by Sarah Rayne
Who is this, knocks on my tomb?
Asks where and what I am,
Who is this who calls to me?
I cannot see nor hear.
One of the windows must be open because the thin old curtains were stirring as if something behind them was struggling to take shape. Maeve glanced at them uneasily, but she did not stop the tape.
I cannot see, I cannot hear
Who knocks upon my tomb.
I cannot speak, I cannot reach
The one stands by my tomb.
As the song reached the line about the one standing by the tomb, she heard the cry from Aunt Eifa’s room – a dreadful strangled cry, then a kind of dull crash. Maeve clenched her teeth, and stayed where she was.
The one stands by my tomb, my love,
Can never save me now.
For the sea will be my grave, my love,
And you will be my own.
The cry came again, but it was weaker now. The tape reached its end; it whirred for the last silent seconds, then stopped. There was no sound from the adjoining room. Maeve was shaking violently and she felt as if cold damp fingers had wound themselves round her neck and pressed against her throat. She sat like that for half an hour, waiting, listening. Surely, oh surely, it would be over now. Stupid, said a voice in her mind. You’ll have to go into that room eventually. You’ll have to know.
Despite her resolve, she was trembling so much she had to hold on to the furniture to get across the room, and it was still some time before she could enter her aunt’s room. She had no idea what she would do if the plan had not worked – if her aunt had not had a second stroke. It might be that the first one had not been brought about by hearing ‘Thaisa’s Song’ at all – it might have been coincidence.
But when she stepped into the room she saw at once that it was all right. Eifa Eynon was lying back on the pillows, one hand flung out as if she had been trying to reach for her stick, but the stick itself lying on the floor where it had fallen – that would have been the clatter Maeve heard. Her eyes were wide and staring. Maeve forced herself to feel at the neck and then the wrist for a pulse – she knew how to do that. There was nothing. She was sure of it. But she placed her hand over the left side of her aunt’s chest to see if there was a heartbeat. Again, nothing. One more test, thought Maeve, and held a small mirror against Eifa’s lips. If there was still breath – air – in the lungs, the mirror would mist. It did not. Maeve sat down in the chair by the bed, almost falling into it because her legs were about to give way. It’s all right, she thought. She’s gone. She’s dead. But I didn’t kill her, I really didn’t. All I did was play a piece of music. But because of that she’s dead and I’m free.
The doctor’s surgery was closed for the evening, so Maeve shut the door of her aunt’s room and sat in the music room, listening for a sound. She did not go to bed that night – she did not dare. Instead she remained in the music room, dozing occasionally before the fire, once getting up to make herself a cup of tea. Twice she stood outside her aunt’s door, pressing her ear to the wood. Had something moved then? Had there been a faint slither of the bedclothes? No, it was only the wind snatching at the trees outside.
At half past eight next morning she telephoned the surgery. Aunt Eifa had resisted having a phone in the house for a very long time, but Maeve had finally overruled her. She was glad she had done so.
The doctor’s receptionist asked how she could help, and Maeve said, ‘Could the doctor come out to Cliff House, as soon as possible, please? I think my aunt is dead – I think she died during the night, and I don’t know what I have to do.’
The doctor came half an hour later. Maeve left him in Aunt Eifa’s room, and when he came out he patted her shoulder and said they would have a cup of tea together. Over the tea he said she had been perfectly right and he was extremely sorry, but Miss Eynon was indeed dead. He thought she had been dead for several hours – that she had had a cerebrovascular accident – what doctors called a CVA – which had been fatal. Yes, in layman’s terms it could be called a stroke. It was very possible that she had had a smaller one at some previous date. Had there been any signs of weakness or tremor? Blurred vision? Difficulty with speech?
Maeve did not know what to say to this, so in the end she said she thought there might have been something of the kind a few years ago. Her aunt had been very dismissive of all illnesses, though, and she had never dwelled on any weaknesses. They had moved her bedroom downstairs a few years ago because she had troublesome arthritis in her knees and she found the stairs difficult. But she had not made a big thing of it.
The doctor nodded, and said it might have been an earlier, smaller stroke that had caused that problem, rather than arthritis.
‘Now then, Maeve, in some cases of sudden death a post mortem’s required,’ he said. ‘That’s if death is due to some illness that hasn’t been treated within the preceding two weeks or, more particularly, if the cause of death isn’t clear. But that’s not the case here. It’s perfectly obvious what killed Miss Eynon. Still, if you do want a post mortem, I can request one.’ But there was an unmistakable dismissive note in his voice, as if he was telling her it was not needed.
The idea of a post mortem frightened Maeve. Supposing they found something that made them question the diagnosis of a stroke? Supposing it was possible to tell if a person had died from fright? She pretended to think for a moment, then said she did not think her aunt would have wanted the fuss and upheaval of a post mortem.
‘So if you’re sure that’s all right—?’
‘I’m absolutely sure. I’m perfectly ready to sign the death certificate right away.’
The vicar asked, in a very kind way, whether Aunt Eifa was to be buried or cremated. What had her wishes been?
‘I don’t know,’ said Maeve, who had not thought about this. ‘But she was rather old-fashioned. I think she would have preferred a traditional burial. Can you do that, please?’
‘Of course.’
Eifa Eynon was buried in the new cemetery on a weeping grey morning. The cemetery was quite a long way from Rede Abbas; Maeve would probably not be able to travel there very often.
But it could not matter to Eifa Eynon where – or how – she was buried.
Everyone said Maeve was very brave. It was a shocking thing for such a young girl to be suddenly left alone in the world, but presumably she would not be penniless. Old Miss Eynon had most likely had a nice bit of money tucked away in the bank. And the girl could sell Cliff House. It was quite run down and it was too near to the coastal erosion area for most people’s liking, but she would get a fair price for it and she could move somewhere smaller.
Maeve had no intention of selling Cliff House. She did not want to move anywhere. She wanted to stay with Andrew and the memories. But the doctor had said and the vicar had agreed that she must see if her aunt had left a will. The doctor introduced her to a solicitor in Rede Abbas. The solicitor said it was almost certain that, as the only relative, Maeve would inherit everything anyway, but it would make things easier if there was a will. If he had that, he could apply for probate, and Cliff House could be transferred to Maeve. It was a good thing she was eighteen, because that meant she could own the place in her own right. Otherwise, a trust would have had to be created for her. It sounded very complicated to Maeve, but clearly it would be less complicated if there was a will, so a search had to be made.
Aunt Eifa’s papers were stored in an old desk, which had been locked ever since Maeve could remember. She had no idea where the key was, and if her aunt had ever told her, she did not remember. But the desk was the likeliest place for a will, so she hunted for the key. She searched one room each day, and it took a very long time, but no key turned up. By now it was three weeks since the funeral, and the solicitor had phoned a few days ago, asking what was happening. Maeve gave up the search for the key and forced the desk open with a kitchen spatula. It splintered the wood slightly, but it could not be helped and she did not think the
desk was especially valuable.
Eifa had made a will. Of course she had. Maeve thought she would have considered it untidy and irresponsible not to have done so. It was inside an envelope marked, ‘Will: Eifa Eynon’. It was handwritten and it did not look very official, and Maeve flattened it out to read, trying not to compare the clear, vigorous script to the angry semi-formed scribbles of the last four years.
The will was very short, but quite clear. It said that everything of which Eifa Eynon died possessed was left to her niece, Maeve, who lived with her at Cliff House. The address followed in full, then there was Eifa’s signature and the date. It was as simple as that, and Maeve thought it was enough for the house to become hers.
But slotted in with the will was an envelope, addressed to Maeve, also in Aunt Eifa’s writing. As Maeve opened the envelope and drew out the two sheets of paper inside it, the room suddenly seemed very quiet and still. I don’t want to read this, she thought. I think I’ll have to, but I think it’s going to be something I’ll wish I hadn’t seen.
‘You will find this, Maeve,’ Eifa Eynon had written, ‘a long way in the future. I hope it will be a very long way.
‘My will is in this desk – and, if you are reading this, you will have found it. You know where it is anyway, because I told you. I told you where the key of the desk is, so I have no fears this will not be found.’
But she didn’t tell me, thought Maeve. She must have meant to, or she thought she had done it and forgot. Or did I forget?
‘The will is one I wrote for myself, using a form from the post office,’ Eifa wrote. ‘I had no intention of paying a solicitor to perform such a simple task, and things are quite straightforward.
‘Cliff House and any money I have when I die is to come to you. There is, though, a request I make, and it is a very serious and solemn one.
‘Our family has a flaw. Not a sickness, exactly – perhaps a taint. There have been a number of words for it down the centuries, but I believe the medical term is catalepsy. It means a very deep coma, which resembles death; it has been said that it mimics death, and that it mimics death so exactly that it can deceive doctors. Several of our ancestors suffered from it and were found to have been put in their graves alive. I do not know the details and I do not know where the taint originated, but the stories are handed down, and I believe them to be true …
‘No, that is an understatement. I know them to be true. For that reason I am telling you what happened on the night before my mother’s funeral.’
Maeve turned reluctantly to the second sheet of the letter.
‘My mother left instructions for me, in the same way I am doing for you, Maeve,’ Eifa wrote. ‘But her instructions for me were different, because that was a different world. She was born in the 1890s, and in those days people did not deal with sickness as we do now. The rich consulted doctors, but people in villages like Rede Abbas seldom did – often because they could not afford to, frequently because they were afraid of them, sometimes because they did not trust them. My mother had lived in this village all her life – she had no real knowledge of medicine, other than homely, handed-down knowledge – indeed she had very little knowledge of the world beyond Rede Abbas. She thought of doctors as people far above her, to be ranked alongside the vicar, even the squire. Oh yes, Maeve, in my mother’s day there were still squires, and people tugged their forelocks to them. Even in my day there was old Squire Glaum, the last of his line, rattling around Glaum Manor alone. I remember people saying, after he died, that at least he had not lived to see his family home despoiled and bulldozed to dust.
‘But my mother knew about the taint in our family and she feared it very much. She regarded it as deeply shameful, something about which no one must know. When she became ill, believing she was dying, she told me that when she died her body must be left overnight in the church. Before the funeral and the burial I must open the coffin secretly, to make sure she had not woken. If I had any suspicion at all that she might not be dead, I must prevent the burial. I had to promise – she made me fetch her Bible and promise with my hand on its cover.
‘I was seventeen, innocent and naïve. Like my mother, I had never left Rede Abbas. There were only the two of us – my father had died when I was very small – and it did not occur to me to question anything she said. It certainly did not occur to me to suggest we enlist the help or the advice of a doctor. In fact, the nearest doctor was in St Mary Abbas and I had only ever seen him once.
‘So I did what she asked. I asked for her coffin to lie in the church before the funeral, and that night, very late, I crept out of this house and stole along to the church. I had no idea what I should find, or how I would know if she were dead, but I had promised on the Holy Bible to open the coffin, and I would keep that promise.
‘Removing the coffin lid was far more difficult than I had expected. St Mary’s is an old church and, although I am not a fanciful woman, as I worked, loosening the screws, I could have believed that eyes watched me from the shadows.
‘Even when the screws were all out, the lid would not budge, so I used a thin-bladed chisel to lever it up. That was even more difficult – it’s possible that some form of carpenter’s glue had been used; but in the end I managed it and I lifted the lid clear.
‘She lay as I had seen her when they carried her from the house – pale and still, her hands crossed on her breast, her eyes closed. I remember I stared down at her, and thought – I think it’s all right. No one who lives could look so remote. I can leave her in peace. I reached for the lid, which I had propped against the bier, intending to replace it as neatly as possible.
‘Two things happened.
‘A dull, menacing sound seemed to shiver on the air – a rhythmic beating, a coppery sound, almost like a monstrous bronze heartbeat. It struck terror into me, for I guessed it to be the old, dead bell, out on the cliffside.
‘My image of a massive heartbeat seemed to have been a true one, because after a few moments a tremor passed over my mother’s face, and her eyes opened.
‘She stared straight up at me, but the dreadful thing – the thing I have remembered all these years – is the stark and mindless terror in her expression. There was no recognition – no understanding of who I was or that I was about to rescue her; but if she had known she was nailed into her coffin, it would account for the terror and the – I must write it – the stark madness that held her.
‘Her hands came up to me, curved like an animal’s claws, and raked at my face. Her nails dug into my skin and I flinched and tried to draw back, but it was already too late – both her hands had seized my throat and closed tightly around it. I have wondered since what she was seeing – whether she was seeing a denizen of some dreadful after-life bending over her, and was determined to fight it off.
‘The pressure of those fingers on my throat was unbearable. Blood pounded agonizingly in my head, and darkness shot with livid crimson streaks closed over me. I struggled to get free, but she had the strength of real insanity, and I could not prize her fingers off. My own hands, flailing blindly, pushed at her and one of them closed around the chisel I had used to lever off the lid.
‘What happened next was instinctive, entirely without intention, and has haunted me for my entire life.
‘I grabbed the chisel and struck out at her with it. I can hardly bear to write it, but it is what happened – it is as clear in my mind as it was the night it happened.
‘The chisel went into her. She let out a bubbling cry of pain or fear, or both, and the throttling grip relaxed at once. I fell back, gasping for breath, feeling air rush gratefully into my lungs. It was some moments before I could stand sufficiently straight to look into the coffin again, and this time I knew there could not possibly be any doubt. The chisel had entered her throat – it had dug straight into her windpipe and thick dark blood had poured out. But it was already drying and darkening, that blood; it lay in clotted pools around her neck. Her head had fallen back, the eyes open and star
ing. She was as dead as last week’s mutton. And I had murdered her.
‘I closed the coffin and replaced the screws and nails. Then I went back to Cliff House and the funeral and burial took place the next day. I was there. I prayed and joined in the hymns, and I stood by the graveside as the coffin was lowered into the ground. And no one ever knew what had happened.
‘But now you understand why I have lived the life of a recluse, why I have kept the world away from this house, and why I have never sold it. I could never risk anyone looking into the family’s background – looking into papers, title deeds, land transfers – finding old letters, references to our ancestors, anything that might bring the taint to light, and that might, as a result, lead back to what I did. People are curious. They ask questions – they uncover truths and lies and secrets.
‘So I ask you to do all you can to preserve the secret of what I did. The world has changed a good deal since I committed that murder, but I do not think the world – any world – will ever look kindly on a young woman who was brought up by a murderess.
‘There is one more thing.
‘It is almost certain that doctors these days can no longer make the mistake of pronouncing death where death has not occurred. It is probable that by the time I die they will have better tests, better knowledge, and that our family’s strange flaw will be recognized, and no more tragedies will occur.
‘But that is something else I dare not risk.
‘If – when – I die, you must ensure the doctors use all their knowledge to make certain that I am dead, that it is not the family taint. If you have to, you must explain about the taint. Ask for tests to be made. I read there are certain procedures now – something to do with provoking responses from the throat, also the eyes. I do not know the details, but doctors will know.
