The Sibyl in Her Grave (20 page)

24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex

Christmas Eve

Dear Ragwort,

At least, I suppose that by now one should say it is Christmas Eve—the time is about two o’clock in the morning. A few minutes ago I was woken up by Daphne, tapping at my window and calling out to me to let her in. Since my window is about twenty feet above ground level, I found this disconcerting.

Having turned on my bedside lamp, I have decided that it was only the rowan tree that was tapping and only the wind in its branches that was wailing to be let in; but I see no immediate prospect of going back to sleep.

My room is at the back of the house and the window accordingly looks onto the graveyard; but I
have slept here many times and never felt the slightest uneasiness about it. If I do now, it must be on account of the thought that Isabella is buried there: there was no one there before that I actually knew. Not, of course, that I actually knew Isabella. And not, of course, that I do feel any uneasiness about it: I am a rational, educated woman, brought up in the second half of the twentieth century—I do not imagine that the dead can climb up out of their graves.

I find myself becoming increasingly anxious about Maurice. This is partly because of something he said to me on the day that I last wrote to you. We met at the letter box, where he too was posting a letter, and he thanked me for the advice I had given him earlier in the day. He had found it, he said, most helpful and had acted on it. Since then I have spent many hours trying to work out what advice he thinks I have given him and what he may have done or not done in supposed pursuance of it.

But the real reason, I suppose, for my anxiety is that Daphne keeps saying that something terrible is going to happen to him: she says that in the Book his name still has a shadow over it. I do not for a moment believe, of course, in any of this superstitious nonsense—at least, not by daylight; but in the small hours of a winter night, with the wind howling and the rowan tree tapping so persistently against the window, one seems to see things rather differently.

I should explain—in view of my last letter, you may find it slightly surprising—that Daphne and I are now bosom friends. That is to say, she seems to
think we are; and I do not feel that I know her well enough to dispute it.

Once more, I am at a loss to explain how this state of affairs has come about. Two days after our previous encounter, that is to say at lunchtime on Monday, I was again sitting in the Newt and Ninepence, assisting my aunt in the manner previously indicated and reflecting on the advice given me that morning by Madame Louisa: she had recommended the day as one for decisive action and I was trying to decide what to be decisive about. I observed the approach of Daphne too late to make my escape; but her motives proved to be peaceable.

“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if I went over the top a bit the other day, but I just felt I had to tell you how I felt. It’s terribly important not to keep things bottled up, isn’t it? Aunt Isabella always said you couldn’t be friends with someone unless you were completely honest with each other.”

It occurred to me that this might explain why her aunt had had few friends; but it was somehow the kind of sentiment with which it is difficult to express disagreement. I said that I was sure she was right, and offered to buy her a drink. After some urging, she accepted, and conversation ensued.

Chiefly concerned with Maurice: his saintly character, his towering intellect, his kindness to Daphne, Daphne’s corresponding devotion and concern. He was now, she said, her only source of spiritual guidance.

“And the wonderful thing is, you see, that he’s never tried to make me do anything I wasn’t sure was right. He’s never tried to persuade me to come
to church or take communion or anything like that. Because he understands how terrible it would be for me if he wanted me to do that when I couldn’t be sure it was right. I don’t know if it would be a breach of faith. I’m the Custodian, you see—I’m the Custodian of the Book.”

She spoke as of a position too eminent to require further explanation, as one might say “I am the Lord Chief Justice” or “I am the Governor of the Bank of England” if one happened to be either of those things. When I enquired what it entailed, however, she became wide-eyed and anxious.

“Oh,” she said, “I can’t tell you about that. People are always wanting me to explain it, and I can’t—I can’t tell anyone. Something terrible would happen—the Custodian must keep faith with the Book.”

I assured her that I wished to know nothing which she thought it improper to tell me.

“Anyway, that’s why sometimes I—I know things. About what’s going to happen to people. And that’s why I get so frightened of something terrible happening to Maurice.”

It was at this stage that she told me about the shadow over his name in the Book, obviously portending some disaster. As to the nature of the catastrophe which threatens him, however—whether it is illness, or accident, or some act of human malice—she seemed to have no clear idea, and spoke as if envisaging sometimes one possibility, sometimes another.

“He doesn’t take proper care of himself, you see. He’s old and ill and needs looking after, and he just won’t accept it. When I try to take care of him
properly he gets cross with me, so I have to find ways of doing it without him knowing. And he trusts everyone—he doesn’t realise that people can be evil and dangerous.”

I said that I could imagine no reason for anyone to do him any deliberate harm.

“Oh, you don’t know either, in spite of being such a clever lawyer and all that, you’ve no idea how wicked and horrible people can be. There was a horrible person who used to come down here in the summer, and I knew he was treacherous and dangerous, but Maurice just wouldn’t believe me. And then he did something terrible that hurt Maurice very much, but he didn’t come here anymore and I thought the shadow would go away. But it hasn’t, and I don’t know what to do.”

I could do no more than murmur sympathetically and buy her another drink. Our conversation concluded with her saying how glad she was we were friends and could be completely honest with each other.

The tapping on my window is more insistent than ever, and the wailing outside more pitiful, as if the rowan tree were trying to come in out of the cold to share the comfort of my bedroom. If it really is the rowan tree. Which it obviously is. If there were any doubt, I could go to the window and open it to make sure, but I somehow feel disinclined to do that. And since there can be no doubt, there is no point.

I know very well what’s wrong with me—it’s all because of what happened yesterday.

Yesterday was the day appointed by my aunt’s investment syndicate, in token of their gratitude for
my advice on capital gains tax, to take me out for lunch. The syndicate consists, as you may recall, of Maurice, Griselda and Reg herself; Ricky Farnham, having given the advice which led to the capital gains, was also considered entitled to be one of the party. The restaurant chosen for the honour of our patronage was in Bramber, some twenty minutes’ drive away, reputed to be the most haunted village in England.

In the Middle Ages, I am told, Bramber was a place of some importance. It now consists chiefly of a single street of knapped flint cottages, with low doorways and diamond-paned windows, and the ruins of a mediaeval castle, whose one remaining wall rises into the sky above the village like a huge black tombstone.

Most notable among its ghosts are the two children of Walter de Braose, the lord of the manor in the thirteenth century, who were taken away by King John as hostages for their father’s loyalty and never seen again. Having died, according to legend, of starvation, every St. Thomas’s Eve they go through the village, tapping on windows to ask for food. This was the account of events given to us by Maurice, who is a noted authority on Sussex folklore, and its truth is therefore beyond question.

I could not help regarding him, after what Daphne had said, with even greater anxiety than before; but he appeared to me to be looking a little better than when I first saw him, though he had the first signs of a cold and was rather worried that he might not be in good voice for the midnight service tonight. (I hope this is not my fault—it’s nearly a week since the walk to the George and Dragon.)
Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and to have an excellent appetite.

After we had eaten, and were sitting in the oak-panelled bar round a large open fire, drinking coffee and liqueurs, he told us further stories, all of unimpeachable veracity, about witches and ghosts and dragons and giants, now or formerly to be found in this part of the world. But even though it was St. Thomas’s Eve, and we lingered there until after darkness had fallen, we did not see any ghosts in Bramber.

On our return to my aunt’s house, our entry through the front door was slightly impeded by a heap of little parcels which had been pushed through the letter box, somewhat to the detriment of their fancy wrapping. With them was a note addressed to Reg:

Dear Reg—didn’t want to come round and interrupt while you were all enjoying yourselves, but I know Maurice needs to rest tomorrow to be ready for the midnight service, and I wasn’t sure if I would see any of you in time to give you your presents. So I thought the best thing was to put them through the door while you were out at lunch—hope this is all right.

Love and greetings,
Daphne

There was a bottle of expensive scent for Reg; a pair of leather gardening gloves for Griselda; a half bottle of whiskey for Ricky; a paperback guide to criminal procedure for me, given, according to the inscription on the flyleaf, in the hope of helping
me to even greater success in my profession. Maurice’s present was a cardigan, hand-knitted in Aran wool, which in the process had lost something of its attractive creamy colour. It is not for me to speak disparagingly of Daphne’s skill at knitting, since it is undoubtedly greater than mine, but not much.

“Oh dear, poor Daphne,” said Griselda.

My aunt suggested that she should telephone Daphne and invite her to join us for a mince pie and a glass of wine, so that we could all thank her for our presents. The suggestion seemed to be made, and was received, without overwhelming enthusiasm. To my surprise, however, it was Maurice who actually said, “Oh no, please don’t do that, Reg—do let’s have an afternoon without her. I’ll call in at the Rectory on my way home and tell her how pleased we all were.”

“Well,” said Reg, evidently still suffering pangs of conscience, “she
is
coming to lunch here on Christmas Day, of course. I suppose—”

“If Daphne comes, we can’t play Scrabble,” said Maurice. “I haven’t played Scrabble for ages.”

The wistfulness of this last remark was allowed to prevail over my aunt’s scruples. We laid out the Scrabble board on a table in the drawing room, dealt out the letters and settled down to argue amiably about such questions as whether
EM
is a permissible word. It seemed to me, however, that our enjoyment was slightly clouded by a feeling of having been less kind than we should have been to Daphne.

I happened to be facing the window which looks out onto the street. Although by now it was quite
dark outside, we had left the curtains undrawn so that passersby could enjoy our elegantly lit Christmas tree. After we had been playing for some time, I happened to look up from the board and saw a face, pale and large eyed, pressed against the glass. Under the influence of the stories that Maurice had been telling, I took it at first for a ghost or hobgoblin at the very least; but after a moment or so I saw that it was Daphne.

None of the others had noticed her. The natural and friendly thing to do, I suppose, would have been to draw her presence to the attention of my aunt, who would no doubt have gone to the door and invited her in. For some reason, however, I hesitated about doing this; I looked away, uncertain whether she knew I had seen her. When I looked again she was no longer there, and it seemed too late to say anything.

All of which is plainly the explanation for my uneasy dreams and superstitious imaginings. Well, I have devised a plan of action to deal with them: I shall light a Gauloise; I shall gather up my courage; and then I shall go to the window and make sure it is only the rowan tree tapping.

I have lit a Gauloise.

I have gathered up my courage.

And I have been to the window.

And it is, as I have told you all along, only the rowan tree tapping on it; but it’s bitterly cold outside and the wind is blowing something like a gale—one can’t blame the poor rowan tree for wanting to come in. Well, she can’t and that’s all there is to it.

It looks as if Maurice is also unable to sleep—the
downstairs lights were still on at the Vicarage and I could see him moving about in the kitchen. I wonder whether he did call on Daphne, as he said he would, on his way home last night, or whether by that time he would have thought it too late—everyone stayed to supper, of course, but they all went home quite soon afterwards.

I shall now make a serious effort to go to sleep again, and resume this in the morning.