The Silence (25 page)

Because it burned in the end, that’s why . . . Acton House burned to the ground and most of its secrets burned with it . . . But not all of the secrets, not all . . .

‘Yes.’ Beth looked across the fields, not quite puzzled, but with the tiniest of frowns, then back at Michael.

‘Does he live in one of those houses over there?’ Michael knew Esmond did not, but he was trying to find out how much Beth understood.

‘I don’t know.’ She looked at him from the corners of her eyes, and Michael thought: she knows there’s something strange about Esmond, but she isn’t letting her thoughts take a definite shape. Fair enough.

He said, ‘Well, he’s gone home now by the look of it. Let’s find Mum.’

‘I thought she was here.’ For the first time there was a note of slight panic in Beth’s voice.

Michael said, ‘She’s around somewhere. But let’s look over there.’ He took her hand and walked towards the old outbuildings.

Nell had backed away from the dreadful unreal creature as far as she could, but she could go no further. She was pressed up against the wall, holding up the splintered chair-leg, ready to hit out, but a whole new layer of fear and revulsion engulfed her when she visualized her hand and the wood sinking into that menacing spider-web of shadows, so bizarrely in the shape of a human form.

Her legs felt like cotton threads and she thought she might slide to the floor in a faint. But this made her so angry with herself that she yelled in fury at the approaching figure. It would do no good, and there would not be anyone to hear, but she yelled anyway.

Useless, of course. The figure was hovering over her and the stench of old, stale dirt, dank earth, and sapless human flesh gusted into her face. Nell felt a wave of sickness, then managed to lift the wood threateningly. But her fingers were so slippery with sweat it slithered from her grasp, and there was the glint of a smile from the creature in front of her. Before she could do anything else, the black iron shape was pushed into her face, and fingers – terrible hard bony fingers – were forcing themselves between her lips. There was the sensation of a cage closing around her jaw, then the sound and feel of a hinge snapping shut. A thick stave pressed her tongue down and there was the taste of iron and old blood. Dreadful. Unbearable. And the iron was constricting her mouth and her tongue so severely it was no longer possible to shout for help, even if there had been anyone to hear.

Somewhere beyond the spinning darkness, came the sound of a door banging open. Light – rain-smeared but wonderful, ordinary daylight – flooded into the room. Nell’s assailant seemed to throw up her hands and cower back and Nell struggled to a standing position, clawing at the thing around her face. Through sweeping waves of relief, she was dimly aware of the outline shrivelling, as if the light was sucking it dry, causing it to dissolve in wizened strands.

Michael’s voice said, ‘Don’t struggle, Nell – I’ll do it.’ There was the feel of his hands and the familiar scent of his skin against her face. The hinge snapped and the pressure of the iron stave withdrew. Nell gasped and half choked, but by taking several deep breaths managed not to be actually sick. Even so, it was several minutes before she could speak. ‘Where is—?’

‘There’s no one here.’

‘But—’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what it was, but I saw it as well. It’s gone now.’ He glanced over his shoulder and Nell saw a nearly formless pile of dirt and cobwebs on the ground. She shuddered, and said, ‘Where’s Beth? Is she all right?’

‘She’s outside. She’s fine. She has no idea there’s anything wrong. I said I’d check if you were in here, but I told her to wait under the trees because the buildings looked a bit unsafe. Stay here a minute.’

He crossed quickly to the door and Nell, whose legs still felt shaky and who could not have walked six steps to save her life, heard him say, ‘Beth? Still there? Mum’s here, and we’re just negotiating some fallen brickwork.’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘Good girl. We won’t be a minute. She’s found some primroses,’ he said, coming back. ‘So she’s picking some.’

‘We need to play this down with her,’ said Nell, who was starting to feel slightly better.

‘We’ll say the door banged shut and you yelled for help and I heard you.’

‘I did yell,’ said Nell. ‘I didn’t think anyone would hear, though. And then she – that woman – forced that thing over my face. And I knew once it was in place I wouldn’t be able to yell at all.’

‘What in God’s name is it?’ said Michael, looking at where the twisted piece of iron lay on the ground.

‘It’s what they call a brank,’ said Nell. ‘A scold’s bridle. It was a medieval torture. The popular belief is that it was used for nagging wives. They’d fit it over someone’s face and often parade them through the town, or leave them chained up in the stocks for two or three hours. There’s a stave that forces down the tongue. You can’t speak once that’s in place.’ The memory of those few minutes with the iron around her face and thrusting into her mouth washed over her, and she shivered again.

‘You’re safe now. It’s all right.’

‘I know. But Michael, I think someone was held prisoner here, and whoever it was, had that thing forced onto her – or his – face, so there wouldn’t be any shouts for help.’

‘Silence House,’ said Michael, half to himself. Keeping his arm round her, he reached for the twisted metal. ‘It’s a vicious thing,’ he said. ‘That’s the stave, isn’t it? There’s a spike halfway along.’ He tested it cautiously with a fingertip and winced. ‘My God, that’s sharp.’

‘I know. I felt it,’ said Nell, in a half-whisper, and Michael held her hard against him.

‘You might have been killed,’ he said. ‘Or maimed. I couldn’t have borne it.’

‘But I wasn’t. I’m a survivor.’ This time Nell managed a rather shaky smile. ‘And I’m perfectly all right to walk now. Let’s get out of this place. It’s choking me. I don’t mean just the dirt.’

‘The despair,’ said Michael, half to himself, thinking that later he would tell her how he, too, had been briefly trapped in here, and how, even in the outer room, he had experienced the thick suffocating loneliness and the helpless resignation. And the prisoner, said his mind. Don’t forget that macabre glimpse of a face staring out through the bars – a face that had something wrong about it. I was seeing the brank, he thought. It had been clamped to her face.

To dispel this image, he said, ‘We’ll collect Beth and get back to sanity.’

‘Are you leaving that – that thing there?’ Nell looked at the brank which was still lying on the ground.

‘I’m not taking it with me,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll come back later and hammer it to smithereens, and bury the fragments. I’ve never seen such a thing before. Have you?’

‘I’ve seen them in museums – when I was studying,’ said Nell. ‘But they were usually a bit better shaped than that. A bit more symmetrical. That looks as if someone cobbled it together in extreme haste.’

‘Or,’ said Michael, ‘in extreme secrecy.’ Then, seeing her expression, said, ‘Let’s head back to The Pheasant. Food, warmth, normality.’

‘And a hot shower,’ said Nell, summoning up a smile.

The hot shower was achieved immediately on reaching The Pheasant, but it was eight o’clock before Michael and Nell sat in the warm, reassuring dining room, Beth safely and contentedly in bed upstairs. Beth had no idea anything had been wrong. She had enjoyed going back to Stilter House where there had been no macabre figures tapping on the windows; she had met Esmond again and they had played the duet which she was going to practice when she got home, and they had taken some really cool photos of her at the piano, one of which would go alongside the one she had of her father. She ate an early supper, and went happily to bed to explore in more detail the hitherto-unknown world of the Malory Towers schoolgirls who played lacrosse and had midnight feasts.

Nell had showered, washed her hair, and scrubbed her teeth until there was probably no enamel left on them, but she still felt as if she would never be rid of the taste and the feel of the iron brank.

However, when she joined Michael in the small dining room, she thought a degree of normality was returning. The Pheasant’s menu offered fresh salmon cooked
en croute
.

‘Beautiful,’ said Nell, eating hungrily. ‘After this I’ll feel ready to face the world again. Is there another glass of wine – thanks.’

The wine, which was a Chablis, was followed by two large brandies, which they drank with their coffee.

‘What with wine and brandy and spooks,’ said Michael, leaning back in his chair, ‘I suspect I’m slightly potted. But I think I’ve reached a stage where I can cope with sorting out that monstrous regiment of ghosts. How about you?’

‘I’m slightly potted as well,’ said Nell. ‘But not so much I can’t stand shoulder to shoulder with you and confront the spooks.’

‘Whose existence you deny.’

‘Yes, but I’m seeing things through a haze of Chablis, so I’ll go along with the premise for the moment.’

‘Well, let’s take the creature in the stone room for starters.’ Michael sat up a bit straighter. ‘The one who seemed to attack you? Can we assign an identity to her?’

‘I think it was Anne-Marie Acton,’ said Nell. ‘Simeon’s sister. You haven’t read all of Samuel Burlap’s statements yet, but there’s a section where he describes seeing her when he was a child, and she seemed to be – this sounds bizarre – but she seemed to be trying to call Simeon back through the music. She vowed she would never leave until she had reached him.’

‘It’s a preposterous belief, of course,’ said Michael, tentatively.

‘Yes, but I think Anne-Marie was mad with grief and consumed with bitterness and anger. And in that frame of mind, one might latch onto anything that might provide a bit of comfort,’ said Nell, thoughtfully. ‘Remember the reports of a huge increase in spiritualism after the Great War? All those poor women whose sons and husbands were killed flocked to spiritualists and mediums in droves.’

‘That’s true. I’ve never heard of that music legend,’ said Michael, ‘but it might have been some kind of local belief. And there have been wilder notions throughout the centuries. How does that explain Esmond’s belief in the same thing, though? Because that doctor who talked to him – William Minching – seemed to think Esmond was trying to reach his dead mother through music, as well. Could Esmond have seen Anne-Marie or sensed her, and picked it up from her? I know you don’t believe any of this, but—’

‘I might be just about prepared to make an exception when it comes to Esmond,’ said Nell. ‘And from all the statements – Burlap’s and Ralph’s and his servants – even though Acton House had gone by Esmond’s time, it sounds as if Anne-Marie was still around.’

‘Yes.’ Michael thought for a moment, then said, ‘You know, we still don’t know what happened to Acton House.’

‘Ralph wrote that it burned down.’

‘So he did. I’d forgotten that. He said it was described in the Deeds as The Toft, and that “toft” meant ground where there was once a house, but it had decayed or burned.’

‘Which begs the question—’

‘Why and how did Acton House burn down?’

‘Yes. But there’s another question,’ said Nell.

‘What happened to Esmond?’

‘Yes.’

‘I looked for a death certificate on the web when I was at the police station,’ said Michael. ‘But I didn’t find one. I might have missed it, or he might have died much later. Or the records might simply have been incomplete.’

Nell said, ‘It’s almost as if he was never in the world at all. That upsets me.’ She reached for the small coffee pot left on their table and refilled her cup, then said, ‘Violent death is a traditional motive for a haunting, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Even people who don’t believe in hauntings accept that one,’ said Michael. ‘You think Esmond might have died violently?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘He seems to have vanished that night,’ said Michael, recalling the police statements. ‘The police archives describe searching for him at regular intervals for several years, but there was no record of him ever being found. He did exist though, Nell. Oh, in fact I picked up his copy of
The Water Babies
in that small bedroom.’ He took the book from his pocket and gave it to her. ‘I thought Beth might like it, if the aunts don’t mind.’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t. And I think Beth would like it very much.’ Nell picked up the book, turning it over in her hands, and Michael watched her and thought: she’s seeing it as a link to Brad, as well as to Esmond. Trying to strike a note of practicality, he said, ‘It was very popular in its day, I think, although it probably wouldn’t be very acceptable now. As far as I recall, it’s got a lot of opinions and views that wouldn’t be seen as politically correct nowadays.’

‘It isn’t a first edition,’ said Nell, examining it carefully. ‘So it won’t be worth very much. And it isn’t in particularly good condition – in fact it’s slightly battered. I like that, though. I like thinking of Esmond reading and rereading it. Beth will, too.’

‘The spine’s split a bit,’ said Michael.

‘Yes. It looks as if someone tried to mend it – just there, can you see? In fact . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Probably nothing. It’s just that there’s a wedge of something padding the spine.’

‘Part of the binding?’

‘I don’t think so. The paper’s a different texture.’ With infinite delicacy, Nell eased the paper out of the book’s spine, and unfolded it. There were three sheets, covered with careful writing, the paper badly creased and as brittle as spun glass, the ink faded.

‘A child’s writing,’ said Michael, moving round the table to sit next to her so they could both see it.

‘Yes.’

‘Brad again?’

‘No,’ said Nell, staring down at the pages. ‘No, it’s well before Brad’s time.’ She looked up at him, her eyes dark with emotion. ‘It’s Esmond,’ she said.

They took the pages up to Michael’s room, and curled up on the narrow bed to read them.

‘This is like old times,’ said Michael, arranging an extra pillow against the headboard behind them. ‘Remember Shropshire?’

‘You’re sounding like an extra from
Casablanca
,’ said Nell, smiling.