Whispers in the Dark

by Jonathan Aycliffe

  I was up and dressed earlier than usual, and went down well before breakfast, telling Mrs. Johnson that I wanted to take Jasper for an early walk. My aim was to catch the postman at the main gate, where he left letters and packages for the hall in a large metal box from which Hutton would fetch them later on.

  He was on time. A little man in a peaked cap riding a bright red bicycle, one of the first in the district. He deposited a handful of letters and a parcel in the box and turned to go. I stepped out from behind the tree in whose shadow Jasper and I had been watching. Jasper growled threateningly while keeping himself well behind my skirts. Seeing me, the postman went pale and all but turned tail.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “I have a letter for you to take.” He hesitated, then came up, wheeling his cycle beside him.

  “Where’s it for?” he asked.

  “The vicar at Kirkwhelpington. Will you be sure to give it to him? It’s important.”

  He looked at it, then at me, and finally slipped it into his bag.

  "Aye, all right. I’ll see he has it this afternoon.”

  “Thank you. It’s most important. You will be sure to put it into his hand, won’t you?”

  “If he’s home. Will he know who’s written it?”

  “My name’s inside.” I paused. “Tell me,” I said, “when you first caught sight of me, I gave you a bit of a start, didn’t I?”

  “I wasn’t expecting no one to be here.”

  “Is that all?”

  He looked at me suspiciously, then turned his bicycle around.

  “If that’s everything, miss, I’d best be on my way.”

  “Did you think I was someone else?”

  He cast an uneasy parting glance at me, then leaped on his cycle and pedaled furiously away. I watched him go, knowing that my life might depend on the letter he carried.

  I got back to the hall well in time for breakfast, saying nothing of where my walk with Jasper had taken me. Antonia seemed tired and on edge that morning, but she insisted on our spending time together. A fire was lit in the library, and we stayed there until lunchtime, reading, neither of us with much concentration. Several times in the course of the morning, I caught her observing me closely. If I got up to fetch a book from one of the shelves, her eyes would follow me there and back again. If I rose to lay fresh logs on the fire, she would watch my every move. I sensed not concern for my well-being, but anxiety lest my actions escape scrutiny. Was I behaving strangely? I wondered. Did I betray my uneasiness in my posture, or nervousness in the way I moved? Did she guess what was going through my head, and was she now seeking for clues as to my possible intentions?

  After lunch, she had me read to her again, and I had no choice but to acquiesce. I wanted to go outside again, for I had formulated a little plan that required the exploration of a spot deep within the grounds. After more than an hour of Pride and Prejudice, there was a lull. Antonia had already taken a pack of cards from a drawer in the sideboard—she was teaching me to play bezique (which she played by the Portland rules) and ecarte—when I decided to face the issue.

  “Please, Antonia, I must take Jasper for his walk. If you don’t mind, that is. It will be dark soon, and he hasn’t been out all day. Perhaps we can play later, after dinner.”

  She hesitated, as though reluctant that I should escape from her supervision. For a moment I thought she was about to offer to accompany me, but in the end she merely shrugged.

  “In that case, I shall make do with a few games of Miss Milligan. Perhaps I can get it to come out this time. See you get back before dark. I shall expect you for tea at the usual time.”

  I thanked her and hurried from the room before she changed her mind. Jasper was waiting impatiently in the kitchen. I slipped on my cape and gloves, and we set out at once.

  Despite its proximity to the folly, which I now feared more than ever, I had determined to visit the family graveyard Mrs. Johnson had spoken about. Jasper was in fine spirits, bounding and leaping ahead of me, sniffing quarry in every bush or heap of fallen leaves. The day was dull, with dark clouds and a threat of rain. As always, I scanned the sky for a sight of birds, but as always there were none. I had a good idea now why they stayed away from Barras Hall and its grounds.

  Giving the folly as wide a berth as possible, I found the path Mrs. Johnson had spoken of, its entrance partly hidden behind a curtain of holly bushes. Fearing he might take fright again, I secured Jasper by his makeshift lead and kept a close eye on his behavior. As we pushed our way along the path, blocked at frequent intervals by low-hanging branches and patches of straying undergrowth, he grew a little subdued, keeping very close to me and almost tangling himself at times in the hem of my skirts.

  It was dark here, much darker than in any other part of the grounds I had visited until now, partly because it was so low-lying, and partly because the vegetation had been allowed to grow wild, as though the path was little used. At one point I began to think I must have come the wrong way after all. Then I caught sight of a rusted iron fence running alongside the path among a riot of brambles and nettles. The ground at this point had once been paved, but the stones had long ago been displaced by weeds and wild grasses.

  At the bottom, I came to a low stone wall in which an iron gate was set between thick stone pillars. On top of each pillar, almost swallowed up by the ivy that had entwined itself about everything, stood some stone figures. I could not at first distinguish what they were, but after careful scrutiny I made out the forms of two small men, hooded like monks and leaning on twisted staffs. Their features had been eroded by the passage of time and disfigured by a mottled patina of yellow lichen. Something about them made me uneasy, and I noticed that Jasper had stuck his tail between his legs and was hanging back.

  I pushed the gate open with difficulty. There was no lock, but it was rusted and stuck fast at the bottom. I could only force an opening about a foot or a foot and a half wide, barely enough for me to squeeze through in my heavy clothes. Jasper hurried in after me, still huddling close to my side.

  All about me the ground was choked with weeds and grass tussocks broken by clumps of reeds. Here, the path was even more overgrown than previously, winding along almost invisibly through a dense thicket of trees. Passing through these, I came into an open area beyond which I could make out the distinct outlines of broken walls. Between me and the ruins lay a scattered array of graves and tombs, all in a state of obvious abandonment. Several of the tombs were monumental, each one marked off from the surrounding area by a high iron fence. At ground level, several of the gravestones leaned sideways at alarming angles, and quite a few lay flat, almost buried beneath a carpet of grass and weeds.

  Jasper whimpered, pressing his narrow body as close to mine as he was able. Ignoring him, I picked my way slowly along the path, past fallen urns and moss-covered angels with broken wings. It seemed even darker here than on the path outside, as though this deserted burial ground had little to do with daylight. It was the most desolate and mournful place I had ever set foot in. Phrases from the Bible flickered in and out of my consciousness, words of solace, offering resurrection and eternal life. I remembered the preacher intoning them at my father’s funeral. Here they seemed nothing but empty platitudes.

  But I had gone there to search for something, and I was determined to stay until I had discovered it or decided it was not there after all. My skirt and petticoats hampered my progress among the graves. Nevertheless I persevered at the cost of several rips to my dress, clearing away strands of ivy and brambles from one tombstone after the other. The earliest of the graves I uncovered dated back to the beginning of the eighteenth century.

  This was a sadly dilapidated monument bearing the names of Sir William and Lady Beatrice Ayrton, the dates of whose deaths were 1723 and 1725. Near it were three smaller tombs, each belonging to a daughter of William and Beatrice’s. I looked for Sir James Ayrton's resting place, but could not find it anywhere near those of his immediate relations.

  The
dead were for the most part members of the Ayrton family, though from time to time other names could be deciphered, in the majority of cases relatives by marriage. Toward the edge of the graveyard I found several constructions of more recent date: the tomb of Sir Percy and Lady Violet Ayrton, whom I took to be Anthony and Antonia’s grandparents, and that of Miles and Edwina, their parents.

  It was not far from there that I found what I had come for: Caroline’s grave, a modest mound with a tombstone that already showed signs of wear. The date of her death was that of her fifteenth birthday, the eighteenth of December, 1892. Seeing it written so coldly in stone like that, the date we both shared, a shudder passed through me.

  I had seen enough. Murmuring to Jasper, I turned to go. As I did so I caught sight of a largish tomb, set somewhat off from the others and until then concealed from view by a screen of tall juniper bushes. Though I had done what I had set out to do, I nonetheless felt myself drawn to this monument, with its classical outline and air of isolation. Why had it been built away from the others, for all that it was clearly the tomb of an important member of the family? It had started to grow dark. In my preoccupation with the search for Caroline’s grave, I had let the time slip away thoughtlessly. Now the sun had sunk close to the horizon, and the sky was rapidly losing its brightness. If I did not leave soon, I would be caught in this dreadful place without light. It did not bear thinking about. And yet I could not leave without first examining this final tomb.

  Hurrying, I fought my way through to it, my feet and clothes snared every few paces by thick tendrils of bramble. Even before I reached its walls, I had a good idea whose tomb it was. Its superficial resemblance to the folly was clue enough. And there, above a low, rusted door, I read the name, carved in square Roman letters into the stone: SIR JAMES STANDISH AYRTON, 1691-1779. Beneath this inscription was carved the Ayrton coat of arms, a tower flanked by two lilies, as on many of the other graves. But in this case, the shield was set in what is known as an achievement, topped by a helm and crest, backed by a mantling, and supported on either side. But where the supporters might conventionally have been lions or birds, here they consisted of two men in long, hooded tunics, the hoods concealing their faces, bent over and leaning on staffs. I was at once reminded of the figures I had seen atop the pillars guarding the entrance.

  Just beyond James’s tomb, as though radiating out from it, lay a row of low grass mounds without mark or favor, all heavily overgrown and in cases almost indistinguishable from their surroundings. I worked my way around to the side of the tomb, intending to cross that way toward the mounds, for I could see the traces of a path leading in their direction, and I was anxious to take a closer look.

  As I came level with the center of the monument beside me, I noticed with a shudder that part of the wall had broken away, leaving a wide, gaping aperture that must have opened directly into the heart of the tomb itself. Suddenly I saw Jasper stiffen with fear. A low growl issued from his throat. Watching him, I felt myself grow cold. For I could feel it, too, that dark, revolting sensation of another presence which I had experienced twice in my room and once outside the bathroom.

  I pulled Jasper to me, very close. His eyes were wide open, he was trembling, his gaze was fixed on the ragged opening in the side of the tomb. The next moment I felt as though a shadow had passed over me. I looked up.

  He was standing barely ten feet away, in front of me. An old, old man, very bent, his weight thrown onto a tall staff topped with a knob of silver. He wore eighteenth-century clothes, entirely black, pumps and stockings and a short coat, the expensive garb of a gentleman. His head was bald, save for some wispy strands of white hair, and the skin was stretched tight across the face and skull as though about to tear away from the bone beneath.

  I had begun to creep backward. My hand reached for the wall of the tomb for support when suddenly I felt something light brush my skirt. I thought it was a twig or branch and ignored it. I felt it again, more insistent this time. And then it touched my ankle. It was cold and dry, and it was wrapping itself about my leg.

  I screamed and pulled away. Simultaneously Jasper howled and made a lunge in the direction of the hole. The grip on my ankle was momentarily relaxed. I pulled away hard and stumbled back until I was well clear of the tomb. Jasper growled once, then dashed after me.

  CHAPTER 23

  I ran through the graveyard, stumbling among the thickening shadows, unaware what direction I was headed in, sure my mind was going. Instinct rather than sense must have led me to the gate. As I came level with it I heard a voice call my name. Terrified, I ran even faster, Jasper always at my heels. As I rounded a bend in the tangled path, I made out a Figure in front of me, blocking my way. I cried out in terror, then heard my name repeated and, looking, saw it was Mrs. Johnson. She was beckoning to me urgently, and shouting.

  I stumbled toward her, Jasper running behind me, through clumps of stinging nettles. Every step cost me a tremendous effort, as though I were fighting, not only with the snares that caught at my legs, but with a much greater force that was pulling me back all the time. It was like trying to run through mud. All the while, Mrs. Johnson stood calling my name and urging me to hurry, but she seemed reluctant to approach any nearer to the graveyard.

  Finally I reached her, sobbing and panting with the effort I had made.

  “Come away from here, Miss Charlotte. Whatever were you thinking of to come down here on your own? If I’d thought you’d be so foolish, I’d never have mentioned this place to you. Let me take you back to the hall before you catch a fever.”

  As we walked back I caught hold of her arm.

  “Who was he, Mrs. Johnson? That old man.”

  She looked at me sternly, but I could see that my words had frightened her.

  “What man?”

  I described the old man I had seen at James Ayrton’s tomb. Mrs. Johnson only shook her head.

  “No, miss, you must have been mistaken. There was no one there. No one at all.”

  I could get nothing more out of her. She fussed and worried over me, maintaining that the old graveyard was a place full of miasmatic vapors, its very air injurious to the health. My dress was in a dreadful mess, its hem covered with mud and torn in innumerable places.

  “It’s ruined, miss, it will hardly take patching. You’ll have to change into another. A good thing Miss Antonia has ordered fresh for you.”

  Hot water was brought to my room and a Fire lit. With my feet in a mustard bath and a towel around my hair, I was turned into a proper invalid. Mrs. Johnson prepared a bowl of hot mutton broth and insisted I drink it all. She instructed me on what to say to my cousin.

  “Whatever you do, miss, don’t let on to Miss Antonia that you’ve been down to the graveyard. She wouldn’t like to know that, it would only upset her. She has a mortal fear of that place. Say you strayed after your dog down by the river and came back here in a mess. And not a word about my going after you.”

  “How did you know I was there?”

  “Never mind. I found you. And a good thing, too.”

  A little later Antonia visited me, full of suppressed anger that was tempered only by concern lest I had injured myself. It seemed to be important to her that I should be kept in perfect health, for it was a topic to which she returned again and again. And yet I could not convince myself now that her inquiries had their origin in any genuine concern for my well-being. Discussing my state of health served some ulterior purpose, I thought, though I could not begin to guess what that might be.

  That night there was no weeping. I could not go to bed, for my thoughts were filled with horrors, and I could not shake off the image of the old man staring at me out of that bloodless, skull-like face. That it had been James Ayrton I did not for one moment doubt. But what he wanted from me I could not surmise. Nor did I like to think too hard about what had touched me at the tomb. Was it the same abomination that crept, in the stillness of the night, across the lawn to the house?

  Long after
midnight, I thought I heard a door close somewhere. There was a sound of light footsteps on the flags outside. I went to the window and peered out. Illuminated by the lamp she carried. Antonia was walking across the garden, dressed in her wedding gown.

  In a curious sense, fear had made me bolder. I was determined to get to the bottom of things. I was still dressed, and now, almost without thinking, I threw on my shawl and hurried out, carrying only a candle. By now I knew a shortcut to the back of the house down some little-used stairs that led to a small door originally built for the servants. I left the candle just inside to light my way on my return. Once in the garden, I got my bearings quickly. A good-sized moon had risen, and I found no difficulty in following the path I had seen Antonia take.

  She had gone on down through the woods, along a little track that led, I knew, to the folly. I dared not hurry for fear of making too much noise, but I thought that if I stuck to the path, I was bound to stumble on her. And by now I was convinced that the folly itself was her destination.

  In fact, I was mistaken. Between a clump of trees some five hundred yards before the building, I caught a glimmer of light. Approaching it, I saw Antonia in a small clearing, quite visible on account of the whiteness of her dress. I crept around the side of the clearing until I came to a tall holly bush, and from this vantage point I began to watch her.

  She was kneeling on the ground, her head bent, weeping softly. Just in front of her lay a moss-covered mound that seemed unpleasantly similar in size and shape to the unmarked graves I had seen near James Ayrton’s tomb that afternoon. I knew it could not be her daughter Caroline’s grave, for I had seen that, clearly marked, in the little churchyard. But as I watched her a suspicion lodged itself in my mind, a suspicion that by degrees grew to near certainty. She had brought a bunch of winter flowers with her and was arranging them at the head of the grave, and I thought I heard her murmur more than once the name Simon: her fiance’s name, which she had let slip inadvertently. He had not gone abroad after all, but had died and been buried here in a secret grave at Barras Hall. Died or . . . I dared not formulate the thought that now entered my head.