The Body at Auercliff (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

The woman screams, her voice ringing out through the darkness.

Stopping suddenly, I look back along the riverbank. All I see on this moonless night is the occasional ripple of light from the water, but I can hear footsteps trampling through the undergrowth, getting closer and closer.

And the scratching sound.

Always the scratching sound.

“Catherine!” a man's voice shouts. “Catherine, don't be a fool!”

Catherine?

Who's Catherine?

I should be scared, out here alone and unable to see anything, but instead I feel bold and curious. Making my way along the riverbank, I follow the sound of voices, until suddenly a patch of moonlight clears just in time to reveal a woman running out from the forest and dropping to her knees. Her dress is unfamiliar and old-fashioned, and her face is filled with fear and pain. In her hands, she's holding something pointed and shiny, and it takes a moment before I recognize the very same knife that I recovered earlier, except...

Except now the knife is clean and new, albeit stained with something dark.

Blood.

The woman stammers something under her breath, but I can make out not a word of it as she starts digging in the mud with her bare hands.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping closer.

Ignoring me, she tears big chunks of mud from the ground.

“Catherine!” the male voice shouts again. “For the love of God, where are you?”

Frantically, the woman takes the knife and pushes it down into the mud, forcing the handle deeper and deeper until the entire thing is out of sight. Then she starts filling the hole again, scooping mud into place until finally the job is done and she gets to her feet, stumbling back from the edge of the river. I feel a sense of great relief rushing from her soul, as if she hopes that something terrible and evil has finally been locked away forever. At the same time, I also feel pain and fear, and I can somehow tell that her mind is damaged.

“Catherine!”

Suddenly a man races out from between the trees and grabs her shoulders.

“Where is it, Catherine?” he asks, before shaking her so hard that she cries out. “In the name of all that is holy, Catherine, what have you done with it? And what did you do to Jonathan? He barely responds at all!”

Her sobbing reply is unintelligible, but the man holds her up even when she tries to sink down to her knees.

“Jonathan?” I whisper, recognizing the name. “Do you mean my grandfather?”

“Where is it?” he demands again, more firmly this time. “Catherine, this is not the time to let your weaker aspect show. What have you done with the blade?”

“Who are you?” I whisper, stepping closer. “What -”

Suddenly the man slaps her face hard, while still holding her up so that she can't collapse.

“Leave her alone!” I shout, hurrying toward them. “You can't -”

Stopping in my tracks, I realize that both the man and woman have disappeared in the blink of an eye. I can still hear the scratching sound, though, along with rustled, whispering voices. Turning, I feel certain that someone is nearby.

“Martin's worried you might be going cuckoo,” a woman says suddenly. “You know, dementia, something like that.”

“Rubbish!” another voice snaps.

“That's what I told him,” the first voice continues. “I told him thirty-nine-year-olds don't go around getting bloody dementia, but I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced.” The voice fades for a moment, the words becoming indistinct, before briefly returning. “You haven't been going all doolally on him, have you?”

“Martin?” I whisper, stepping toward the riverbank. “Who are you? Why are you talking about -”

Before I can get another word out, I feel a sudden, sharp pain in my gut, and I drop to my knees.

“Help me,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes tight shut. I hold my breath, hoping to stifle the pain, but if anything it's getting worse and worse. Finally, I drop onto my side, landing in the cold mud and then rolling onto my back as the pain threatens to make my entire body explode. I try to call out, but I feel so hot and clammy, I can barely move at all.

“Catherine!” a man's voice calls out again. “Catherine, stop!”

He sounds so desperate, as if he's fighting for life itself. I want to help, to rush over and make everything better, but I feel as if I'm drifting away from everything. Even Auercliff itself seems far in the distance, and I'm shocked to realize that my body seems detached from the world. I no longer feel mud soaking through my nightshirt, nor do I feel sweat on my face, and even the sensation of nausea has faded. I try to find my body again, to locate its mass of jumbled impulses somewhere in the muddle of my mind, but I'm lost.

“Please,” I whisper, trying not to panic, “I want to go home...”

“Verity,” another voice says suddenly, a familiar voice this time. “Verity, Doctor Farrah is coming, he'll be here soon. Daddy has called to the village. Be strong. Just hold on.”

“Where...” I whisper, but the effort is too much.

Suddenly I feel something being placed over my chest. A bed-sheet, perhaps. I try to open my eyes, but the effort takes too much out of me. I try again, and finally I see that I'm back in the room in the house's western wing, and my mother is leaning over me with tears in her eyes.

“Your fever has returned,” she tells me. “I think you shall have to go into hospital, but Doctor Farrah will decide.” She places a hand against my brow. “I shall fetch you some water.”

As she hurries away, I realize I can hear the scratching sound again, as if it's hanging in the air all around.

A moment later, I feel a hand taking mine. For a moment, crumbly soil seems to be running across my palm, but then the hand squeezes tighter.

“It's okay,” Martin's voice says, with a hint of fear. “You're going to be just fine, Verity, I know it. They'll take you into hospital and then you'll be back here at Auercliff before you know it. A silly little cut from an old knife shouldn't make you
this
sick, but the infection will pass, I promise.”

“I heard them!” I gasp through gritted teeth, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer. I can see the panic in his eyes, but I don't care. “There are ghosts here, Martin! I've seen them! I was down at the river, I saw the knife and...”

My voice trails off, and for a moment I feel terribly dizzy.

My heart is pounding so fast, it hurts.

“You probably shouldn't stress yourself,” he says after a moment. “Verity, please -”

“I'll come back,” I whisper, falling back against the sweat-soaked pillow as the scratching sound continues to fill my ears. Suddenly I feel as if the sound comes from fingernails scratching against the outside of a coffin, and I'm on the inside, waiting to be lowered into the ground. I'm going to die. “I'll prove it to you,” I gasp. “If I go, I'll come back one day, before you die. I'll appear to you and you'll see, and you'll know not to be scared. The scratching sound... Don't you hear it? I'll come back...”

“Don't talk like that,” he replies. “Verity, you're going to be fine. You're going to go into hospital so they can sort out this beastly infection, and then you'll be right as rain. Talk of anything more serious is just poppycock.”

He says something else, too, but his words are drowned out by the scratching sound, and by the frantic thumping of my heart.

“I'm...” Pausing as another burst of nausea fills my belly, I tell myself that he might be right. “I'll see you again,” I whisper, tasting my own sweat and tears on my lips. “I promise, Martin. I'll see you again.”

He squeezes my hand tighter than ever.

He says something, but I can't make it out at all.

“I'll see you again,” I stammer again, as the scratching sound gets louder. My heart is pounding so fast, I'm worried it might burst, and I can feel the rush of blood being forced through my veins. “I'll see you again,” I whimper, as my body starts trembling. “I'll be back. You'll see. I'm not going anywhere, I just...”

The scratching, rushing, pounding cacophony reaches fever pitch, drowning out any more words that might fall from my lips and drowning, too, anything that Martin says in return. I can still feel his hand gripping mine, and I'm dimly aware of a voice echoing in the distance. I know he's still here, and I know I'll find him again one day, but for now...

I let out one final gasp.

Suddenly the sounds stop.

No more more scratching.

No more pounding of my heart.

The rushing of blood continues for maybe half a second, and then that too ends.

My body falls completely, utterly still on the inside.

Silence.

Beautiful, terrifying silence.

There's a moment, just a brief, airless moment that persists in this silence. A snatch of realization, an understanding that my heart has stopped and that any sounds and sensations are coming from outside, as if someone is cradling my body. But in this moment of realization, I know with absolute certainty that I'm dead.

My body is completely still.

This sense persists for a second, maybe two, until finally I manage to open my eyes. But instead of seeing the ceiling of this little room in the western wing of Auercliff, I see a beautiful, brightly-lit chandelier, and I hear voices drifting through from a distant place.

My heart has stopped.

Part Five

Lady Catherine Switherington - 1851

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Catherine! Catherine, where are you?”

Kneeling in the library, with blood soaking through the fabric of my dress, I stare down at Matilda's body. She finally stopped wriggling and squirming a few minutes ago, and that frightful whimper faded from her lips. Now the only movement comes from the slowly-growing pool of blood that has almost reached as far as the piano.

“Catherine!” Charles calls out, finally reaching the doorway and stopping. “What are -”

He falls silent, but I don't look at him. I don't dare. Instead, I stare at the corpse for a moment longer, before glancing at the bloodied knife in my trembling right hand.

For the longest time, maybe two minutes or more, the only sound comes from the dripping blood that falls from the knife's blade.

“You shall have to deal with this,” I say finally, my voice trembling slightly. “You shall have to, Charles. You just... You must...”

“What in God's name have you done?” he asks, sounding utterly shocked.

I hear him stepping closer.

“Catherine? What have you done?”

“I know,” I whisper, before turning to him and seeing the horror in his eyes. “I know, Charles!”

“You know what?” he asks, stepping around Matilda's body, carefully avoiding the pool of blood.

“I know everything,” I continue, looking up at him with a slowly-rising sense of anger in my chest. Still, I am too exhausted to let the anger loose now. “I know what you were up to with this disgusting, loathsome little maid.”

I wait for a reply, but Charles simply reaches down and checks Matilda's wrist for a pulse.

“She's quite dead,” I tell him. “I made quite sure of that before I stopped stabbing her.” I pause, before using the knife's tip to nudge her belly, where a dozen bloody slits have been cut through the girl's dress. “The baby is dead too.”

I run the knife's blade through the blood, watching as the thick red liquid smears the metal.

“So not all of the blood is Matilda's,” I continue, forcing a smile. “Some of it will be from the baby, I imagine. I made absolutely sure that I wouldn't -”

“What have you done?” Charles yells suddenly, grabbing me by the shoulders and hauling me to my feet before slamming me against the wall with such force that I drop the knife. “What have you done?” he asks again, staring deep into my eyes with his face just inches from mine. “What... Catherine, in the name of all that's holy, what have you done here?”

“Can't you see?” I ask, and this time my smile is genuine. Seeing the shock in his eyes, I let the knife slip from my grasp, and a moment later it clatters against the wooden floor. “I killed your little whore,” I continue, “and the child that grew within her. I know what you were up to with her, Charles, and I also know that you were planning to send her away so she could give birth to the child in secret. And then what? Would you have sent money every month to keep it alive, and to keep her from blackening your good name? After all, the great Sir Charles Switherington can't be known as a philanderer and as a lover of dirty, common little sluts like -”

Suddenly he slaps the side of my face, causing me to turn and gasp.

I wait, but he says nothing. I can feel his hot breath on my neck, though, and for a moment it occurs to me that he might really hurt me.

“You say nothing,” I whisper, slowly turning back to him, “because there is nothing
to
say. You can't deny one word of my accusations. Tell me, though, there is one thing that I haven't yet determined... Precisely
when
did you start your dirty little affair with the girl? Was it last year, when you still worried I might not be able to provide you with an heir to Auercliff? Or was it
this
year, once Jonathan had been born and you found yourself suddenly no longer the focus of my attention?”

“You know nothing,” he sneers.

“And tell me, my dear, had you begun to consider alternative plans? After all, you
could
have decided to send me away from Auercliff with Jonathan, and to keep your little whore here alongside you.”

“Be quiet,” he says firmly. “Do not think for one moment that you know my thoughts.”

In the distance, Jonathan starts crying.

“It's just us in the house now,” I remind Charles. “That's probably a good thing, in a way, since it means there are no witnesses to this awful kerfuffle. Right now, the only ones who know what has happened are you and I. Well...” I glance down at Matilda's bloodied corpse. “I suppose
she
knows, in a way.”

Letting go of my shoulders, Charles takes a step back, while keeping his eyes fixed on me.

“What are you going to do?” I ask him.

I wait, but he seems too shocked to say another word.

“Are you going to bring the police here?” I continue. “Are you going to tell them that your wife has murdered your mistress? Think of the scandal, Charles. I'd be dragged away to prison, and you'd have to find a governess to raise Jonathan in my absence. I'm sure such an arrangement would suffice, but eventually Jonathan would be old enough to ask why his mother is not around. Oh, now wouldn't
that
be awkward?”

Again I wait, but again he offers no answer.

“Or are you going to help me hide the body?” I ask. “Auercliff has such huge gardens, it would be no trouble at all to dig a little hole and slip the corpse into the darkness. As for the girl's family, well, I believe she only has a brother... Just tell him that she left your employ, and that you know not where she has gone. It's not as if a group of peasants would have much recourse, anyway. What could her brother do to wring the truth from the mouth of the great Sir Charles Switherington?” I can't help grinning as I see the growing sense of horror in his eyes. “If I were you, I'd bury the harlot by the cherry tree. Last year's cherries were awfully anemic, so the tree could do with -”

“Silence!” he shouts suddenly.

“The cherries would grow so juicy if they were reinvigorated by -”

“Silence!”

He slaps me again, and this time I drop back down to my knees. The pain is intense, but for some reason I do not cry out. Instead, I find myself laughing, and to my surprise I am unable to stop. Leaning forward, I rest the palms of my hands against the bloodied floorboards, and still I cannot halt the seemingly endless stream of convulsions that now grip my form. Laughing loud and hard, I finally look up just as Charles steps back and slumps into one of the chairs. He looks so weak and frail now.

In the distance, Jonathan is still bawling.

“What's it to be?” I ask, still trembling on the floor. “Will you rid yourself of me, or will you bury the corpse? What's it to be, Charles? What is your decision?”

I wait, but he seems incapable of choosing.

Realizing that one of us must act, I force myself to my feet. I wait longer, hoping against hope that my husband will show some backbone, but he simply sits slumped in the chair, staring at Matilda's crumpled corpse.

“You must bury her, then,” I say finally, after a few silent minutes have passed. “You must bury her so deep, even her ghost shall have a mouth full of dirt.”