by Neil Jackson
This state of affairs had continued after Deacon’s return to Aldwark and his new, official position on the museum staff. The only difference now was that he seemed unconcerned by the continuing reports of sightings, considering them a part of background noise at the museum which barely impinged on his consciousness.
All that changed on that warm spring afternoon six months after his arrival.
My amused expression as I regarded him across the checked cloth, tea and cakes did little to distract my friend from his excited chatter.
“I honestly thought you were all having me on you know, all those years of stories and apparent sightings and I never saw a single thing. I just thought that it had started as a joke and then no one had the courage to admit it was all a creation…” he shook his head with a wry smile as he took a long draft of hot tea.
“...until today.” He stared into his cup for a moment. “I was sat at my desk, not doing anything really, just staring out of the window towards the old house in the park behind the museum, you know, the Fawcett town house. Looking at the daffodils and generally feeling very pleased about the way things had turned out. You know, with the job and coming back to Aldwark. It is everything I ever wanted, everything I dreamed about from the first time I stepped into that museum. And now it is all mine.”
He looked up a little self-consciously. “Sorry, that sounds a little smug and I’m rambling as well. Anyway, I was sat looking out across the park and I heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs. I thought perhaps you had arrived a little early and so I rose and went to the door to greet you.”
His was looking into the distance over my shoulder as he recounted the encounter. “I was stood just inside the door and was about to move onto the landing but was momentarily distracted by a tray of finds that had been delivered by the curator earlier this morning. Most of it was the normal rubbish that people bring in from their walks but on top was a large sherd of Samian and I was about to pick it up and show it to you when she walked right past the door. She was so close that if I had had my wits about me I could have reached out and touched her.”
He shook his head in a slightly dazed fashion as if the memory of the apparition had physically stunned him. “I don’t quite know what happened to me. It was so unexpected. I didn’t move, didn’t say a word. I just watched as she drifted past and continued up the stairs to the next floor.”
“Drifted?” I remarked on his choice of words. “Was she floating then, could you see her feet?”
“Oh no, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words given the circumstances. No, she was walking just like you and I except...except of course neither you nor I could ever walk in such a graceful manner. Such modes of locomotion are reserved only for the fairer sex. She glided across the floor like an angel or...well yes a ghost I suppose but that wasn’t it. It was just that she trod that landing so gracefully, the way that only a girl of perfect bearing could tread. With only the softest pad of her step as if she were barefoot. Such grace, such poise. Truly she is not a ghost but an angel.”
Deacon’s rapt expression showed he had been touched far more than I would have expected by the vision on the stairs. He had always struck me as a somewhat overly romantic fellow but this reaction seemed far more extreme than I would have expected. I felt a momentary twinge of concern for the archaeologist but dismissed it almost immediately as I considered that, in all the years that Maud had been haunting the museum, not once had any harm befallen anyone who had encountered her.
“Did you see her face?” I enquired.
“No, no, she had her head turned away from me all the time and by the time I got my wits back she had already climbed to the second floor. I went after her, right to the very top of the building but...well, you know the story as well as I. There was no sign of her. She climbed the stairs and disappeared.”
I smiled warmly at him. “Of course you realise this is the end of an era don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were almost famous at the museum. Didn’t you know? They were still talking about you even before you came back to work here; the only person never to have seen the girl on the stairs. Now that you have finally seen her we will have to consign that particular tale to the archives.”
Deacon smiled briefly at the thought but then returned immediately to his subject. “Who is she Doctor?” he asked earnestly. “What happened to her and why is she condemned to climb those stairs for all eternity?”
“Well, I’m not sure about all eternity Matthew,” I laughed indulgently, “after all she has only been seen for the last century or so.”
He ignored my attempts at a joke. “But someone must know something about her. She has been seen by almost everyone at the museum, surely someone must have done some research to find out who she was?”
I shook my head and finished the last of my tea. “Not that I am aware of. I know old Sullivan did a cursory examination of the archives many years ago when he first came to the museum, but I gather that when he found nothing he returned to more interesting subjects and decided it was just one of those mysteries that was destined never to be solved.”
My companion looked shocked at this, almost scornful. “How can anyone think that this isn’t interesting? This is fascinating, it is a genuine mystery and I am sure there must be some explanation. If she is a ghost then she has to have been a living person once. There must be records somewhere of what happened to her. All I need to do is look hard enough. I will find out who she was. I must.”
I had thought to try to dissuade the young man from becoming too immersed in this mystery. No good could come of such an obsessive quest and I did not doubt that it was in the nature of the archaeologist with his notions of romantic honour to pursue this search to the detriment of all other tasks.
I should have said something then, I see that now. It is an omission that will haunt me every single day for the rest of my life. But for some reason at that moment I chose to keep my own council. Perhaps it was his forthright determination, perhaps, conversely, the thought that it was something that would pass after a few days of failure. And if he did succeed, well, I would be just as interested as the next man in finally hearing the true story of the girl on the stairs.
And so I said nothing more on the subject. We discussed a few other topics of mutual interest involving the museum and acquaintances around the town but it was clear that the act of revealing his encounter with the ghost and the subsequent statements of intent had served to crystallise Matthew Deacon’s determination, to focus his mind upon the task at hand and so, in short order, we parted with declarations of mutual friendship and promises to meet again the following week for further discussion over tea and cakes.
2
We did indeed meet the following week, although my friend seemed distracted during our afternoon tea and it was clear that he could raise little enthusiasm for our normal discourse. Mindful of his intense interest in the supernatural inhabitant of the stairwell I had thought that perhaps this would be the sole topic of conversation but for the first twenty minutes or so he made no mention of his researches and much of the time seemed more interested in the contents of his teacup than in his companion sat across the small table.
Eventually I decided that the only way to salvage something of the afternoon was to raise the subject myself. I hoped this might provoke a more forthright response but, even on this most topical of subjects his responses were at best half hearted and it was left to me to carry the conversation as best I could while he limited himself to single word replies and long, thoughtful silences. Under the circumstances it was almost a relief when he declared, upon the hour, that he must return to his office and continue his work.
Over the next month or so our contact was slight. Deacon seemed completely engrossed in his research, the subject of which was by now clear to everyone in the museum. I decided against inviting him out for tea again and instead limited myself to visits t
o his laboratory where I could attempt to engage in conversation whilst he continued his enquiries amongst the books and papers he had secured from the archives and the local library. My initial concern that he might be neglecting his other work and so put his position at risk with regard to the directors of the museum and the town corporation, proved ill founded as it seemed he was quite capable of undertaking both his paid employ and his own private researches at the same time to the detriment of neither. But it was also clear from his comments and general demeanor, his short-tempered replies and spontaneous declarations of disgust that he was having no success in his quest to identify the mysterious girl.
Try as he might, Deacon could find no record of events or persons that might account for the apparition. No stories of Georgian feuds ending, as they invariably did, in the murder of those most innocent. No tales of unrequited Victorian love whose final act was the tragic demise by terminal self harm of the rejected maiden, cast aside and ruined by a callous ‘gentleman’. No Edwardian crimes of passion whose epilogue was a short walk to the gallows on a frosty autumn morn for a man who had already consigned his wife to her eternal rest. Not even a wartime melodrama, played out against a backdrop of blackout curtains and rousing Churchillian speeches, making liberal use of arsenic or cyanide to bring matters to an abrupt and fatal conclusion. No crimes, no accidents, no history of any kind. For all his many hours of research in the box files and journals, the books and diaries that filled the dimly lit attic spaces of the museum, Deacon could find nothing that could help in his quest to identify the ghostly girl who had started to form the focus of a dangerous obsession.
Just how dangerous we would not realise until it was far too late.
Had Deacon’s obsession limited itself to his vain attempts to uncover the corporeal origins of the ghostly girl then it is possible that things may have resolved themselves in something less than tragedy. It was certainly the case that the longer he delved into the archives the more he neglected his other researches and the work for which he was handsomely paid. It is also inevitable that, had things continued along this path then, matters may well have reached the point where his employers took an unhealthy interest in his activities. But for now, perhaps unfortunately given the eventual outcome, the rest of the staff endeavoured to ensure that any lapses or mistakes on the part of their archaeologist were dealt with promptly before they gave rise to comment or complaint.
But it was not in Matthew Deacon’s nature to hammer away at a problem forever without resolution. Equally it was most certainly not in his nature to abandon a task when he was so sure that it could be resolved to his satisfaction if only he could approach it in the right manner. And this was a task to which he had set his whole heart and soul over these last few months. Though I did not know it at the time, he therefore concluded that his continuing investigations amongst the parchments and papers of half a dozen institutions in the town would bring no satisfactory conclusion to his enquiries and so, after one last fruitless examination of the church records, he decided to embark upon another, more direct course of action.
We had last met at the museum in mid July when he had railed at great length against the poor state of the archives and the thoughtlessness of long dead diarists who had seen fit to ignore the tragic death of a girl so young and innocent. Where exactly he got these ideas from is not clear to me and seemed to be more the results of a fevered brain than any annotated research. As a result, before the afternoon had drawn to a close, I found myself arguing more forcefully than ever before that the archaeologist should take a step back from his obsessive enquiries and adopt a more measured attitude to what was, after all, a perfectly harmless phenomena that had been in existence since long before either of us had first entered the museum and which was almost inevitably bound to continue long after we had left this life. Hoping to lighten the atmosphere I might even have attempted a joke along the lines that we would surely find the answer to all these questions when we had joined the young lady in the afterlife but that I was content that such a resolution would be many, many years hence.
My comments, it seems, were ill judged and only served to inflame my friend’s passions on the subject. Consequently, whilst no physical assault was made, I was forced to withdraw from the laboratory without further reconciliation in the face of a most forthright and brutal verbal assault on my character. I will admit that as a result I decided to wash my hands of the matter for some days but, as is my nature in these advancing years, I quickly forgot the slight hurt that had been caused by Deacon’s rash accusations and resolved that the best way to bring matters to a respectable and satisfactory conclusion was to attempt to aid him in his researches to the best of my ability. At least in such circumstances I would be able to maintain some slight control over matters and reassure myself that young Matthew was not further endangering his position at the museum or his physical well being.
Little did I know that he had already embarked upon his foolhardy plan and that it was already far too late for me to restore him to his former state of mental stability. In any event, I only had a single, all too brief meeting with my increasingly distant young friend after he made his fateful decision.
I had not seen him for perhaps six weeks and, as a result of consulting with his colleagues at the museum and those few, close relatives with whom he would occasionally correspond, I was becoming increasingly concerned at the state of both his physical and mental health. Each time I had attempted to see him at his laboratory I was informed that he was either absent or unavailable to receive visitors. Phone calls were redirected to the museum switchboard and, although the operator was almost painfully keen to help, Deacon adamantly refused to take calls and all messages requesting he contact me went unanswered. After a fortnight or so I resorted to writing to my friend, setting out my concerns as clearly and a forcefully as I could and pleading for an audience at the earliest possible opportunity.
Still there was no response.
Although I could not give up entirely on my friend, I had reached the conclusion that, short of physically forcing my way into his presence - an option that, given my advancing years, was impractical as well as unsavoury – I had no choice but to accept that, for now at least, I could do no more to help him. Although I sat on the museum board of friends and maintained an active participation in the Aldwark Archaeology and Local History Society, I held no official position with regard to the museum and could only enter the private offices upon specific invitation.
The solution to my problem, at least of a sort, came in the form of an approach from the directors of the museum. A letter arrived at my town house one Saturday afternoon asking that, if I could spare the time, I should attend a meeting at the museum that evening to discuss a matter of some delicacy. No further information was given in the missive but it was signed on the behalf of the three directors and it was with they that I was to have the meeting. Under the circumstances it seemed clear that there was only one likely topic of conversation.
On a warm summer evening in the dying days of August, with the air sweet with the scent of honeysuckle along Church Walk, I approached the museum with a combination of relief and trepidation. It was a matter of great satisfaction to me that I should at last have some means of approaching Deacon and ascertaining his state of mind. At the same time I was concerned that matters should have come to such a juncture that the directors of the museum had become involved, a situation that could only prove harmful to the archaeologist’s long term employment prospects.
In the event the meeting, though brief, was relaxed and friendly. All three directors were old acquaintances and all knew of my affection for the young archaeologist. It was for this reason that they had called upon me for assistance. Though they chose not to reveal any great detail, they admitted that the museum had suffered greatly over recent weeks as Deacon had withdrawn to his laboratory and had failed to carry out any of the regular tasks assigned to his position. They realized that the other members of staff
had been attempting to conceal the problems and considered that this was admirable, if misplaced loyalty for which there would be no recriminations. But once they had gained some notion of the nature of the affliction that had so altered the behaviour of their promising young employee they had decided that, in the manner of such establishments ‘something must be done’.
It appeared that that ‘something’ was my good self.
They had called me to the museum that late summer evening in the hope that I would go straight away to the laboratory and speak with Matthew Deacon; explain the gravity of the situation to him, seek to gain some idea of his state of mind, perhaps persuade him to take a few weeks leave of absence from the museum, on full pay of course. In short they sought my good advice in the hope that this might convince the obsessive archaeologist that things could not go on as they were. Something – as the phrase was once again repeated to me – must be done.
I realised, of course, that these gentlemen must be unaware of the breech in friendship that had occurred between Deacon and myself at our last meeting but I also knew that this was not the time to raise the point. I had been offered the opportunity I had been seeking for many weeks and would not now set it aside for the sake of an unspoken white lie. I agreed without hesitation to their proposal and left the director’s private offices in the museum en route for the laboratory and a commission to save the career and, quite possibly, the sanity of my young friend.
3
Entering the stairwell and ascending to the first floor I was quite unprepared for the scene that greeted me as I stood at the door to the laboratory. What had previously been a well ordered and organised place of research and restoration was now little more than a midden. The structure of the room has been rearranged in such a radical and unconventional manner as to make it almost impossible for its occupant to carry out any of his prescribed tasks. The huge wooden bench, which had dominated the centre of the room since for longer than I could remember and which had held all the equipment, glassware and chemical tanks necessary for the conservation of the most fragile artefacts, was now resting crookedly against the far wall under the tall shutterless windows. Though it was now mid evening and the sun had passed from the sky, it was clear that its shrivelling heat had already done irreparable damage to a delicate fragment of medieval tapestry that Deacon had been charged with preserving and even from the door I could almost see the colours fading from the cloth as it lay unnoticed and forgotten on the worktop.
