The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

  I lift files, thumb through papers and holy pictures, account books, reports, and index cards …

  My eyes flit to the window.

  I cross the room, try and push up the sash, thump it distractedly with the pads of both palms; then, at eye level, see a metal catch locking the two halves together. I flick it with my thumb, gasp with relief as the upper window slips half an inch, push up the lower one, reach for my bag, strap it over my head, then raise my foot to climb over.

  With my hands poised on the sill, I remember the book, slip back in, dart across the room, and fumble it off the shelf. Leaning out of the window, I drop the heavy volume and it lands in a bush.

  I hike myself out, glance quickly across the netball courts, then stand up in the flower bed and try to pull the window shut after me. The frames are flatter on the outside. I do my best, but it’s difficult to get a purchase, and a gap of a couple of inches remains under the lower sash.

  I leave it, pick up the book, and begin to move round the courts through the shrubs close to the wall; look up, think I see the dark triangular shape of Madame Mary Saint Bernard, her cold eyes gazing down at me from the art room window. There she is again, in the dimly lit archway of the refectory; and there, behind the wrought-iron fence of the nuns’ garden, fixing me with her intense stare from beyond the black railing. I know she must be nothing more than an image of my conscience, appalled at what I have just done.

  I bolt out of the half-open gates and up the road to the bus stop, the book achingly heavy under my arm.

  Sitting in the corner of the bus in the emptiness of the upper deck, I wait for my heart to settle, then move my head so the pale globe of the recessed light falls on my knees, where I spread out Appendix C: Letters of Katherine Myldmaye to her sister Mary, Lady Guerdon, 1583–1584 …

  I skim through the first few letters, starting in early October 1583 — Katherine recapturing the quiet nuptials of Mary to Sir Edmund Guerdon at Lokswood; the hint of some debt Lord Myldmaye owes Guerdon; questioning why Mary does not write more often; Katherine missing her sister; the joy that Mary is expecting a baby; the request for more letters. Then, in a letter dated 21st December 1583, the tone changes.

  St Thomas Day, 21st December 1583

  My dearest Mary,

  I think it best that you burn this letter once you have read it. If your lord is disposed to be in this vile temper since the execution of the witch some days past, I advise you not to pester him as to the reason, but let him spend out his bad humour until it abates, as it will in time. Do not seek to vex him further by seeming too prying and curious into his affairs.

  I cannot deny that your letter filled me with misgiving and anxiety, although I have, against my own judgement, done my utmost to carry out your request. I have made secret enquiry of one of the more trusted lower servants. You will know her — the same Joan who was most gently attentive to us when Mother died. It seems that the trees your lord has had planted on the inside of the creek at Guerdon Hall are known to form a ring of protection most particularly against the ingress of witches.

  As to the men your lord summoned from Fairing at dead of night, Weller Mounce and Ralf Polley, and Polley’s boy, Colin, they are, I am informed, cunning men of renown who will ward open chimney shafts and doorways, and bind them with devices, ancient charms and enchantments, expecting to be rewarded handsomely for their trouble. When the physician came to draw both blood and water from you at your lord’s behest, do you know what became of the flasks after they left your chamber? Joan wonders if concern for your health might have been a stratagem in order to obtain the elements from your body required for spells. I do not wish to alarm you, dearest sister, but inform you of all I have learned at your insistence. I know you would plague me if I did not tell you all. It seems to me as if your lord is doing all in his power to protect you and the little one you carry from some malignancy.

  The little pictures you drew for me are called runes. These most particular ancient and potent symbols of safeguarding against witchcraft are called the Thorn, the Yew and the Day runes.

  Joan enquired of me whether this burned witch was properly laid to rest in the manner befitting a handmaid of the Devil. Were her ashes burned again to remove all traces of cunning and magic? Perhaps your lord is afeared lest she rise again like the Phoenix from its fire to cause his family mischief.

  This season of Christmas should be one of joy and blessing. It is our first apart from each other, which pains me most sorely. I will pray most fervently that the little Christ Child will shower his graces upon you and your unborn babe.

  Your most loving sister,

  Kate

  Lokswood, 20th January 1584

  My dearest Mary,

  I have destroyed your letter. If it should have found its way into Father’s hands, I cannot imagine how he would deal with any suspicions or gross calumny against his old friend, Sir Edmund. It may be prudent to burn this letter when you have read it. I do not know what communications run between the two of them, or who may be employed to examine or purloin our letters.

  I cannot bear to think of you suffering so, but you must shield yourself against malicious gossip and rumour spread abroad by malcontents among the servants. In no wise can you be certain that this infant born to the maidservant, Kittie Wicken, is your husband’s child. Unless the babe were birthed before its time, the wench would have had to entice your husband while his innocent lady and her poor murdered boy were yet living. Father would never have married you to a known libertine, but rather to give solace to a man so terribly and recently bereft of the companionship of his wife and little heir.

  But if I should be proved wrong, dear sister, and there is some small truth in these wicked rumours, then it is your duty as Sir Edmund’s wife and, Deo volente, as a mother in months to come, to bear these ordeals with fortitude and forbearance, as we women must.

  Your most loving sister,

  Kate

  Lokswood, 8th February 1584

  My dearest Mary,

  I urge you to destroy this letter. Yours I have burned here in the fire in my chamber but a few moments ago, and such a blaze it made that I thought the soot in the chimney would take alight.

  I set this out in my hand, but struggle to believe these uncommon things of which you write. You should not place trust in any words issuing from the lips of this wretched creature, Kittie Wicken, even though she came to you privily. You are too much in your own company there, and must not think that any such danger could befall your infant once it has been born. It is not possible for any man, such as this murderous leper, Lankin of the marshes she spoke of, once dead and buried — even mistakenly in hallowed ground — to become in death a hideous great spirit who is impelled to snatch away and consume young flesh where he will find it.

  No such creature was ever created. If Kittie Wicken fears for the life of her own son, then she should throw herself and her child upon the mercy of the parish. She means to cause you fright for some reason of her own, and you must not heed her, Mary. You must find your lord when he is in a good humour, and inform him of her ill will towards you, that he may send her off.

  These other things she told you of, that the witch Aphra Rushes, lately burned at Bryers Guerdon, was wet nurse to the very child she killed, and that in life this sinister, corrupted woman gave birth to Lankin’s babe, you must put this unwholesome knowledge aside and not mind it, for your own peace. You should be comforted to learn this union was so abhorrent to nature that the infant died even as it entered the world. And Mary, think what agonies Father must have endured in his heart when he was present at the witch’s execution, by your lord’s very side, and heard her bring down her terrible malediction on the heads of the Guerdons, even unto the very end of the line, knowing that those cursed generations would be of his own flesh and blood as well as Sir Edmund’s.

  My dearest sister, I am concerned that you do not have enough to occupy you in your new station, and have some anxiety as to the tr
anquillity of your mind. Could we not bring you home here for your lying-in? Send word and I will come for you. Or I would bring you to Aunt Ankarette’s at Missingham, where I am sure you would find some serenity in the quiet and secret beauty of her manor. Please, I beg you to think on this.

  Your most loving sister,

  Kate

  Lokswood, 10th April 1584

  My dearest sister,

  I cannot tell you how distressed and troubled I am on receipt of your last letter. I am deeply sorry for your anguish at the death of your servant, Kittie Wicken, drowned so miserably in the creek, her wits utterly gone. I cannot believe you still think it possible that Kittie’s fears were not groundless after all and that her babe was indeed snatched away by that monstrous creature. We must pray that it is not so, that her talk of this Lankin spirit came from the wandering of her poor moonstruck mind, and that your own infant will thrive heartily and be safe at Guerdon Hall.

  You should rather believe what Sir Edmund informed you of — it is much more likely that Kittie, in her madness, killed and buried her own child somewhere on the marshes.

  Dearest Mary, please be mindful of your own reason. It will be the shock of Kittie’s death, and your present condition, that makes you think you hear her unquiet ghost singing her warning to you in the house. We know that malignant cunning women can be possessed of potent gifts, but it cannot be true what Kittie told you of — that when alive, Aphra Rushes frighted her with the threat that she could creep into Kittie’s skin, look out of her eyes and use her hands to do whatever the witch willed with them? This is diabolic work indeed. Surely it cannot be possible under heaven to interfere with another’s soul in such a way as this.

  Do not concern yourself too much that Sir Edmund is keeping you on your own in your chamber, save for one attendant. I am sure it is for your own welfare and ease at this time. Your lord will not wish you to be subjected to the tittle-tattle of servants, or the discomforts of this unseasonable warm weather.

  I harbour a fervent wish that you might still come here to Lokswood Hall, where we would happily feed you up now that the Lenten season has passed, but suspect that in your present condition, it is rather too late in the day for you to travel far. It would cheer your heart to see how delightfully the spring is progressing. We appear to have more lambs in the meadows this March and April than we have had for many a year, and the orchard is quite a wonder with its great burden of white blossom.

  Your little Biddy has had a litter of five pups. It is a pity your husband would not allow her to come with you to Guerdon Hall. The pups will be quite grown up when you are able to come and visit us. Please be sure to ask Sir Edmund again if I might have his permission to come to be with you during your confinement.

  Your loving sister,

  Kate

  The bus has stopped. I look up and see to my shock that we are at Bryers Guerdon. I slam the book shut, grab my bag, spring up out of my seat. The bus is about to move off. I reach up and frantically push the bell once, twice, and again, rush down the aisle, and thud down the stairs. The conductor touches his cap to me as I leap off the platform.

  As I turn into Old Glebe Lane, the sickly yellow light of the street lamp outside the Thin Man outlines the bare branches of the hedgerows against the blackening fields. I press on past the wrought-iron gates of Glebe House and the gloomy mass of twisting, hissing woods where the sweep of the rectory lawn ends.

  My head is so disordered that at first I don’t see the small figure hurrying along the road ahead in the darkness.

  I stop, puzzled, then quickly move on when I see who it is, but so late home from school — and alone?

  “Mimi!”

  She spins round.

  I run towards her, the heavy book under my elbow, my schoolbag swinging from side to side.

  “Mimi, why are you so late? Where’s Ange?”

  “She didn’t come.”

  The darkness has sapped the colour from her face.

  “But she said she’d pick you up,” I say.

  “I know. I waited and waited. All the other kids had gone, and when the teachers started coming out, I hid behind the caretaker’s shed. I didn’t want nobody asking me why I was still there. I could see up the road in case Ange was late, but she never came.”

  “Oh, Mimi.” I put my arm round her shoulder and hug her. “Maybe — maybe she got the time wrong.”

  “She was there yesterday — she knows the time.”

  With growing unease, I squeeze her shoulder once more.

  We turn into the Chase. Above us, stars are already peppering the sky, while to one side the water quietly gurgles along the shadowy ditch under the trees.

  As we approach the house, it is plain to see that there is not the smallest glimmer of a light.

  “I hope it’s not the flippin’ electrics again,” I say, trying to sound unconcerned, but my tight grip on Mimi’s hand as we cross the bridge is probably giving me away. “Maybe that’s why Ange couldn’t come to school. She had to wait for the man to come and fix it.”

  We move along the path round the house and into the cobbled yard.

  The back door stands wide open, a dark rectangle in the wall.

  I whisper to Mimi to stay where she is, then nervously go through the doorway into the stone passage and switch on the light.

  “Ange? Are you there?”

  I edge my way over the flagstones, hardly breathing.

  Footsteps patter behind me.

  “Don’t leave me on my own,” Mimi whispers.

  We turn the corner into the hall and make our way into the kitchen.

  I reach round the corner for the switch.

  The light blazes on.

  Mimi gasps.

  A jolt runs through me.

  A face is outside, staring through the window.

  “Crikey! It’s Ange.”

  Strands of hair have dropped out of their pins and are hanging down her washed-out cheeks to her shoulders. Her eyes appear not to see us at all.

  “Looks … looks like she might be ill,” I say to Mimi, trying my best to sound calm even though my heart is racing. “You put the kettle on and I’ll go and get her in.”

  I throw my bag and the book down on the table, hurry back along the stone passage, through the open door, and round the corner of the yard. Ange is still at the window, standing motionless on the gravel path, her face and the front of her glowing in the light from the kitchen, her bag dangling from her hand. Her coat hem is dark with dirt, some long blades of pale grass are caught in her untidy hair, and her sheepskin boots are plastered with wet mud.

  “Ange?”

  She doesn’t appear to hear me the first time, but when I call her name again, she turns her head and blinks, as if she has just woken up.

  “You all right?” I say, gently taking her by the elbow. “What’s the matter?”

  She says nothing, but puts her hand to her head and shivers, then comes with me as I draw her along to the back door.

  In the stone passage, she stops for a moment, leans against the wall, and rubs her forehead, streaking it with grime from her filthy fingers.

  “What are you doing home early?” she says. “I was just going to get Mimi.”

  “Mimi’s back.”

  “Is she? What’s the time?”

  “It’s dark, Ange. Look.”

  “So it is — well, I don’t know.” We turn into the hall, and Ange takes a look at herself in the mirror. “What’s happened to me hair? I only just lacquered it before I went out. And look at me coat. Where did all that muck come from?”

  “Let’s have a cup of tea,” I say, leading her into the kitchen. “The kettle’s on the gas.”

  Ange sinks into a chair and puts her handbag on the table.

  “Oh, Mimi, I’m sorry,” she says, still in a daze. She reaches into her coat pocket and takes out some small change. “Look — this was for some sweets at Mrs. Wickerby’s. I don’t know what happened. I feel a bit queer.”r />
  In her hand amongst the change is a little red stone with a hole through the middle.

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten to take your pills,” I say, reaching for the bottle.

  “Yeah, maybe — though I thought I did.” Ange shakes a couple out. “What was I doing for the last couple of hours?”

  Far across the marshy wilderness, almost to the river, I found the bubbling freshwater spring where we drank together and, close by, the patch of ground where once his hut stood, where he sheltered me, where I brought forth our wretched child. I sat on the wet earth among the grass tussocks, shut her eyes, and thought I might weep, remembering him coming through the doorway with its mat of woven boughs, skinning a coney with his teeth on the narrow bench against the wattle wall, and, after the rain, tying fresh reeds onto the roof under the crooked tree.

  Once before I had crept back into my past, returning to the house in the woods years after my mothers had been burned inside, and out of the ground, under its coverlet of rotting leaves, the bloodstone had drawn me to it. And so it pulled me again. I knew just where to scratch at the watery soil with her soft nails, dig with her stringy fingers.

  And after it came up to me out of the earth, I stood and looked at the sky through the little hole in its heart, and for a moment became a child again, with my old mother, Zillah, in the woods.

  The woman does not know what this is, this little red stone in her pocket, veined black like jasper, the stone that helped to kill a man.

  I turn over under my blankets, turn the other way, hear Ange’s creaking steps up the stairs on her way to bed. Westminster Chimes strike half past eleven. I steal downstairs in the silent, sleeping, icy house, switch on the cold unwelcoming strip light in the kitchen, and spread out the County Records on the table.

  Lokswood, 22nd June 1584

  My dearest sister Mary,

  Thanks be to God you are safely delivered. The manservant, Thomas, arrived here with the news at sunrise, trusting your lord would not notice his absence in the excitement of your lying-in. May God bless Thomas for taking all this trouble on our account, knowing how grieved we both are, dear sister, to have been apart so long, most especially at this time. I send him back to you with this letter and my gifts. I hope you like the small garments I have sewn for Carey Edmund Robert Guerdon, and please to note how my stitching has much improved of late. I am particularly proud of the embroidery on the bonnet. The honey comes from the beehives in the clover field. I must close now as Thomas is preparing to depart. I asked him if he might hide me under his cloak and bring me to Guerdon Hall as I long to see you and my new nephew, but he said his lord would not approve of it.