before him. All the Fletchers have served in this house in one capacity or another. ”

  Slee looked up at the painting. “And are you the last?”

  Fletcher stood and turned to face him. “I am, sir. The last of the Fletchers.”

  “No, you misunderstood. Are you the last of those in service?”

  “Yes there has been only me since…” Slee saw Fletcher’s eyes dart up at the painting briefly. “Since her ladyship and the little ones passed.” He lowered his eyes and made for the door but Slee caught his arm.

  “Who was she?” he asked gently.

  Fletcher did not turn to face him but made no effort to get away.

  “You know to whom I refer, Fletcher, for this painting was restored last night and now it is once again smeared with dirt. Isabel Thorne is the artist and her grave lies in the copse. So why would you cover the work with soil from the garden?”

  Fletcher turned quickly. “You must not speak her name, sir.” His voice was nothing more than a trembling whisper. “She was evil and a witch. His lordship dare not say but I will, Isabel Thorne was responsible for the deaths of his family. There was no other cause.”

  “How so? What of this miasma Lord Feltham mentioned?”

  “I do not know her means but she was besotted with his lordship. The miasma of which he speaks is real but it causes no ill-health.”

  Slee pointed at the portrait. “Why not make a pyre of the painting and be done with her once and for all then?”

  “Because his lordship believes his wife and children will burn in hell if he allows it to be so. He believes them cursed.”

  “Cursed? We are not in the dark ages!”

  “You may mock me sir, but Isabel Thorne was not of this age. Of that I am convinced. She died giving birth to Lord Feltham’s bastard son and on that very night she wailed for him, she screamed for him to come to her and finally she cursed them all. I bear him no malice for such things are common, but for ten days the miasma was thick and foul in the house until it claimed his family. She raised the miasma in death and it claimed his family in revenge.”

  Both men looked up at the painting.

  Had Slee not experienced the terrible hallucinations during the previous night he might have laughed at such a notion. “She was a servant?”

  “She was the nanny and an artist.” Fletcher turned and walked slowly out of the room.

  Slee knew there were two paintings bearing the signature I.T. One was in his room and the other was in the dining room. If he was to take them away, he intended to see the subject of the other.

  He dressed quickly and went down to dinner. He did not cherish the idea of spending an uncomfortable evening with Lord Feltham but hope remained that this assignment could be salvaged yet. Feltham was waiting for him by the door. He bowed as Slee met him.

  “I humbly offer my apologies, Mr Slee. My behaviour has been inexcusable and most out of character. I have been under some considerable pressure over the last few months and I am afraid it is taking its toll. I tender this not as an excuse but as a reason to allow me to entertain you for one last evening.”

  Slee smiled and took Feltham’s hand in his own; it was cold and clammy. Perhaps Feltham needed him still.

  “There is no need. It was my impertinence that soured the mood and I offer my apologies to you.”

  Feltham slapped him on the back and laughed. “Then we shall both agree to be sorry. Now let us say nothing more on the subject. Fletcher has outdone himself tonight.” Slee allowed himself to be led into the dining room and sat in his now customary place.

  Fletcher truly had outdone himself. The food was utterly bland again but on this occasion, it even looked unappealing. Yet Lord Feltham did not notice and the wine flowed with ease.

  “Have you arrived at a figure for the collection? It is crass to talk of such matters, I agree, but we are at the end of our acquaintance and I doubt very much whether we shall cross paths again.”

  “I shall have to take advice from Mr Sutcliffe. There is work here which may be of national importance. I am afraid I was unprepared for such an exquisite collection.”

  Slee saw the look of disappointment on Feltham
’s face. He sought to rid that dismal visage immediately. “I understand the collection was valued three years ago?”

  “It was. My wife was the expert on such matters.”

  “Well I can say that the estimate was woefully short. My estimate is more than double.” Slee knew his offer would secure profits ten times greater for Mr Sutcliffe.

  Feltham drank his glass of claret in one gulp. “And the other collection? You will take that unseen?”

  “I shall be happy to.”

  “And it will remain in storage for one hundred years?”

  Slee was taken aback. “Storage?”

  Feltham poured another glass of wine. “Yes, storage. It will never be opened and none of the collection will ever be viewed. I merely want it retaining.”

  Slee looked around the room. There were fifty or more paintings hanging upon the walls. He had hoped to make at least a little money for himself but if any viewings were forbidden, how could he hope to induce anyone to buy them?

  “But, Lord Feltham, am I to understand that all of these works of art are to be consigned to a lifetime of darkness? I do not wish to appear rude but art is designed to be enjoyed, not hidden away like a sinful secret.”

  “You do not wish to appear rude? Yet you have twice done so without thought. It is either carelessness or malice. I would prefer to assume the former and I would urge you to change this unfortunate characteristic of your disposition.”

  Slee looked across the table at the shadowy face of the man who held his fortune in the palm of his hand. He wanted to bellow at the man, to tell him that he no longer cared whether he left Stonegate Manor with one or one hundred paintings. He just wanted to leave.

  “Again, I am sorry, but I am at a loss to find a reason for your insistence on this matter. They may be of some value but without examination I am quite unable to say.”

  “They were painted for me and for my pleasure alone. If I do not wish them viewed then the matter is closed. If you wish to secure the rest of my collection you shall agree without further comment.”

  Slee nodded and sipped his wine.

  “You think me odd, do you not, Slee?”

  Slee said nothing.

  “Yet you and I have more in common than you might suppose. I too have been careless and I too have made unwise decisions which have cost me dear. I know you find me tiring and quarrelsome but do not allow that to cloud your judgement. Take my collection, take both collections and allow Sutcliffe to make you partner. The fortune you gain from that will outweigh the trifle my small request would cost you or Mr Sutcliffe.”

  Feltham stood and walked toward the door. “I shall have Fletcher drive you to York in the morning. Goodnight, Mr Slee.”

  Without further comment, he left leaving Slee alone in the room. He would have liked to tell Feltham what he really thought but the man was right. Why risk losing everything over a collection of paintings which were probably worthless anyway? He left the remainder of his wine and walked back through the dreary corridors to his room.

  He placed his attaché and packed case by the door then climbed into bed. He wished he had bought a book for he intended not to sleep but to pay another visit to the dining room, to examine Isabel Thorne’s other painting.

  *

  Slee opened the door slowly and peered into the corridor. He could see very little but it was the sound of humanity he was listening for. He waited for a moment and stepped across the threshold. Immediately a violent shiver gripped him, sending the light from his lamp trembling across the wall. The attaché in his other hand rattled like a child’s toy. The boards were cold beneath his bare feet and the air chill and damp. He took one last look into his bedroom and walked on. Each step was greeted with a groan or a whine from beneath his feet and each noise seemed to echo throughout the house. He had already decided that if he were caught he would simply claim thirst had awoken him.

  He descended the stairs quickly and his breath made a fog in the lamplight. With each step, and the closer to the foot of the stairs he got, the thicker the fog appeared. A stench rose to greet him like London’s foetid air on a summer’s day. Yet it was not summer, it was winter, and the stench was not of the bursting graveyards but of the miasma which had entered the house uninvited.

  Slee stepped from the staircase and into the fetor. He yearned to cough but he held it back for he was close to his goal. He slid silently through it until he reached the dining room, where he put his head to the wood and listened for any sounds of movement from within. He brushed away an imaginary fly at his nose for the vapours were snaking up toward him. They tickled his nose and brushed his thigh like fingers. They caressed his neck like… like the crone in the painting.

  He threw open the door, caring not if Lord Feltham was on the other side, and leapt across the threshold. He pushed the door behind him and leaned against it. His breath came in short gasps and a fierce desire to vomit almost overcame him. It was merely a mist, a trick of nature and that was all. No witches were hiding within its smoky tendrils. He berated himself for being foolish.

  He held the lamp out before him. It barely threw enough light for his room, let alone a room of this size. He recalled there had been a number of candles and lamps placed around the table when he had eaten and now he searched them out. One by one he lit them until the room was as bright as it ever would be.

  He may have imagined the crone’s touch in the hallway but he had not dreamed up the miasma, of that he was convinced. Yet here and now, in the room of tasteless fare, there was no festering fog at all. It was a strange yet welcome phenomenon.

  The dark paintings covered the walls like blackened mirrors and they reflected only the bleak spirit of the house. Slee stepped directly over to the painting he had touched once before. He held the lamp to it and tentatively touched it again. He had no desire to hear the warning shout from Feltham again but the need to expose the contents surpassed even that.

  The faint outline of her initials could still be seen but he had not exposed them entirely with his first visit. He gently lifted the frame and placed it on the table beside the attaché. He had uncovered many fine paintings during the last two days yet his heart thumped with fresh and unexpected excitement at the thought of revealing this one. He looked around the room at the others. Perhaps he might have a look at some of the others while he was here. He opened the attaché and shook some of the cleaning agent onto the cloth. The Stonegate Manor Collection would be revealed in its entirety tonight.

  He worked quickly but less precisely than he had done with the others. His hands shook with every pass of his cloth but very quickly his excitement turned to dismay; dismay and a very strong feeling of unease. He should stop, he knew he should. He should replace the painting and return to his room, yet he could not. His hands worked without instruction as if they were guided by the devil himself.

  “Stop,” he whispered to himself, but even as he spoke the word he knew it was a forlorn request.

  One face, then two, then a third and finally the face of a young boy were revealed. It was the perfect facsimile of the painting in his room. It was identical down to each strand of honey-coloured hair waving in the unseen breeze. Even though he was cold, he felt beads of perspiration gather on his back.

  Then the darkness started closing in again. The delicious and terrifying inky pools of paint within the portrait started to swirl and merge before his eyes. He turned away quickly and picked up the frame. He would not fall once again for whatever devious optical illusion was being played out before him. He reached up and hung the painting back in its spot. Only this time it faced the wall.

  He had heard of collectors paying for expensive reproductions to be produced so the originals would not run the risk of damage in a display. Yet this was not a priceless masterpiece painted by a master, it was merely a family portrait with little value except to members of that family. It did not make any sense.

  Slee walked to the other side of the room and picked a frame at random. I
t too bore the same signs of neglect as the others. He placed it on the table and set, once more, to work.

  “It cannot be!” He rubbed his eyes for this painting too was a replica of the portrait in his room. He fought against the almost irresistible urge to submerge himself within it; to be at one with the crone and her laughter. He pushed it away and dragged another frame down. It did not take long before a collection of partially restored portraits were strewn across the floor and Slee was slumped in the middle of them all.

  He groaned weakly and ran his hands through his hair. What was this madness? Why were there forty or more identical paintings in this room? He knew there were only two people who could answer that question, Lord Feltham and Isabel Thorne. He dragged himself upright and fell against the table. His legs were weary and his mind disturbed. He could not bring himself to hang the paintings back in their rightful place and knew this would mean an end to his career.