The Body at Auercliff (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Higher!” I hiss, struggling to keep my balance. “Oh Martin, what's wrong with you? Aren't you very strong?”

All I hear from below is a faint gasp, so I focus on reaching up and grabbing hold of the edging that runs around the top of the mausoleum's walls. We're out in the forest and I've finally managed to persuade my rather cowardly cousin that he should let me stand on his shoulders, so I can finally get up and investigate the hole at the top of the mausoleum's southerly corner. Unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to me that Martin would be quite so unsteady, and I'm be practically tipping over every few seconds.

“You're being awfully distracting,” I mutter, gripping the bricks as I peer at the hole. “Martin, be a sport and
do
try to hold still.”

“It'd help,” he gasps, “if you'd... try not to... sway...”

“I'm not swaying!”

“You are!”

“Oh, well now you're just making excuses!”

Realizing that there's absolutely no point arguing the point with him, I take a moment to steady myself and then I reach into the hole in the mausoleum's wall and start pulling out sprigs of ivy that seems to be growing from inside. It's rather horrific to think of the ivy's roots somewhere in the mausoleum's dark interior, and I can't help wondering whether the plant is getting some of its nutrients from the bodies that are resting on the shelves. Certainly the ivy's green leaves seem much greener than other leaves nearby. Still, I
have
to get a better look, so I spend a couple of minutes pulling out more and more ivy, while keeping my feet more-or-less steady on Martin's shoulders.

“Any luck?” he stammers finally. “And
do
try not to drop all that ivy on my head!”

“Sorry,” I say with a smile, as I unhook Daddy's flashlight from my belt. I switch the lamp on and then shine it through the hole, hoping that I'll be able to see all the way inside the mausoleum, but all I see is more brickwork. It's almost as if the people who built this thing didn't
want
future generations breaking through. I blame Daddy. If he hadn't hidden the key to the door so well, I'd be able to unlock the bloody thing and take a quick peak.

“Anything?” Martin asks again, sounding increasingly breathless.

“Bugger all so far,” I mutter, tugging on the bricks and finding that several are loose.

“Watch the language, Verity. You don't want to accidentally say something naughty around our parents.”

“Don't I?” I tug on one of the bricks, and suddenly it comes loose, slipping from my hand and dropping to the ground.

“I say,” Martin stammers, “what was that?”

“What does it look like?” I ask, already shining the flashlight into the hole again.

“It looks like a brick!”

“Well, then there's your answer. I think...” Tilting the flashlight a little, I still see nothing but more bricks inside. “How thick are these bloody walls?” I mutter. “All I want is to get a good view.”

“And what will you learn from that?” he gasps.

“I already told you! I'm investigating the family's history.”

“You could always just ask your parents, and mine too!”

“If one wants to know the history of a family,” I reply, rolling my eyes, “one never starts by asking the family itself. One cannot be quite so naive, Martin.”

“But Verity -”

“And I'm quite certain there's something rotten in the past somewhere. I mean, that knife didn't just appear out of nowhere!” I try pulling another brick loose, although this one is much harder to dislodge. “Stop swaying so much, Martin!”

“I'm not!”

“You are!”

“Not this time! Maybe you're just dizzy.”

I open my mouth to tell him he's being a bloody fool, but suddenly I realize that perhaps – for once – he's right. I freeze for a moment, and I definitely feel as if the whole world is starting to pivot around me somewhat, and my vision briefly seems rather foggy. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore the fact that I feel nauseous, and I focus instead on digging out another brick. The job isn't easy, especially with a bandaged left hand, but I'm damn well not going to give up, and finally I pull the brick out and toss it down to the ground.

“Hey!” Martin yells. “You almost hit me!”

“Whoops,” I reply with a smile, leaning closer to the hole and tilting the flashlight. I wipe sweat from my brow. “This is infuriating, I can't -”

Suddenly Martin's shoulders drop from beneath my feet. Letting out a gasp, I grip the roof of the mausoleum and just about manage to hold on, although my fingers are already slipping.

“Sorry!” he calls up to me. “I lost my -”

I let out a cry as I fall, landing on top of Martin and sending him crashing to the ground. Landing with a heavy, frame-rattling bump, I immediately roll off and end up staring straight up at the sky, trying to catch my breath. I feel as if my entire skeleton jerked through my meat when I hit the ground.

“Ow!” Martin stammers. “Verity, you could have really hurt me!”

I immediately start laughing, even though I know it's rather beastly of me to be so amused by our misfortune. Sitting up, I feel a faint pain in my chest, but it's clear that I survived the fall without suffering any serious damage. After a moment, however, I realize that I can once again hear a faint scratching sound. I stick a finger in each ear, to check that there's nothing nasty in there, but the scratching seems to be deeper, as if it's coming from inside my skull.

“I
do
wish you'd be more careful,” Martin mutters as he sits up next to me. “I was doing my best, I promise! I suppose I'm just not very athletic.”

“No,” I reply, turning to him with a smile, “you're not. But that's old news.”

“Well, I -”

“Or perhaps I'm just heavy,” I add, before spotting a crack running through one corner of the mausoleum, right down at the very bottom of the wall. “Hello,” I mutter, crawling over and taking a closer look. There are various weeds growing out of the crack, and when I pull one of them out, I find that it has a long set of roots that must have extended several feet underground.

“So now what?” Martin asks, getting to his feet. “I really don't think we're going to get a chance to see inside this thing, Verity. At least, not until someone needs to be put inside, and hopefully that won't happen soon.”

“We could try swiping the key,” I suggest, pulling out more weeds.

“No chance. That's kept safe. Only my father knows where it is.”

“Yes, but he's hardly a world-renowned genius, is he?” I point out, finally getting to my feet. I stare at the side of the mausoleum for a moment, before stepping closer and banging my fist on the wall. “Hello in there!” I shout. “Dear ancestors, we just want to come inside and learn all your secrets! Is that so much to ask?”

“Careful!” Martin hisses, pulling me away.

“Or what?” I continue, unable to stifle a laugh. “Are you worried one of them might wake from the dead and knock back?”

We stand in silence for a moment, staring at the mausoleum, almost as if we
do
expect to hear some kind of communication from within.

“If I were dead,” I say finally, “I would try to come back and deliver some kind of message. Just to let everyone know that there's something beyond.” I pause. “No, I wouldn't
try
. I'd find a way to do it!”

“I'm sure that would have happened by now,” Martin replies. “If it were possible, I mean.”

“And who's to say it's not?” I ask, with a faint smile. “Perhaps the others just never had the motivation. But I swear to you, Martin, hand on heart...” I place my hand on my heart, just to make a point, and for a moment I feel rather uncharacteristically solemn. “If I should die before you, I shall do everything in my power to come back and let you know that there's life beyond the grave. I shall find a way, no matter how difficult or how testing it might be. Perhaps I shall appear to you as a shimmering specter, or perhaps I shall only be able to manage a whisper in your ear, but I shall do something.”

I feel a shudder pass through my body for a moment, and slowly I turn to see a hint of fear in Martin's eyes.

“And if you hear nothing from me,” I continue, “then you shall know that either communication is impossible, or there is simply nothing left of the soul after death. Nothing but nothingness for all eternity.”

I watch him carefully for a moment, and I can see his fear growing. Finally I turn back and look at the mausoleum, and I think of all the dead, still, silent bodies of our ancestors that are resting on the other side of this wall. I suppose one day Martin and I shall be slotted into place among them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Sir Charles Switherington and his wife, Lady Catherine,” I read out loud from one of the old leather books I've managed to find in the library. “They were the occupants of the house between 1837, when they married, and 1851, which is when Catherine died. Crikey, she wasn't very old when she popped her clogs. Charles followed twenty years later, leaving the house to Grandpa Jonathan, who then married Grandma Elizabeth and had your father and mine.”

I turn to another page.

“We know nothing extraordinary happened while our parents were growing up here. So maybe something happened during the era of Sir Charles and Lady Catherine.”

“Maybe,” Martin mutters, sounding bored.

I'm in the very farthest corner of the library, behind one of the old armchairs that have been left dotted around the room. From this position, I can't really see Martin at all; peering around the chair's edge, I can just make out my cousin's legs dangling from the side of the desk. Frankly, his legs look as bored as his voice sounds, and they're gangly too. It's hard to believe that I thought he could support me earlier.

“Now,” I continue, running my hand along another line in the book, “Sir Charles and Lady Catherine mostly did away with the staff of the house, they only kept -”

“Does this really matter?” he asks suddenly, jumping off the desk and coming over to me.

“Martin -”

Before I can finish, he pulls the armchair aside, causing the legs to scrape against the floorboards. Looking up at him as I'm uncovered, I can't help smiling.

“You seem awfully uninterested in this whole endeavor,” I point out. “You don't
have
to spend the whole day with me, you know. I think I shall be perfectly alright in here by myself.”

“You're shiny,” he mutters.

I frown.

“Are you sweating?” he asks.

“It's a little warm in here.”

“No, but...” He tilts his head. “You're really sweating a lot.”

“Well you're a charmer,” I mutter, wiping my brow and noticing, for the first time, that my hair feels a little wet and matted. “It's nothing,” I add.

“I think you should show the knife to someone,” he replies.

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Because what?”

“You're being difficult on purpose, Verity!”

“It's
my
knife now,” I tell him. “
I
found it, and
I
risked my neck to pull it out of the mud. It's clearly old, I doubt very much that anyone still alive has any recollection of knowledge of it whatsoever.”

“It's dangerous.”

“Only if it's in the wrong hands. Why? Do you think I might do something dreadful with it?”

He sighs again, and I can tell he's getting close to his wit's end. As fun as it is to drive Martin crazy, however, I don't want to push him all the way over the edge. All things considered, he's still the only entertainment in this dull old house.

“Fine,” I mutter, sliding the book away before getting to my feet, with the rusty knife still in my hand. I still feel a little dizzy, but I simply force a smile. “I'm not giving up, though. I'm going to find out the truth about this knife, even if it kills me.”

***

“Pass the gravy, Reginald, would you?”

Chewing on a slice of beef, I watch as Daddy reaches the gravy boat over for Uncle Roger to take. I can't help smiling as I note how civilized everyone is at the dinner table. No-one even dares chew too loudly, in case they fall foul of one of the ten billion rules of dining etiquette. Sometimes, I think the whole of Auercliff is going to disappear up its own backside.

“Has anyone ever been murdered here?” I ask suddenly, putting on my most innocent face as I break the silence.

Daddy freezes mid-chew, staring at me as if he can't quite believe what I said.

“I thought you weren't going to ask them?” Martin whispers, kicking me under the table.

“I changed my mind,” I tell him, not lowering my voice at all, before turning first to Daddy and then to Mummy. “I looked in the books in the library, but they weren't much help. I suppose if there
had
been a murder, it would be the kind of thing one would want to keep out of the official family record. Still -”

“Verity,” Mummy says, interrupting me as she wipes her mouth on her serviette, “please, this is the dining table.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

“Verity, please...”

“It's a simple-enough question,” I continue, enjoying the sight of Mummy squirming. Figuring that she won't be much help, I turn to Uncle Roger. “I bet
you
know,” I tell him. “Auercliff is so old, someone
must
have been murdered here. It'd be rather odd if there hadn't been a knifing or a shooting or -”

“That's enough!” Daddy says firmly, glaring at me. “One more word out of you, young lady, and you'll be sent to your room for the rest of the evening with nothing more than bread and butter. Is that clear?”

“I like bread and butter,” I tell him, although I immediately wince as I realize that I should probably have kept my mouth shut. Looking down at my plate, I suddenly feel a little woozy.

“That's it!” Daddy says suddenly, getting to his feet and pointing toward the door. “Go to your room, Verity! Now!”

“But Daddy, I just -”

“
Now
, Verity!”

Sighing, I stand and push my chair back, but I don't leave the room, not yet. I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I'm damn well not going to let anyone see that I'm upset. I can also feel sweat under my armpits, and behind my knees, which is a rather yucky sensation.

“You're being terribly sensitive about this,” I tell Daddy, hoping that he might change his mind. “One might almost wonder whether you're -”

“Out!” he roars, starting to look really red-faced now.

“Mummy,” I continue, turning to her, “you're not going to -”

“You heard your father,” she says tartly, not even looking at me as she daintily cuts a slice of beef on her plate. “You've been rather gauche and loud all evening, Verity. Perhaps it would be as well for you to spend the evening alone.”

I should have known she wouldn't be on my side. She always meekly agrees with Daddy.

“And you're not to go up and keep her company,” Daddy adds, turning to Martin. “Is that understood?”

“You can't be serious,” I reply, starting to feel a rush of panic in my chest. “What am I supposed to do up in my room alone all evening? That's barbarous, it's -”

“Now!” he yells, before hurrying around the table as if he means to grab my arm and drag me upstairs himself.

“Mummy,” I stammer, turning to her, “please -”

“What did I tell you?” Daddy shouts, taking hold of my collar and hauling me toward the door. “You need to learn to respect your elders, my girl, and perhaps a short, sharp shock is just the way to get your mind working properly. You're fourteen years old and it's time you grew up!”

“But -”

Before I can get another word out, he drags me into the hallway and then shoves me in the back, sending me clattering to the ground until I land hard on my knees next to the old, broken grandfather clock. I want to turn and tell Daddy that he's being too strict, but tears are running down my cheeks so instead I turn away so he can't see me crying. I hate the way I always start to sob whenever I'm even slightly upset. It's as if my body is betraying me, keenly showing the world my every weakness. Between the easy sobbing and the harelip, I can be awfully wretched at times.

Feeling a pain in my bandaged left hand, I look down and see blood soaking through the fabric. In falling to the floor, I evidently re-opened the wound.

“Well?” Daddy asks, towering over me. “Are you going to go to your room, or do I have to drag you up the stairs myself? I'll do it if you continue to push me, Verity.”

Slowly, still keeping my face hidden from him as I sniff back tears, I get to my feet and start stumbling up toward my room. Every step feels heavy, and I want nothing more than to turn around and tell him to go to hell. At the same time, I know there's no point doing anything that'll get my punishment extended, so I simply keep going until I reach the top of the stairs and look along the dark, unlit corridor that leads to the bedrooms.

A bead of sweat is dribbling down the inside of my leg.

“You'll thank me one day for being so strict,” Daddy tells me from down in the hallway. “You need a little discipline, young lady. No daughter of mine is going to grow up rough and uncouth, do you hear me? Maybe that makes me old-fashioned, but it's just the way it is. This entire family has had more than enough of your lip for one night!”

A shudder runs through my chest.

That was a dig at my harelip, I'm sure of it. Daddy's always hated the way I look.

Hearing him heading back into the dining room, I glance down the stairs. Tears are still running down my face along with the sweat, and I deeply resent Daddy for being so harsh with me, but I figure I shall just have to suck it up. Besides, being in my room for the rest of the evening won't be
that
bad. At least I shan't have to listen to everyone else's inane chatter for hours on end. Perhaps I shall write a new poem, one about the harshness of the world, and about the suffering of those with curious minds.

Making my way to my room, I have to steady myself a little against the wall. All things considered, I feel rather hot, sweaty and discombobulated.