The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Yes. An odd collection of things. Some photographs of India over the years. A few of Felicity’s mother. The rest is to do with some woman and the fire that happened here.’

  Intrigued, I unhooked the clasp. ‘Nothing about the Marsters family?’

  ‘Not obviously, more to do with—’

  A rattling interrupted Maggie and the door creaked. Charles. He’d taken his boots off, leaving him standing in heavily darned socks. His damp hair clung about his cheeks, zig-zagging along the line of his jawbone.

  ‘Maggie,’ he exclaimed with wide eyes.

  ‘Charles?’ She spun on the spot, clutching a hand to her chest. ‘What are you doing here?’

  If I expected a warm embrace or even a shake of the hands, neither happened. An immediate, unnatural silence fell and only Maggie’s heavy breathing disturbed it. I lifted my hand off the box lid. Charles was staring not at Maggie, but the box.

  ‘I was in the garden,’ he said softly, his gaze fixed. ‘Pruning.’

  I fidgeted with the hook, embarrassed by the awkward pauses. ‘Charles has been helping me. He cleaned up the kitchen cupboards, the staircase, lots of things. He’s very versatile.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie rocked on her toes. ‘Felicity thought so, too.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to talk,’ Charles backed out of the room.

  ‘Charles,’ I hurried to the door, but he’d already covered the hallway. ‘Please don’t go.’

  Whether he heard me or chose to ignore me, I didn’t know. The back door slammed.

  ‘Odd,’ I said, re-entering the sitting room. ‘I’d have thought he would be pleased to see you. It’s been a few years.’

  Maggie picked her handbag. ‘I should go, too. Let you look through this stuff in your own time. I’m sorry I didn’t come by before now. I’ve hung on to this for far too long.’

  ‘No, honestly. I’m glad you had it. I’m not convinced the nursing home would have bothered to keep it. Please thank Lucy, won’t you.’

  ‘Sure.’ She slipped the bag over her shoulder. As she crossed the hall, she paused, examining the tiles. By her shoes, a sheen of dust covered the floor, the white particles a stark contrast on the black tiles. ‘Funny how spooky this house gets. I thought I’d gone mad when I worked here.’

  I clenched my hands into tight fists, unsure whether I wanted to hear about her theories. ‘Why did you think it was haunted?’

  She furrowed her forehead, perturbed by my directness.

  ‘Bert told me,’ I clarified.

  ‘Oh. Bert. Gossip queen,’ Maggie guffawed. ‘This, for one thing. Haven’t you noticed this white dust?’ She scuffed the tip of her shoe on the floor. ‘Bleeding everywhere. Plus, the doors banging and strange noises lurking behind closed doors. Sometimes I thought I saw movement in the shadows. That horrible cellar – I refused to go down there. Black hell, I called it.’

  I laughed, half-heartedly. ‘I know, I’ve had the same experiences. I think it’s Felicity trying to warn me about something, like she’s still here.’

  Maggie frowned. ‘Can’t be her. This place gave me the creeps while Felicity lived here. She, on the other hand, didn’t give a hoot. Laughed at me if I commented on anything peculiar.’

  ‘And Charles?’ I hedged.

  The frown dragged her cheeks lower and before it could slip off, she hoisted the strap of her handbag higher onto her shrugging shoulder. ‘Whatever Charles thought, he kept it to himself. At least with me.’

  ‘You didn’t stay here with her as she became more infirm?’

  ‘Me?’ Maggie shook her head and snorted. ‘Originally, I came a couple of mornings to clean. Then, as she grew frailer, I found myself here most mornings, helping her up, getting her dressed. I’d come back in the evenings to make sure she’d eaten and put her to bed, too, if needed. I cleaned for a couple hours on the odd day, but otherwise, she was alone. Charles, I suppose, might have kept an eye on her, but he was the gardener, nothing else. It was pure luck I was here when she fell.’

  ‘Oh. That means she was alone.’ Like me, listening, contemplating. How had she survived three decades of this place? I masked a grimace with my hand.

  ‘She liked it. Believe me, she didn’t need company. Solitary creature – Felicity Marsters. If she went out, she’d use a taxi. Growing up in India she’d probably gone by rickshaw. She’d no shame about who she was.’ She smiled, briefly, a transient alteration in her expression; for the first time, she elicited a modicum of warmth. Exhaling deeply, she pursed her lips. ‘She should have stayed in India.’

  ‘So no ghosts,’ I repeated, somewhat surprised by Maggie’s apparent disinterest in the subject.

  Her red dyed hair matched the sudden blush of her cheeks and she jabbed her finger in the direction of the dust at our feet. ‘Oh, there are spirits here in my opinion. I didn’t say there weren’t. And, I can take a good guess at who haunts this place.’

  I leaned forward focusing my eyes on her mouth. ‘Who?’

  ‘Look in the box,’ Maggie said softly, her lips articulating the words, while her eyes darted around. She bowed her head, moved closer and spoke into my ear as if to avoid a spy listening in. ‘The only reason she kept that box by her was because she was fascinated about this place, especially that fire. She was obsessed by it.’

  I ignored the parallels with my search for the truth. ‘The fire?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie hissed, ‘and the Isaacks. She told me she’d gone, years ago, back in the sixties, to the record office in Norwich to find out more.’ She rattled her car keys. The visit was over.

  I opened the front door for Maggie. She glanced up to the sky and clucked her tongue. The mist had descended, almost hiding the gates.

  The rain pattered on the car’s roof and she pulled up the collar of her coat. ‘If you want my opinion,’ she said hurriedly, ‘this house is haunted and has been for years, and long before Felicity arrived.’ She drove off as briskly as her tongue.

  I said nothing. What could I say without frightening myself.

  With Maggie gone, I returned to the Chindi box and opened it. The contents bundled together at the top were a collection that bore witness to Felicity’s life over many years, including faded photographs of different locations in India. The contrast in the pictures had bled out, stripping out the vividness and leaving behind a flat impression of what must have been amazing temples, paddy fields of rice, statues, vast rivers and deltas.

  Lying under them, a few black and white pictures of a woman with long black hair tied back and her beautiful dark eyes dolefully staring into the camera lens. At her side stood a small girl with big teeth and paler eyes: Felicity. One sepia photograph was stuck onto a cardboard frame and the uniformed officer captured within had a remarkably handsome face; something of my mother perhaps in those faraway eyes. The portrait was labelled Major Hubert Marsters: my great-grandfather and Felicity’s father.

  Tucked into the back of the frame was crumpled notepaper. I smoothed them out to discover love letters written with a slanting style in ink and signed by Hubert. No dates bar one letter, but the first part of it was smudged, and only the year was legible: 1932. Hubert, simply addressing the recipient as his beloved, had expressed in brief eloquent terms of endearment his wish to join his Indian mistress. Quite poetic. However, he then went on to confess his obligation to Lily – my great-grandmother – and John had hampered his efforts. At some point after that last letter Lily had died and he had been free to bring his mistress and daughter to live with him. Unfortunately, he’d never married the nameless woman, leaving my great-aunt illegitimate and shunned as an outcast.

  Rummaging through the photographs, I found no trace of my grandfather, John, Felicity’s half-brother. No remembrance of her sibling or any inclination to explain his absence from her life. The feud between them had lasted a long time. So why had he left the house to her, not my grandmother, when he died in 1965?

  I put the family photographs and letters to one side. Beneath them w
ere other documents: a mixture of originals and photocopies. I placed each one on the table, side by side, trying to work out a pattern or explanation for their presence. Felicity had an eclectic interest in the social welfare of unmarried mothers in Docking. Not a subject matter that was unfamiliar to her given her own status as illegitimate. However, the names weren’t of anyone I recognised as part of our family, but there again, she’d gone back over a hundred years. The photocopies of newspaper articles had streaks across them, the typeset heavy and inky, making the print hard to decipher. There was also a letter from the Board of Guardians to the editor of the Norfolk Chronicle – dated February 1873 – it referred to the fate of the poor in Docking workhouse.

  ·•●•·

  An increasing number of unmarried, destitute women have been admitted to the workhouse in the last year, many with child or encumbered by existing offspring, whose parentage is unknown. Little can be done for these paupers other than to feed and cloth them. Unfortunately, the lack of experienced midwives at the workhouse has recently led to a number of deaths during childbirth. These sad events include the late Nuri Sully who died within hours of her stillborn child and without any attendance by a midwife. The parish considers such deaths could be avoided if their meagre funds were augmented and more money given to specifically provide for the care of these destitute inmates, many of whom have been abandoned by greater personages in our society.

  ·•●•·

  The name Nuri Sully appeared again in an undated extract from another local newspaper. The poor woman had died in childbirth. The burial notices in the Docking Gazette stated she’d been buried in a coffin provided by an anonymous benefactor and her body interned at Little Knottisham parish church. Felicity had shown an unusual amount of interest in one vagabond woman abandoned by her family. Turning over the paper, somebody – Felicity? – had penned on the back:

  Real name of Beatrice?

  Who the hell was Beatrice?

  The remaining newspaper clippings came from the Norfolk Chronicle and referred to an event I already knew about: the fire at Heachley Hall. Two were published within two days of each other at the end of January 1873, the other a while later in 1875.

  ·•●•·

  January 26th 1873

  The flames could be seen for miles about and as far as the coast at Hunstanton. The inferno brought the residents of Little Knottisham running to assist the desperate family and servants in their attempt to save the property from total catastrophe. The consequences of the fire at Heachley Hall have yet to be fully assessed, however witnesses agree a third of the great house has been lost to fire damage and much of the woodland around it caught the sparks and burnt to cinders. The efforts of all those who assisted, risking their lives to enter the property to save valuables, have been lauded by the Mayor of King’s Lynn, who offered his condolences to the owner, Mr Henry Isaacks. The cause of the fire is unknown, but it is considered fortunate the house did not burn down in its entirety.

  January 28th 1873

  With great sadness, the police have disclosed that the eldest son of Henry Isaacks, Christopher Isaacks, died in the fire at Heachley Hall. The heat of the inferno that engulfed the wing was so great that his remains have not been found. However, he was seen at the window by those who fought the fire and he was known to be in the house at the time, while the rest of the family and servants attended church. Valiant attempts were made by several local farmers to reach Mr Isaacks, but unfortunately the young man was unable to open the windows or smash them. His apparent inability to assist in his own escape has led the police to declare the poor man was swiftly overcome by the thick choking smoke and the intensity of the flames swept his body into the ashes.

  Inhabitants from the surrounding villages have been coming to Little Knottisham church to sign a book of condolence left there by the family, who have not returned to the sad scene, preferring to take up residence in King’s Lynn for the foreseeable future.

  April 21st 1875

  Heachley Hall and its surrounding lands have been sold at auction to the Marsters family. The new owner, Major Rupert Marsters, whose father played a vital diplomatic role in the Indian mutinies, was born in India. He has returned to England to assist his brother, James Marsters, in the management of a spice company, which is the family’s primary business in India. The house has remained vacated by the Isaacks since the tragic fire that took the life of Henry Isaack’s son, Christopher. Plans have been drawn up to repair the house in preparation for the arrival of Maj. Marsters and his family. It is understood the demolished wing will not be rebuilt.

  ·•●•·

  Somebody had died at Heachley Hall and not quietly in their bed. Christopher Isaacks had burnt to death. The impact of the fire on the Isaack family was devastating; they’d never come back. My ancestors, the Marsters, had owned Heachley Hall for longer than I’d appreciated. The fire had happened in 1873, the same year as Nuri’s tragic death – was there a connection? Two years later, Heachley was sold at auction and lived in by the Marsters until when? My grandfather and great-aunt had been born in India. Why had Hubert and his family lived there and not in Norfolk, and in his absence what had become of the house? Who had the tenants been?

  I wanted answers. I’d dreamt of opening this box and finding letters, perhaps an exchange between my mother and her aunt in which Felicity had been asked to honour some agreement or duty of care towards me, her only surviving relative. Maybe even Felicity’s plans for Heachley, her vision of its future. My greatest ideal would have been a letter addressed to me, explaining why she’d added the binding clause of a year and a day to her will. Why, dammit, was there nothing about her life at Heachley Hall? Felicity’s box had created yet more questions. I combed my fingers though my hair and scrunched my hand into a fist. I’d discovered a trail of incompleteness, the skeleton of a story. Why had she stopped researching?

  With everything spread across the table, I waited for something to leap out at me. The rain thundered on the windowpane. The minutes ticked away unproductively. Defeated, I gathered up the papers and bundled them back into the box. At least they were back at Heachley Hall, where for a few more months they belonged. After that, the box would probably take a journey along side my other possessions, losing its significance until some day I would open the box and once again ponder the reason why I lived in a rundown mansion.

  Except, I refused to let that be the end of my research into Felicity’s will or the house’s past.

  Maggie had inferred the man who burnt to death in the fire was the ghost of Heachley Hall. The quirky happenings, which plagued the house, had a source, an identity, supposedly. I hooked the lid in place and stroked the fibrous material and noted my trembling fingers. Was I worried about the implication of a ghost? Was I ready to believe in anything supernatural? That wasn’t me; only in my imagination and at the end of a pencil did I allow things to become unreal.

  Picking up the box, I carried it into the library and placed it on an empty shelf. There it would stay. No way was a ghost going to ruin my last few months in Heachley Hall. However, my curiosity had been awoken, but not about Christopher Isaacks and his domestic tragedy – fires burnt down many houses. Nuri Sully and her sad demise had captured Felicity’s imagination for some reason and I still had no explanation why. If Nuri was buried in the churchyard, then maybe there were records of her birth and her parentage at the parish church. I regretted not pursuing the archives and seeing all those names was like a spur in my side – I should finish what Felicity started years ago.

  My rambling thoughts were interrupted by the persistent rain: I’d left the washing out on the line.

  Once I’d loaded the sopping washing back into the machine for a spin, I went in search of Charles: what had made him react so negatively to Maggie’s appearance?

  There was no sign of him in the outbuilding.

  He’d been working on manufacturing a fireguard out of a sheet of metal, which he’d dug out from another bu
ilding. It lay on the bench where he’d been hammering it flat. Some of his tools were arranged in a neat row on the bench while others hung from wall hooks. Above his bench was a small shelf with a solitary occupancy: the radio. It stayed here when he went home. Propped against the stack of freshly cut wood, the lethal axe with its sharp edge glinting. Throughout the winter, the firewood had never run out. Not once had I been left without sufficient fuel. Always, when I came with my basket to collect the hued logs there stood dry ones, separated from the damp ones. I learnt to know which pile to use and which to leave for later.

  The light coming through the window seemed barely sufficient, yet he coped without complaining while beneath my feet, the uneven floor had been swept of wood shavings. The smooth cobblestones, round like beach pebbles, were shiny islands in the hardened sea of concrete. He took pride in his workplace, as if it was an extension of his own home.

  How had I come to rely on this man to such an extent? This remarkable individual who appeared most days for a few hours, technically a trespasser, climbing over a wall and choosing to chop wood in a murky wood. Why had he kept himself busy here in an unheated shed with no lights and with little companionship? Selfishly, I wanted the reason to be entirely down to me and not some loyalty to my departed great-aunt.

  With the garden springing back to life, and less to do inside the house, Charles often elected to wheel a barrow of tools and disappear into the farthest points of the estate. Unnerved by the box’s arrival and Maggie’s gloom ridden depiction of Heachley, I wished he would remain indoors, close by, humming a tune with a paintbrush or trowel in his hand. I’d become increasingly needy with my expectations of Charles and the comfort it brought.