Whispers in the Dark (18 page)

A candle and a box of matches always lay by the bed, on a little low table on my right-hand side. Gingerly I stretched out for them. Fumbling in the darkness, my hand touched something soft and unfamiliar. My heart almost stopped beating as I moved my hand again, sick at the touch. And as I did so I realized what lay beneath my fingers. Human hair, long and thick, on a level with the edge of the bed.

I screamed loudly and tore my hand away, rolling frantically to the other side of the bed, scrambling out of my sheets and blankets, and finally tumbling to the floor. My mind was not working at all, I was in a blind, animal panic, utterly terrified by that single, repulsive touch. I lay in the darkness like someone stunned, unable to think or act.

On the other side of the bed there now began a singularly unpleasant rustling sound. Even now, all these years later, I can still hear it if I am ever foolish enough to let my mind go blank. It is impossible to describe it adequately. Dry, insectlike, powdery, as though something long dead were alive and moving. It seemed to be creeping closer. As it did so I slid fearfully back across the floor until my back struck something hard and angular.

I realized that it must be a leg of my dressing table. And in the next instant I remembered that the oil lamp was still on it. I was confronted by an intolerable choice:

I could sit there in the darkness, listening to the sound slowly approaching me, or I could light the lamp and see it face-to-face. Either prospect filled me with horror.

Yet to remain in the dark, waiting for it to reach me, was more than I could bear. I scrambled to my feet and found the matches in their usual place by the lamp. It was a matter of moments to scratch a flame into life. With a trembling hand, I raised the glass and put the flame to the wick.

Steeling myself, I turned. The still-flickering flame cast an uneven light across the room. Shadows bounced against the walls and then grew still. There was nothing. The rustling noise had stopped, and the room was empty.

Then, suddenly, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. As I turned my head I saw her: a young woman in a gray dress, watching me intently. The next second, a shadow covered her. When I looked again, there was no one there.

Jasper was waiting for me the next morning in the kitchen, full of energy, eager for a walk. I went out with him after breakfast. Anything to be away from the house. Antonia seemed distracted and had no time for lessons. I was rather relieved, for I found it hard to be with her, knowing all I did. At lunch, Anthony told me there was news of Arthur and that they still hoped to find him in time for Christmas. For the first time I suspected that he might not be telling me the whole truth.

The events of the previous night remained imprinted on my thoughts all day, the way a nightmare lingers, only much more real and solid. I became steadily more preoccupied with the question of what had happened to Caroline, and wondered if a similar fate awaited me. But what exactly had been her fate?

After lunch, while feeding Jasper in the kitchen, I asked Mrs. Johnson what she knew of the vicar.

“The vicar, miss? Whatever will you be wanting him for?"

I lied as well as I could.

"I want to ask him if he will let my mother be buried in the churchyard at Kirkwhelpington. I hate to think of her in that place where they put her. They bury them in quicklime in the yard.”

She looked at me quizzically.

“I’m sure the vicar would have no say in that. You’d have to approach the proper authorities.”

“Nevertheless he’d know if it was possible.” “Haven’t you mentioned this to Sir Anthony? He has lawyers and such who can make inquiries.”

“I’d rather not trouble him. Perhaps the vicar won’t have her. She wasn’t from his parish.”

Mrs. Johnson paused. I suspected that she wanted to keep the vicar and me apart.

“Well, miss, if you've a fancy to move her, you could always have her buried here. At the house.”

“At the house? I don’t understand.”

“There used to be a chapel at Barras Hall, years and years ago. In Sir Anthony’s great-grandfather’s day, I think it was. There’s still a little graveyard left, near where the chapel stood. All the family tombs are there. Surely you’ve passed it.”

I shook my head.

“No. Where is it?”

“Not far from the folly, miss. You turn off the path after it goes over the bridge, then a little down again. All the Ayrtons are buried there for ever so far back. I’m sure Sir Anthony would have no objections to letting your dear mother be put there with the rest of them. It would be more fitting.”

“I’ll ask. Thank you, Johnson.” But I had already guessed that the place she meant was the site of the ruins, about which I had been warned by Antonia, though she had not said a word then about the presence of family tombs.

Jasper had finished eating. I said I would take him into the garden for a few minutes. As I was about to go I turned back to Mrs. Johnson.

“Does he ever come here?”

“Who, miss?”

“The vicar. Surely he must visit Barras Hall sometimes. It’s the biggest house in the neighborhood.”

She shook her head slowly.

“Well, miss, your cousins are not churchgoing people. Their mother, the late Lady Ayrton, had a . . . disagreement with the vicar in her day. You’ll not see them down there or him up here.”

“That’s a pity,” I said. “My parents used to take me to church every Sunday. I liked some of the hymns they sang. What’s the vicar’s name? If I’m ever in the village, I should quite like to call on him.”

“He’s a man called Collins. I’ve seen him once or twice when I’ve had business in the village. A runty little man with spectacles. Not much of a man, and not much of a vicar, I’ll be bound. I’d not waste your time on him.” “Has he been here long?”

“Goodness, so many questions. I’ve got work to do, miss, or perhaps you hadn’t noticed. No, Collins is a new man. Only been here a couple of years. There was Watkins before him, but he left. Went to a big parish in Yorkshire, I believe. Or maybe Lancashire. One of those parts.”

She stopped.

“What am I doing prattling on to you like this? Get on with you. And take that dog out of here: he’s been in my hair all morning. He should be in a proper kennel outside.”

That afternoon I wrote a long letter to the Reverend Watkins, addressing it “care of Rev. Collins, the Vicarage, Kirkwhelpington,” and enclosing a covering note in which I implored the new vicar to send it straight on to his predecessor. The postman was due the following morning—he paid us two visits a week—and I had resolved to lie in wait for him after he called, in order to put my missive directly into his hands. I had some stamps in my drawer, left over from several given me by Antonia a couple of weeks previously, for letters I had written to Annie and to a couple of other friends I thought were still in the workhouse.

I slipped the sealed letter into the pocket of the dress I was to wear to dinner that evening, for I feared that were Mrs. Johnson to find it, her suspicions would be aroused. Rather than remain in my room as it grew dark, I decided I would take my bath a little earlier than usual.

The only proper bathroom in the house was an old one situated above the kitchens. It was walled with dark wooden paneling, and in its center stood a huge Victorian tub into which one had to lower oneself with the aid of brass handles. I rather hated it, for it was cold and dark, unlike the rather pretty bathroom my mother had created at home, in which I had spent many happy hours soaking in hot water and playing with little wooden boats my father had made for me.

In the bathroom, I found that Hepple had already heated the stove, from which the water was heated. The room was not warm, but enough of the chill had been taken off the air to make it bearable. As had become my custom, I filled the tub with as much hot water as possible before starting to undress, for the steam helped warm the air further. I did not really mind the discomfort, for the privacy and leisure of bathing here were considerable luxuries to me after the communal bathing rooms of the workhouse. After all, I was still very young, and acutely embarrassed by the changes that had been taking place in my body over the past year or more.

I undressed now, not fully at ease even on my own, and climbed carefully into the huge bath. Far above me, the light of my lamp glimmered on the glass skylight. Once, I had seen the moon hanging above me while I bathed, but tonight there was nothing there but darkness. The bathroom was full of echoes. Each time I splashed, lifting a leg or an arm to rub myself with the enormous sponge Antonia had given me, the sound of the water would be amplified. I tried to keep as still as possible, for there was something I disliked about those sounds.

I had almost finished when, for no perceptible reason, I began to feel terribly afraid. Holding my breath, I lay perfectly still. Not a ripple disturbed the water. There was no sound. I think I expected to hear that abominable rustling again, but there was nothing. Then I looked up, at the door.

The upper half of the door consisted of a pane of frosted glass surrounded by smaller, colored panes, some with stars inset. Against the center pane, blurred by the rough texture of the glass, lay a shadow. Someone was standing outside.

“Who’s there?” I called out. “Is that you, Antonia?”

The shadow moved, but there was no answer.

“Mrs. Johnson? Are you there?”

Still no answer. A horrible suspicion came to me.

“Caroline? Is that you?”

Silence. And then the sound of the doorknob rattling, turning and rattling. I lay frozen by fear. The rattling continued for about twenty seconds, then stopped abruptly. The shadow hovered in front of the door for a few moments more, then turned and moved away.

I remember sitting in the bath, unable to move a muscle, while the water grew cold. All the time a sentence from Caroline’s diary kept going through my head:
He was in my room last night. I could not see him, but I know he was there, watching me.

I was brought back to my senses by a knock on the door and Mrs. Johnson’s voice.

“Are you all right, Miss Charlotte? You’ve been in there nearly two hours now. It’ll soon be time for dinner.”

“I. . . I’m all right, Johnson. I must have dozed off. Don’t worry, I’m coming now.”

I hurriedly stepped out of the now freezing water and began to towel some warmth back into myself. My clothes were waiting for me over a low stool. When I had dressed, I turned to straighten my hair in the large mirror that hung near the door.

Though it was no longer steamed up, I could still make out on its surface the traces of letters, as though someone had been writing on it. I could remember doing so myself when younger. Holding the lamp at different angles, I succeeded in reading the words traced on the glass: CHARLOTTE, YOU MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE AT ONCE. At the end there was a final word, almost impossible to decipher.

It was only when I stood back that I realized what it was. A signature: CAROLINE.

I spent that evening shivering in my room, missing dinner on the pretext that I had a headache. Antonia visited me and helped me get into bed. I am sure she noticed the cross around my neck, though she did not remark on it. Once she was gone, I got up again, for I could not bear to lie there like that, as though waiting for another visitation to begin.

The message on the bathroom mirror had frightened me. The warning it conveyed fit only too closely my own apprehensions, and I was now all the more determined to get my letter to the Reverend Watkins.

The crying began again after midnight and did not cease till a little before dawn. I snatched some sleep, starting awake every so often to see my lamp burning as I had left it. Each time I would look nervously around at the shadows with the most fearful expectation. I could hear the crying, but could not summon up the courage to venture out of my room. Nor would I have known what to do if I had.

I was up and dressed earlier than usual, and went down well before breakfast, telling Mrs. Johnson that I wanted to take Jasper for an early walk. My aim was to catch the postman at the main gate, where he left letters and packages for the hall in a large metal box from which Hutton would fetch them later on.

He was on time. A little man in a peaked cap riding a bright red bicycle, one of the first in the district. He deposited a handful of letters and a parcel in the box and turned to go. I stepped out from behind the tree in whose shadow Jasper and I had been watching. Jasper growled threateningly while keeping himself well behind my skirts. Seeing me, the postman went pale and all but turned tail.

“Wait!” I shouted. “I have a letter for you to take.” He hesitated, then came up, wheeling his cycle beside him.

“Where’s it for?” he asked.

“The vicar at Kirkwhelpington. Will you be sure to give it to him? It’s important.”

He looked at it, then at me, and finally slipped it into his bag.

"Aye, all right. I’ll see he has it this afternoon.”

“Thank you. It’s most important. You will be sure to put it into his hand, won’t you?”

“If he’s home. Will he know who’s written it?”

“My name’s inside.” I paused. “Tell me,” I said, “when you first caught sight of me, I gave you a bit of a start, didn’t I?”

“I wasn’t expecting no one to be here.”

“Is that all?”

He looked at me suspiciously, then turned his bicycle around.

“If that’s everything, miss, I’d best be on my way.”

“Did you think I was someone else?”

He cast an uneasy parting glance at me, then leaped on his cycle and pedaled furiously away. I watched him go, knowing that my life might depend on the letter he carried.

I got back to the hall well in time for breakfast, saying nothing of where my walk with Jasper had taken me. Antonia seemed tired and on edge that morning, but she insisted on our spending time together. A fire was lit in the library, and we stayed there until lunchtime, reading, neither of us with much concentration. Several times in the course of the morning, I caught her observing me closely. If I got up to fetch a book from one of the shelves, her eyes would follow me there and back again. If I rose to lay fresh logs on the fire, she would watch my every move. I sensed not concern for my well-being, but anxiety lest my actions escape scrutiny. Was I behaving strangely? I wondered. Did I betray my uneasiness in my posture, or nervousness in the way I moved? Did she guess what was going through my head, and was she now seeking for clues as to my possible intentions?