The Lie Tree (22 page)

‘Please, Uncle Miles!’ Faith interrupted. ‘I
do
want to know the details!’

Uncle Miles looked surprised at her outburst, but gave a small shrug of surrender. ‘Sometimes when there is a sudden death . . . and things do not look quite natural . . . the magistrate
gives the parish constable permission to summon a coroner, who investigates. At the inquest the coroner decides upon the cause of death, with the help of a jury of twenty-three local men. In this
case, the coroner will be Dr Jacklers.’

‘So Dr Jacklers will be investigating, and will be the final judge,’ said Myrtle, her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know, Miles, I believe I am really
quite
ill. I shall need
to send for the doctor tomorrow – when I am looking a little better.’

‘Doctor’s fees? On top of everything else?’ Uncle Miles frowned and exhaled. ‘No, Myrtle old girl. I must put my foot down. At this rate you will burn through all our
money.’

‘
Put your foot down?
’ Myrtle interrupted sharply. ‘
Our
money? The money is not yours, Miles. As usual,
none
of the money spent has been
yours.’

Uncle Miles coloured and frowned. ‘That brings me to something else I wanted to discuss,’ he said.

There was a thunder-heavy pause. Uncle Miles gave Faith a fleeting glance, and after a moment Myrtle did the same.

‘Faith,’ said Myrtle, ‘could you . . .’ She trailed off, and waved one hand wearily.

‘I shall go and read my catechism,’ Faith said swiftly, and meekly left the room.

Listening at a door on a twisting landing always has its perils. Anybody might open their door and emerge. Somebody might arrive from either of the two staircases and discover one kneeling
there. It was hard to focus on the sounds beyond the door, and stay alert for approaching steps at the same time.

Now and then it was worth it, however. Faith bit her lip and gently pressed her ear to the keyhole.

‘Myrtle,’ Uncle Miles was saying, ‘you need to consider your position. I know what you have been trying to do all this time – how careful you have been with appearances
– and it was a valiant effort, but
it has not worked.
The cat is out of the bag. What do you intend to tell the inquest if you are called to testify?’

‘I shall tell them exactly what I said before,’ answered Myrtle firmly. ‘My dear husband had a very tragic accident.’

‘You understand the danger if the truth comes out?’ Uncle Miles cleared his throat. ‘If things . . . come to the worst, I shall do everything I can for you . . . but right now
you must follow my advice.’

‘What
are
you advising, Miles?’ asked Myrtle suspiciously.

‘You must give me all the money you still have, and as many of Erasmus’s possessions as possible. We will pretend that they were mine all along – or that he gave them to
me.’

‘I see!’ Myrtle’s voice was icy. ‘So that is where this conversation is twisting!’

Faith was angry but bewildered. What was the ‘danger’ her uncle was talking about? Why was he demanding all of her father’s possessions?

‘It is the only sensible course!’ Uncle Miles sounded tired but kind. ‘You must see that! However much Dr Jacklers admires you, he cannot ignore evidence. Prythe will not lie
under oath; he told us as much.’

‘No,’ Myrtle said slowly, ‘but
you
could.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘
You
could testify.
You
could tell them that you found Erasmus in the dell.’

‘You are asking me to perjure myself?’

‘You know what is at stake.’

There was a long pause.

‘No, Myrtle,’ said Uncle Miles at last. ‘Unless you are willing to do what I have asked . . . I am afraid I cannot bring myself to do what
you
ask.’ He gave a
sigh of infinite abused patience. ‘Well . . . at least let me look after your husband’s live specimens to stop them dying from neglect. I should probably have a glance through his
papers as well. I meant to examine them for you yesterday, but could not find them anywhere.’

Faith tensed, feeling her jaw clench. No! She could not let her uncle take charge of the Lie Tree or her precious snake! And the journal and vision sketches must never be seen by anyone but
herself. In fact, it hurt to think of handing over any of her father’s papers. They were a genie bottle, holding her father’s thoughts, voice and secrets, and they were hers. She was
their guardian.

‘Miles.’ Myrtle’s voice was knife-sharp. ‘Why are you suddenly so interested in Erasmus’s papers and specimens? You cannot abide responsibility – it brings
you out in a rash. When did you become so eager to trudge through paperwork and adopt an incontinent wombat?’

‘Well . . . the flora and fauna need the right treatment, and there might be important matters among the papers requiring immediate action! Debts. Assets. Deeds. Obligations. Appointments,
or . . . or even a will.’

‘Have you become a zookeeper and a lawyer since breakfast?’ asked Myrtle.

‘Myrtle, this is childish!’ Uncle Miles’s voice was uncharacteristically agitated. ‘You and I both know that you have no chance whatsoever of making sense of
Erasmus’s papers! You
must
let me look at them!’

‘Where were you all day?’ Myrtle’s voice now had a hard edge of suspicion. ‘You cannot have spent six hours being turned down by the magistrate. Who else did you speak
with? What have you heard? Miles, I
know
you.’

There was a pause.

‘You are . . . not thinking straight, Myrtle.’ Uncle Miles sounded calmer, but as if his calmness was costing him effort. ‘It is . . . my fault. I should not have raised these
subjects when your nerves were overwrought—’

‘Oh, do not speak to me that way!’ spat Myrtle. ‘I am
not
nervous, Miles! I am
not
overwrought! And I am
not
surrendering, not yet! I shall stay on
Vane and fight until Erasmus is respectably buried—’

‘How?’ asked Uncle Miles, his tone hardening. ‘How will you stay here? How much money do you have left in Vane? How soon will you have to pay rent on the house, and the
servants’ wages? How long before we cannot order food for the household?’

There was a long pause.

‘I thought as much.’ Uncle Miles’s chair creaked as he stood. ‘Think about passing Erasmus’s effects over to me, Myrtle. I know you will do the sensible thing in
the end. But do not leave it too long.’

Faith heard her uncle’s chair scrape, and left her place by the door, scampering back to her room.

For a moment she wished that she could un-hear the conversation. She did not fully understand it, but the whole thing sounded ominous, like a squabble between conspirators. She had dug down and
broken into yet another vein of secrets.

Faith had barely returned to her own room when she received a summons to her mother’s chamber.

‘Faith, close the door behind you and sit down. Tell me – are your father’s papers somewhere safe?’

It was the phrasing that undid Faith. Not ‘Did you hide the papers?’ but ‘Did you hide them well?’

Rapidly she weighed her options. She could deny all knowledge of the papers’ whereabouts, but Myrtle knew that they had vanished while Faith was alone with them. If Faith’s room was
searched in good earnest, the papers might be found in the snake cage.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seemed the best—’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Myrtle cut her short. ‘Good girl. Will you fetch them for me, please?’

No. Never.

‘I . . .’ Faith fought to keep her face placid as her mind raced. ‘I can bring them to you . . . but a lot of them are in Greek, or written in the codes Father used for his
notes.
I
can translate them, but it is not easy—’

‘Oh, save us! Greek?’ Myrtle gave a little groan and a despairing shudder. ‘That is no use then.
You
will have to read them for me. Let me know what you discover. And
let nobody know that you have them. Your uncle will probably ask after them – tell him nothing without my permission.’

‘What does he want with them?’ enquired Faith, glad of the chance to ask the question.

‘I do not know,’ answered Myrtle, ‘but I know my brother. He has excellent qualities, but in his dear, gentle way he is
always
looking to gain as much as he can, for
as little effort as possible.’

Faith took a moment, trying to align this description with her cheerful, mild-tempered uncle. After her latest bout of eavesdropping, this was easier than it had been.

‘Did you see any papers that might be worth money?’ Myrtle asked abruptly. ‘A letter of credit, a will, an IOU or anything of that sort?’

‘No.’ Faith watched her mother, marvelling at her matter-of-factness.

‘If your uncle is interested, there
must
be something valuable.’ Myrtle bit her lip acquisitively. When Faith left the room, Myrtle was twisting the rings on her fingers and
looking speculatively towards the fashion plates resting on her counterpane. Faith wondered what would have happened if Myrtle had claimed the paperwork, and whether she would already have sold off
the Lie Tree to buy more dresses.

A poisonous realization crept unbidden into Faith’s mind. A wife always had to go begging to her husband for housekeeping money, but a widow could spend her inheritance however she
pleased. The Reverend’s death had left Myrtle in control of real money for the very first time.

As she lay awake that night, Faith tried to fit all the pieces together. She had so little time! There could be an inquest any day, and when the family’s purse was empty
the Sunderlys would have to leave Vane. Faith had hoped to investigate subtly and let the fruit of the Lie Tree ripen and swell over weeks. Now there could be no long plans, no slow and safe
stratagems.

A short, sharp shriek from above her head jolted her from her thoughts. It took her a moment or two to remember the cat skull in Jeanne’s bed. Floorboards creaked above, and she could hear
somebody going into high-pitched hysterics, and then other indistinct voices, lower-pitched and soothing.

Faith felt neither triumph nor guilt. The darkness was lonely, and time was running out. She thought of the Lie Tree in its roaring cave, and oddly this made her feel a little less alone.

As sleep cradled her, she imagined her lie spreading silently like dark green smoke, filling the air around the house like a haze, spilling from the mouths of those who whispered and wondered
and feared. She imagined it soaking like mist into waiting leaves, seeping like sap down gnarled, slender stems and forcing itself out into a small, white spearhead of a bud.

Dr Jacklers was invited to call at twelve. He arrived at ten, throwing the house into confusion.

When Mrs Vellet came in to report his arrival, Myrtle was in the drawing room, and the dressmaker had just pinned her into a new dress to check the fit. She was not, in short, ready to play the
poignant invalid.

‘Of all the people I cannot afford to offend!’ Myrtle was flustered beyond measure. ‘Tell the doctor that I am dressing and that I will be with him shortly. Put him in the
library. It has skulls – he will like that. Offer him some tea.’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ Mrs Vellet answered carefully, ‘but he says he has arrived early on official business. He begs your permission to make a view of the grounds,
ma’am.’

Myrtle turned pale and spent a moment chewing her lip.

‘We cannot very well deny him,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Put Prythe at the doctor’s disposal.’

‘And what shall I do with the young Master Clay?’ asked Mrs Vellet blandly.

‘Master Clay?’ Myrtle’s eyes widened. ‘Is he here too?’

‘Yes, ma’am. He arrived at the same time as the doctor’s carriage. He has come to deliver a photograph, and . . . several large bunches of flowers, ma’am.’

‘Flowers,’ breathed Myrtle. Her pink, pretty countenance flitted butterfly-like between satisfaction, anxiety and cool calculation. ‘We cannot afford to offend the Clays
either
,’ she murmured. ‘Make Master Clay comfortable in the conservatory – with some crumpets or cake.’

Faith was barely listening. Dr Jacklers was at the house investigating the Reverend’s death. This might be her only chance to talk to him and persuade him that her father had been
murdered.

Talking to Dr Jacklers would be a betrayal, of course. She would be destroying the family’s story. Myrtle would be furious. Perhaps she would be more than furious.

You understand the danger if the truth comes out,
Uncle Miles had said.

Faith did not understand the danger, but remembering his words she felt a sudden qualm. Perhaps telling the truth really would bring trouble on the family. But how could she let such an
opportunity slip through her fingers? She owed it to her father to try.

Faith found the doctor in the grounds, walking in the direction of the cliff-path.

‘Ah, I am sorry that you should come upon me like this, Miss Sunderly . . . I am about my duties, I fear.’ He drew a folded paper from his inner pocket, opened it and held it out to
show its big red wax seal.

. . . as magistrate of the county of Vane do require and permit that Doctor Noah Jacklers shall be called upon as coroner in the inquest of the Reverend Erasmus Sunderly . . .

It had been signed at the bottom by Lambent. His handwriting and signature were large, swooping and chaotic, a lot like the man himself.

‘Do you understand the meaning of the word “coroner”?’ asked Dr Jacklers, and smiled when Faith nodded. ‘Good, good. Now, usually a coroner would call in a medical
expert, but, ah, since
I
am the only medical expert on the island, I must call in myself.’ He chuckled briefly.

Faith thought that it must be very relaxing being Dr Jacklers, deaf to the crunch of other people’s feelings beneath his well-intentioned boots.

‘And so, you see, I must take a look around the grounds.’

‘Please let me come with you!’ Faith said quickly. ‘I want to speak with you. There is something you need to know.’