The Dead of Winter (12 page)

‘I wish to God that I could have got to Lady Clarendon as quickly.’

‘Lady Clarendon?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Has no one told you, Master Michael?’ said Hodges. ‘That’s how she died. She took her own life. She jumped into the moat, God bless her. What a way to go!’

So that was why her ghost was always dripping wet and why she haunted the moat’s edge. I pictured poor Lady Clarendon’s pallid features staring up at me from under the ice.

‘I was too late for her, sir,’ he continued. ‘She was already dead when I pulled her out.’

The memory of fighting for purchase on those floating fragments of ice and the terrible blackness of the water came back to me in a surge and I shivered.

‘It’s a strange thing, sir,’ said Hodges, as if he were talking to the fire.

‘What is, Hodges?’ I said.

He looked at me with great earnestness.

‘The place you fell, sir,’ he said. ‘That was the selfsame place Her Ladyship came down into the moat. The self-same place.’

I thought of the balcony and realised that it must
have been from there that Lady Clarendon had jumped. Hodges looked at me with intense scrutiny.

‘I saw her, Hodges,’ I said. ‘I saw her under the ice before I fell.’

Hodges eyes brimmed full of tears and it was such a tragic sight in a man so rugged that I felt tears sting my eyes too.

I paused here, not quite knowing how to tell him about the other times without adding to his grief, but I felt he had to know the truth. When I had finished describing what I had seen, how I now knew it was Lady Clarendon I had seen on the road to Hawton Mere that first night, he hung his head and sobbed like a child.

After a few moments he took a deep breath and stood up, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.

‘Is there anything you require, Master Michael?’ he said, returning in an instant to his usual role.

‘No thank you, Hodges,’ I said.

‘Then I will be on my way, sir,’ he said with a small bow. ‘Edith will come by from time to time to check on you. Good day, sir.’

‘Thank you again, Hodges,’ I said. ‘For saving my life.’

He paused at the door and looked back at me.

‘What does she want, Master Michael?’ he asked.

It was a question I had already pondered myself.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

And then he was gone.

Edith did indeed look in on me at regular intervals – possibly more regularly than strictly necessary – and though Charlotte had the doctor come and see me as he was at the house on one of his regular visits to Sir Stephen, I was not really in need of his services.

‘You are a very lucky young man,’ said the doctor in a strong accent, patting my shoulder after he had examined me. ‘A very lucky young man indeed.’

‘Are you French, sir?’ I asked, knowing the answer already but feeling the need to have some conversation with the man.

‘Oui,’ he replied as he picked up his bag. ‘Claude Ducharme at your service.’

‘You’re treating Sir Stephen?’

‘Oui,’ he said. ‘I do my best.’

‘How is he?’ I asked.

Ducharme tapped his finger against his rather impressive nose. ‘A doctor cannot talk of one
patient with another, mon ami. All is private. All is secret.’

I nodded, assuming that would be the end of it, but Ducharme had not finished.

‘In truth there is nothing wrong with the body,’ he said. ‘But some things are outside my expertise.’

‘The mind, you mean?’ I said.

‘No, no,’ replied Ducharme, slapping his hand against his heart. ‘The soul, my young friend, the soul.’

Dr Ducharme walked towards the door and opened it. He turned and gave me a generous smile.

‘For you, I prescribe that you stay near to a fire and stay warm – at least for the rest of the day. No more swimming!’

On that note, and clearly very pleased with his joke, Dr Ducharme left, closing the door behind him.

I followed his instructions to the letter, staying in my room near the fire and reading. Mrs Guston had some warm broth brought up to me and by the time I had finished it I was happy to go to my bed. The business of cheating Death was obviously more exhausting than I had thought and I was soon ready for sleep.

Once again I decided to leave my lamp lit and
suffer the embarrassment should Edith notice again. But this time I did not sleep through until morning; I woke instead in the dead of night.

I awoke in an instant, my whole body tensed to a danger I could not identify but knew to be present. The lamp left lit was now extinguished. The dark was impenetrable, as thick and black as ink. There was someone in the room. I held my breath and kept as still as possible.

In fact as I lay there, my heart pounding, I felt sure that I could sense someone standing beside my bed. Were they leaning towards me now? Was that their breath on my face?

I could restrain myself no longer and jumped up in the bed, recoiling.

As I sat hunched up, shivering, I began to wonder if I’d been mistaken, for there seemed to be no other sound in the room than my rapid breathing and shifting among the sheets and blankets. But then I heard it.

Across the other side of the room, there was a low and sorry sobbing. And it was clearly the sobbing of a child and, more precisely, of a boy, I was certain. There was something so plaintive and sad about the sound that all fear drained from me and I felt only compassion.

‘Hello?’ I said at last. ‘Who’s there?’

There was no response save that the sobbing died away for a few moments before restarting with even more heartbroken fervour.

‘Who’s there?’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘Please. Say something.’

The sobbing slowed and became more stifled and eventually reduced to a shallow breathing sound, interrupted now and then by sniffing and sighing that, in its turn, gave way to a rattling growl.

I think I knew then that I would receive no reply. For now I was certain the sound did not come from a person – a
living
person. While my own voice was perfectly normal, the other was hollow and echoed as if in a dungeon rather than my bedchamber.

I edged towards the glow of the fire – indeed it was the only light in the room, and so dim that at first I had not even registered it. I knew there were tapers in the hearth and, fumbling around, I found one, lit it on the embers and used its gentle illumination to light my way to the lamp at my bedside.

Oh, what a wonderful thing light is and how our ancestors must have cherished it. I felt something of their awe and wonder at the lift it gave my soul.
There was a sudden commotion as soon as I moved the light and a shadow scurried across the room. The door opened at its touch and it fled.

I followed with my lamp turned high and bright and held it in front of me to light the passageway, yet I saw nothing to the right or to the left.

I took some tentative steps along the corridor, the better to further my view, and all at once the very walls seemed to distort and bend outwards and a wind blew down the passageway – a warm wind like the fetid breath from some immense, vile invisible mouth. The lamp at once was snuffed out.

Pitiless darkness leapt upon me – and fear likewise. I could see nothing at all, and though I knew I was only inches from my door, my fumbling hands could not find it. I heard footsteps running towards me and I scratched at the wall in panic, finally laying hands on the door handle, leaping into my room and slamming the door behind me.

I stayed there for some time before I could move, the only sounds being my panting breath and pounding heart. Eventually I found the strength to lock the door, relight my lamp and climb into bed.

Edith came in and wished me ‘Merry Christmas’ with a blush, but I could barely register her visit I was so exhausted.

Merry Christmas! How many children would hear those words today and spring joyfully from their beds? Was it really Christmas Day? How normal it sounded.

‘Merry Christmas, Edith,’ I said quietly and she looked at me tenderly.

‘Surely we can raise a smile from you on Christmas Day, sir?’ she said cheerfully.

I smiled weakly back at her and she put down
the jug of hot water and busied herself with the fire, coaxing flames from the embers.

When she had left, I swung my legs round to put my feet on the floor. My legs felt shaky, as though I had run for miles and had fallen into bed exhausted.

I tottered over to the window and looked out at a world of snowy whiteness and, once again, the sight succeeded in lifting my spirits. I needed some fresh air.

I eagerly dressed, Edith having kindly lain my clothes before the fire, and ran downstairs, finding Hodges in the hall.

‘Merry Christmas, Hodges,’ I said, heading for my coat and boots.

‘Breakfast first, young sir,’ he said with a wry smile.

‘I promise I will go nowhere near the moat,’ I said. ‘But I just want to get out into the snow and –’

‘The snow will be there when you’ve finished.’

I rocked back and forth from heel to toe and looked at him pleadingly, but all he did was turn me round and point me towards the kitchen door.

I trudged across the hall. Hodges had not even seen the need to wish me a merry Christmas, I
thought to myself, and was surprised at how much that hurt.

I must have looked a forlorn figure indeed as I opened the kitchen door, so unreservedly had I cast my soul down into a pit of self-pity. So the effect was all the more marked when I was met not only with a blast of heat as ferocious as a furnace, but also with a loud and hearty hail of greetings.

‘Merry Christmas!’ came a volley of voices, so unexpected as to make me jump back initially, before regaining my senses and grinning at the assembly of servants standing in the warm glow of the fire. Mrs Guston walked forward, arms extended, and gave me a bear hug.

‘Merry Christmas, Master Michael,’ she said.

Hodges walked up as she loosed her hold of me and patted me on the back. ‘Merry Christmas, Master Michael.’

I wished the same in return and thanked them profusely and a little tearfully for their gathering to greet me in this way. They led me to a table where a special place had been set for me with holly and rosemary in a little pot – picked by Edith, I was told, much to the poor girl’s embarrassment.

There, laid out for me, was a small collection of gifts. Edith had sewn my initials into one of my
handkerchiefs with such delicacy I was quite overwhelmed. Mrs Guston had made me some biscuits tied up with a red bow and there was a small object wrapped in linen and tied with a green ribbon.

Hodges nodded and I picked it up and undid the ribbon to reveal a small wooden whistle that I could see Hodges had made himself. I was touched by the effort, knowing what a busy man he was, but somewhat baffled by the purpose of it.

‘Thank you, Hodges,’ I said, my confused face making him laugh. Edith looked as surprised as I was to hear that sound from him.

‘Blow it,’ said Hodges, and I could hardly refuse.

So, feeling a little self-conscious, I placed the whistle to my lips and blew. To my intense embarrassment, no sound emerged. Poor Hodges. All that effort and the thing did not actually work. I was about to give the whistle another try, when there was a great galloping noise and Clarence burst in through the kitchen door.

‘Mr Hodges!’ shrieked Mrs Guston. ‘I cannot have that animal in my kitchen!’

Hodges laughed and I joined him, as Clarence jumped up at me and licked my face.

‘Blow that and he’ll come running, have no fear.’

‘Right now!’ said Mrs Guston. ‘Everybody who
ain’t supposed to be here, out of my kitchen! And that means you especially, dog!’ she shouted at Clarence.

I got up to leave, gathering my presents together and heading for the door. I don’t think I could have stood that heat a moment longer in any case. ‘Merry Christmas!’ I called from the doorway.

Christmas Day! The house was quite changed. It may have been my mood, but not entirely. Hawton Mere was actually lively, with servants in their finest clothes rushing this way and that. The festive spirit could even enter a place such as this, I realised, and there was a lot of comfort in that thought.

When I next peeped into the kitchen, Mrs Guston was scurrying about, stirring pots and rolling pastry and barking orders to anyone in earshot, pausing only occasionally to mop her sweating brow with her sleeve. A confusion of aromas filled the air: cinnamon, cloves, apples, rosemary, bread and pastry, and the activity was dizzying. I decided to make myself scarce.

I stepped out into the courtyard just as a carriage rumbled in. It was the same carriage that brought me here. Jarvis pulled the horse to a stop and
jumped down to open the door. To my surprise, out stepped Mr Jerwood, immaculately dressed as always.

‘Michael,’ he called as he stepped down. ‘How are you, my boy?’

‘I’m well, sir,’ I said. ‘And you?’

‘Not bad,’ Jerwood replied. ‘Not bad, you know.’

‘I’m very glad to see you back, sir.’

‘Well, I thought you might appreciate a friendly face,’ said the lawyer, and this seemed so like a joke at his own expense, given that he had such an unfriendly countenance, that I laughed. Much to my relief, he joined me.

‘Jarvis told me about your accident in the moat, Michael.’

‘Yes, sir, but I am quite recovered, as you see.’

‘And here is the hero of the hour,’ Jerwood said as Hodges approached.

‘Only did what any man would,’ said Hodges.

‘Nonsense. You are a hero and the very best of men – isn’t that right, Michael?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

And I laughed, for no particular reason other than a desire to hear that sound again after so long.

I walked with Jerwood up the stairs and we had not reached the top when he turned to me and whispered, ‘We need to talk, Michael. Go to your room and wait for me there. I need to speak to Sir Stephen and Hodges and then I will be right there.’

I agreed to Jerwood’s request and waited as patiently as I was able for his knock at the door. When it finally came, I opened the door and Jerwood came in, his face deadly earnest, and immediately sat by the fire, asking me to join him.