Leseprobe
CAROLA SALISBURY
The Winter Bride
A Gothic Mystery
Apex-Verlag
Content
The Book
THE WINTER BRIDE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Book
Lovely Charity Carew had nothing but awe and reverence for the distinguished poet Martin Revesby. Boldly she wrote him of her admiration, and when he offered her a job as secretary, her delight knew no bounds. Nevertheless, a sense of foreboding shadowed her arrival at Malmaynes, the eerie castle on the grim Cornish coast. Something evil, she was sure, watched and waited. The surly caretaker, perhaps? Or the sinister deaf-mute? Something or someone aroused in her a feeling of danger.
Only her growing love for the poet held her safe as she learned the bloodstained legend of The Beast, a creature long dead who, it was said, refused to die. Suddenly, without warning, the dark tale of violence sprang to life anew, claiming fresh victims, and a chasm of terror stood between Charity and the promise of happiness that had been just within her grasp a short while before. A chasm she could not hope to cross - and live...
The Winter Bride by Carola Salisbury is a gothic drama of passion and terror in the shadow of a killer risen from the grave...
THE WINTER BRIDE
For Beryl
Chapter One
I came to Malmaynes on a September’s evening of the year 1856, a year of such continuous drought that South Cornwall had suffered a near-famine, with bread riots in the streets of Truro and St Errol, much misery, and the promise of full graveyards if the coming winter matched the severity of the previous one. It was the evening when the fine weather broke, and I saw the steep roof of the great house etched against the skyline, up there on its escarpment above the grey sea, with the coming storm clouds banked above it.
By chance, I had never before travelled so far westward along the southern coast; nor, indeed, had I ever heard of Malmaynes till fate directed me towards it.
My name is Charity Carew, the third daughter of Mr and Mrs Martin Carew of St Errol in the duchy of Cornwall. My poor mother, widowed early, perished in a tragic outbreak of cholera in the year of ’42, together with my older sisters Faith and Hope; and I was taken into the care of my late father’s brother, Mr Gervase Carew, a barrister-at-law, then retired upon the proceeds of a small annuity and residing in a modest cottage in the village of Poltewan, not far from St Errol. Uncle Gervase was a dear, kind person. Lack of success in his chosen profession had not soured the sweetness of his disposition, nor marred the serenity of his smooth, pink face with its frame of flaxen hair and whiskers. But he was, alas, greatly addicted to the brandy bottle - an inclination which had undoubtedly accounted for his undistinguished career at the Bar.
The year of 1856 found me twenty-four years of age, and, thanks to my uncle, well-schooled in all the rudiments, with an additional competence at Mr Isaac Pitman’s Stenographic Sound Hand. It was the latter accomplishment which indirectly led me to Malmaynes, and it came about in this way.
I had always been an avid reader, especially of poetry and novels: and had for some years greatly admired the works of the poet Martin Revesby. His words had the power to stir my heart and my imagination; they have it still. It was in my twentieth year (and I had just completed the course in Stenographic Sound Hand at an establishment in St Errol) that I had the temerity to write to Mr Revesby, via his publishers in London, praising his work and thanking him for the pure pleasure that it constantly gave me. I hardly expected a reply - but reply there came, addressed from Brussels, Belgium, where the poet had been living for some seventeen years since leaving Oxford University. Penned by the hand of a secretary, though signed by the poet himself, the letter briefly thanked me for my encouragement and advised me that a collection of his latest verses was on its way to me under separate cover. In due course, the slim, calf-bound volume arrived. Entitled Reflections and Recollections, it carried on the flyleaf an inscription from the author.
There then began a sporadic correspondence between us - mostly issuing from myself, it has to be said. I told him of my doings: of the part-time employment I had obtained as stenographer to the St Errol Urban District Council; about the short vacation that Uncle Gervase and I had taken in Bath, for reasons of his health; of the various books that I had read and enjoyed. The replies were not always prompt, and, to my disappointment, were more often than not concocted and signed in the poet’s absence by his Belgian secretary, M. Charles Alphonse. My surprise and delight may well be imagined when, that fateful summer of 1856,1 received a letter from my idol, informing me that he was shortly leaving Belgium to take up residence on a Cornish estate named Malmaynes, which he had recently inherited. And - wonder of wonders - would I be prepared to accept the position of his secretary, resident in Malmaynes, since M. Alphonse’s family commitments would not allow him to come to England? I replied by return, enthusiastically accepting the appointment.
Uncle Gervase received the news with a good grace.
»My dear Cherry,« he said, »I knew that you would flee the nest, soon or late, whether for reason of matrimony or the taking up of a career. I wish you well. My blessing will go with you. You will come and visit me occasionally, I don’t doubt.«
»Of course, Uncle,« I assured him, and dropped a kiss on his forehead.
He poured himself a generous rummer of brandy and shifted in his armchair uncomfortably, frowning - sure signs that he had something on his mind that was troubling him.
»Malmaynes,« he mused. »Malmaynes - now that’s the grim-looking place that stands on a clifftop above the parish of St Gawes. I have never set foot in the district, though I have many times seen it from seaward while on passage by coaster from Falmouth to Penzance and back - a mode of conveyance which I much preferred when I had a practice with the Western Circuit. The parish of St Gawes - ah, that strikes a chord of memory! There was a case heard at Falmouth before Mr Justice Cadwallader in, I think, the mid-thirties, that related to certain occurrences in St Gawes. And a mighty unsavoury case it was, as I recall. Cherry, my dear, be so kind, pray, as to pass me the relevant copy of the Law Reports.« He pointed to the bookshelf that stretched the length of our cottage living-room. »It will be the seventh from the left. Yes, that’s the one, dear.«
I watched him thumb expertly through the thick volume with its pages of close typescript, and experienced a curious prickling of the skin among the small hairs at the back of my neck and an indefinable sense of unease.
I said: »Don’t bother with those old matters now, Uncle.« And felt foolish for saying it. But he appeared not to have heard.
At length, he found what he was seeking. »Ah! Here it is,« he said. »And it was as I had recalled. If anything, it was worse - much worse. Here we have it: ...before Mr Justice Cadwallader. The accused, Saul Pendark, charged with the brutal and senseless murder of two females, Ruth Rannis and Emily Jane Witham, in the parish of St Gawes, Cornwall. The plea of Guilty but Insane was dismissed, and the jury finding the prisoner Guilty as charged, he was condemned to death... And that, my dear Cherry, baldly stated, is the termination of the career of a scoundrel who was popularly known in notoriety as The Beast of Malmaynes.«
»The Beast of Malmaynes!« I cried, appalled. »But why Malmaynes?«
He shrugged. »The proximity of the great house, and its own ancient and bloody history - it was a stronghold of the Civil War, taken by the Roundheads only after a long and bitter siege and with much slaughter - led its name to be attached to that of the murderer. Some halfpenny journal coined the title, and it stuck. So much the worse for Malmaynes. However, that is all history now. The so-called Beast met his fate twenty-odd years ago. But not the fate to which Mr Justice Cadwallader had consigned him. He did not hang after all.«
»Then what happened to him, Uncle?« Morbid curiosity overcame my strange unease.
»As I recall,« said Uncle Gervase, »and I don’t have the facts at my fingertips, but I will look them up at an early opportunity - as I recall, the condemned man escaped from custody and made his way back to the scene of his crimes, to the parish of St Gawes. And it was there that he was sighted by the local constabulary. Chase was given. Rather than be taken again, he threw himself from the cliffs and perished on the rocks below Malmaynes - another circumstance, I don’t doubt, which contributed to the unfortunate association of its name with that of the Beast.«
So, I came to Malmaynes on the evening that marked the end of the great drought. As the conveyance that had brought me from St Errol toiled up the steep cliff road, a jagged fork of lightning rent the sullen clouds and was immediately followed by a roll of thunder that seemed to find echo in every nook and cranny of the tumbled cliff face. If then began to rain: a solid sheet of water that drummed on the roof of the carriage and shut out from my sight the old dark mansion on the clifftop. I did not see it again till the driver pulled his horse to a halt at the foot of a flight of worn stone steps.
»Here we be, ma’am,« he said.
I saw a sheer face of stonework, with dark shuttered windows and a line of narrow apertures high up, under the dripping eaves. A solitary window was lit, up there.
My driver, manfully braving the downpour, mounted the steps and tugged on a bellrope that hung by the side of a deeply recessed door, which was of blackened oak and studded all over with massive nailheads and banded with iron strap-work. The bellrope brought forth no sound, but presently a wicket opened in the door, and the form of a head in candlelight was briefly presented through the barred aperture. The wicket closed. Moments later, the door creaked open. A woman stood on the threshold, candle in hand, her face shadowed by an enveloping shawl, I got out of the carriage, my carpet bag in hand, and ascended the steps. The driver fetched the rest of my baggage from the roof.
»Good evening,« I said to the figure in the doorway. »I’m Charity Carew, and Mr Revesby is expecting me.«
»Just so,« came the reply. »Come this way, Miss.«
She turned and, beckoning me to follow her, walked swiftly down a bare stone corridor that led out to a chamber of such vastness that its ceiling - till my eyes became accustomed to the dimness - remained beyond the limits of the candle’s fight. A long refectory table stood in the middle of the great room, and a place was set for one at an end. The woman laid the candle on the table, and, taking a spill, she fit from it a six-branch candelabrum. The flame illuminated her features, which were those of a severe-looking personage in her sixties, with deep-set eyes, cadaverous cheeks, and grey hair severely drawn back and parted in the centre. She turned to face me, and eyes of astonishing paleness briefly flickered over me, taking in my green serge travelling costume, plain bonnet, gloves - and, last of all, my face. Then she looked away.
»I am Mrs Challis,« she said. »The housekeeper. The master left orders that you were to be served a meal after your travels.« She gestured to the place that was laid. »Are you ready for it now?«
»That will be very nice,« I replied. »Isn’t Mr Revesby at home then?«
»He was called away on business,« she said. »To Truro. But he’ll be back tomorrow morning. There’s soup and a hot game pie. Or there’s cold smoked mackerel if you prefer it. Cider or wine. Or there’s tea.«
»A little mackerel will be very nice,« I told her. »And I would love a cup of tea.«
My driver came in, carrying my baggage which he deposited on the stone-flagged floor. He looked about him in awe as I fumbled in my reticule for money to pay him. This done, he thanked me and was gone. I heard the outer door slam behind him. During this time, Mrs Challis had vanished. I was alone.
I took closer stock of my surroundings. The chamber was a stone-built hall, such as might have been used for banqueting in ancient times. It was panelled in dark oak as high as a man, and the ceiling was of intricately carved wood, and hung with tattered banners that told of a martial past. I recalled Uncle Gervase telling me that Malmaynes had played a grisly part in the Civil War of the seventeenth century.
A line of three diamond-paned windows faced me at the opposite, longer end of the hall. Crossing to them, I looked out and was staggered to see a view of awesome grandeur. Immediately below lay the grey sea, surging among the dark rocks at the foot of the steep cliff. To left and right were the jagged headlands of a wide bay. The last of daylight came fitfully through gaps in the tumbled skies, and the rain slanted down.
»Your supper, miss.« Soft-footed, the housekeeper had come back.
She was not alone. There was a grey-haired man carrying a tray of food. He was dressed in seedy black, and his eyes were secretly shielded behind thick spectacles.
»This is my husband Challis,« said the woman.
»Good evening, Challis,« I murmured. The man bobbed his head briefly and nervously in my direction, but made no reply.
I took my seat at the end of the table. They laid before me a dish of smoked mackerel fillets nestling in a salad of lettuce and watercress, a plate of brown bread and butter, and a tea-set of silver. They took their places - the woman on my left and the man on my right - as I poured myself a cup of tea, adding milk.
»And how is Mr Revesby settling down in Malmaynes?« I asked, by way of filling the void of awkward silence. »He must find it a great change from living in a foreign city.«
»He likes it well enough,« said Mrs Challis shortly.
»It’s an enormous place to accommodate a single gentleman,« I ventured. »But I suppose there must be a very large staff to go with it.«
»There’s no one living in but me and Challis,« said the woman.
»But that’s strange,« I said. »I could swear I saw a light in one of the upper rooms.«
»There’s no one in the house but me and Challis,« she repeated in a harsh voice. »No one at all. There’s two wenches who come up from the village. The gardener sleeps in his tool-shed. Me and Challis manage with all the rest.«
»I’m sure you manage very well,« I said placatingly. There was a thick rime of dust on the table top, and a sliver of old grease on the side of the dish containing the mackerel.
»You’re not eating anything,« said the woman.
»I don’t think I’m very hungry after all,« I said. »But the cup of tea is delicious.«
At a signal from his wife, Challis began to clear away the food. I noticed that he had trembling fingers. I was also aware, when he came close to me, of the distinct aroma of alcoholic spirits. He fumbled and all but overturned a salt-cellar, which won him a sharp word of reproof from his wife. When he went out of the chamber by a double door at the far end, she followed after him. They had not gone far from sight before her voice came back to me, strained and urgent, sibilant. And carrying quite clearly in the echoing space between...
Then go and attend to it now. We don’t want any trouble from her, or from him either. Can’t I trust you to do anything properly?«
I heard each word separately, so I told myself that I could not possibly have been mistaken. With the shapes of the sounds still clear in my mind, I reassembled them. They came out just the same.
My quarters - bedroom with bathroom adjoining - to which Mrs Challis led me soon after, were on the third floor of the mansion, with a window overlooking the sea. The bedroom was quite small, panelled in oak, and, in consequence of an open fireplace in which a sizeable log was burning, extremely warm and comfortable - in pleasant contrast to the maze of chill staircases and corridors through which we had passed to reach there.
She left me with the candle. I heard her footsteps fade away in some far comer of the old house. The small sounds of the night took over: the crackle of the log in the fireplace; and, as I strained my ears even harder, the far-off sound of the waves breaking on the rocks far below the walls. I shivered in spite of the cosseting warmth of the room - and prepared myself for bed.
It was a comfortable-looking tester bed, with a canopy hung with green figured velvet, and a quilted eiderdown to match. Green, also, were the carpetings of the room, which were laid direct upon the stone flooring. Placing my candle upon the bedside table, I tried the springing of the bed and found it suavely to my liking. I had left Poltewan shortly after noon; it had been a long and uncomfortable drive, with unconscionably long waits at posting inns for changes of horses - and I was tired.
I slipped between the sheets, which smelt faintly of mothballs and felt none too well-aired. Despite the grandeur of Malmaynes and the awesomeness of its setting, there were obviously grave deficiencies in the standard of comfort. It occurred to me to wonder if Mr Revesby was very particular about his comfort, or sensitive about inadequate washing-up of dishes, dusty furniture, and - as I had experienced - milk that was slightly off. I hoped he was, and that things would speedily be put right under the new master of Malmaynes.
With a sigh, I relaxed against the pillows and took up my favourite bedside book, to read a few of his verses before snuffing my candle and drifting off to sleep...
Suddenly, every nerve in my body was jolted, and I felt my skin prickle to gooseflesh.
What was that?
It came to me again: through the surrounding gloom; through byways and corridors of the ancient house; amplified by echoes and distorted by distance, the thickness of doors, the impenetrability of the very stone walls...
A peal of laughter. High-pitched as the laugher of a woman, or of a young child; but at the same time grotesquely inhuman, as if from the throat of some wild animal. Lingering, long-drawn-out.
I leapt from that bed, snatching up my peignoir and rushing to the door, throwing it open: instantly recoiling in horror, as the wild laughter clamoured more loudly in my ears, coming down the dark tunnel of the corridor outside, seemingly near at hand.
»Who’s there - who’s that?« I cried out.
The laughter faded away in a throaty gurgle. Gave one last loud peal, and then was silent.
I stood for a very long time, scarcely noticing the coldness of my feet on the bare stone, till a fit of ague set me shivering like an old woman. Only then did I shut the door and turn the key in the lock. There were bolts, also, at top and bottom. I shot them both into their stout sockets. Then, still shivering, I crept into the bed and pulled the sheets over my head; nor did I emerge till dawn ended one of the longest nights of my life, and I was able to sleep at last.
Chapter Two
The silver fob watch that Uncle Gervase had given me for my twenty-first birthday told the hour of nine-fifteen when, dressed and somewhat refreshed by a couple of hours of sound and dreamless sleep, I quitted my bedroom and set off to find my way back to the great hall.
With the natural resilience of a good constitution and a sceptical disposition, I had come to terms with my terrors of the previous night. Someone, I told myself, had deliberately tried to frighten me. Either that, or there was a wild animal caged within the walls of Malmaynes - a jackass, perhaps, or - I searched my slender knowledge of matters zoological - maybe a baboon. No matter what, I would seek it out - be it man or beast.
It was a very long way down to the lower floor. The journey - through bare corridors, set with dark comers that defied the thin daylight coming through grimed windows, and past rows of silent and secret doors - robbed me of a lot of my new-found resolution. By the time I regained the great hall, the skies beyond the mullioned windows were black with storm clouds, almost as if the new day was already spent. I gave a nervous start as I turned to see Mrs Challis regarding me from the door at the far end.
»Good morning, miss,« she said in her flat, expressionless voice.
»Good morning, Mrs Challis,« I replied. »I wonder...«
»Miss?«
»Do you keep any animals in the house?«
»No animals, miss. Not so much as a dog or a cat. The late master, Mr Henry Tremaine, couldn’t abide animals. And Mr Revesby, he hasn’t brought any with him.«
I searched her face. The deep-set, pale eyes told me nothing as they shifted their gaze and fixed themselves upon a spot somewhere at a point beyond my left shoulder.
»Mrs Challis,« I said, »who was it laughing in the night?«
»Laughing, miss?« She sounded genuinely surprised. I felt more of my determination drain away. »Why, who would be doing that, of all things?«
»I distinctly heard someone laugh,« I persisted. »And it was most - unpleasant.«
The woman gave a shrug. »As you say, miss,« she commented dismissively. »But I never heard a thing, nor Challis either, as far as I know. Would you like me to fetch him, so that you can ask him yourself?«
I shook my head. »That won’t be necessary,« I said, defeated.
Did I detect a small malicious smile as she laid a place at the end of the table where I had sat the previous evening?
»As you please, miss. What would you like for breakfast? There’s kippers and there’s sausage, potato cakes. Porridge, of course...«
»Just some coffee, please,« I told her.
»Coffee it is, miss.«
She left me. There was clearly no point in pursuing the topic of the laughter in the night. I thought it over, later, as I sipped my quite tolerable hot coffee, and came to the inescapable conclusion that the laughter I had heard must have been that of her husband. Challis, clearly (recalling the smell of spirits on his breath) was a drunkard. Later that night he must have imbibed an additional amount: sufficient to drive him into almost a maniac state. I tried to picture that slightly-built grey-haired man with his frightened eyes behind thick glasses - and had my doubts about my theory, but it seemed the only one that fitted the case.
At ten o’clock the skies cleared somewhat, and, having inquired of Mrs Challis about my employer’s likely hour of return, and learning that he was expected back shortly before luncheon, I decided to fill in the time and extend my knowledge of the local geography by taking a short walk.
I went out. Looking back, I saw Mrs Challis watching me from one of the few windows that faced the landward side of the great house. She withdrew immediately our eyes met.
Malmaynes, in the daylight, presented a stark and awesome countenance. The main part of the building was a regular-shaped, steep-sided block four storeys high. The ground floor housed the great hall, which appeared to stretch nearly its entire length. As I have said, there were very few windows on that side, and those scarcely more than arrow slits. This, I decided, must be accounted for by the fact that Malmaynes had been a fortified house in days gone past...
The roof of the main block was high-pitched and covered with Cornish slate. A sullen column of wood smoke rose from one of the tall chimney-pots, and there was a seagull perched on one of the dormer windows high in the roof. It was in one of those dormer windows, I decided, that I had seen the light on my arrival.
With an eerie cry, the seagull rose, flapping, into the air, over the roof and out of my sight I set off down the steep drive that led down to the gates. Almost immediately it began to sprinkle with light rain, and I wished that I had brought an umbrella. I pulled my good shawl more closely about my neck and felt grateful for my sensible bonnet.
Out through the gates, I came upon the main road that led inland towards Truro. There was a narrow, hawthorn-hung lane that ran steeply downwards, and parallel with the coast. A fingerpost pointed: St Gawes village ¼ m. I took the lane.
It was a short and easy walk down. A few snake turns, a view over a five-barred gate to a meadow full of lean cows; the smell of newly-wet grass; the distant call of a rooster. I saw no living thing save a toad that hopped its lazy way across my path and vanished into the hedge. My first sight of the village was the top of a barn, and, beyond that, the steeple of a church. It was now raining quite hard. My thoughts turned towards the need for shelter, and I decided upon the church.
St Gawes was a single street lined with stone cottages of either thatch or slate roofs. The buildings all had the run-down appearance that told of the several successive years of bad harvest in South Cornwall. The look of poverty was everywhere: broken windows boarded up with scraps of wood; missing slates and rotting thatch; a few wretched hens pecking for scraps in the rutted road; a solitary child with a swollen belly who watched my progress, wide-eyed. There was no sign of anyone else in the place.
The church was at the far end of the village, and was approached through a lychgate and a path that ran between rows of gravestones set in high, unkempt grass. The whole - church and graveyard - surrounded by a ring of tall chestnut trees whose leaves whispered in the rain. I felt suddenly shut off from the world of the living.
The church door latch yielded to my touch; clacked open and brought to my nostrils the smell of must and rotting wood. In the gloom that was only brightened by the thin daylight coming through stained-glass windows, I could see a large puddle of water in the centre aisle. There was a dripping from the roof above, and streaks of green mould ran down some of the pillars of the aisle.
I removed my shawl and shook off the surplus rain, likewise my bonnet. Laying them across the back of a pew, I set off on a brief tour of inspection. As I walked, I instinctively moved on tiptoe, so that my footfalls should make less sound upon the stone-flagged floor.
The poverty of the village was mirrored in the appointments of St Gawes church. The bare stone altar had on it only a pair of cheap brass candlesticks, and they had not been cleaned for many a day, nor had the eagle of the lectern: and the leather binding of the Bible that lay there was split and discoloured. A token of a more spacious and prosperous age in the life of the village was a magnificent wall tomb, which bore the reclining figure of a man in the trappings of a medieval knight, with helmet, coat of chain mail, sword. His mailed feet were crossed in the manner which, as I knew, told that he had fought in a Crusade. My eye went to the inscription that was deeply carved - though incredibly worn by time - on the side of the tomb upon which the effigy lay.
Sir Thomas Tremaine, Knyght
Obiit MCCXXIII
Tremaine, I remembered, was the name of the late, former owner of Malmaynes, the man from whom Martin Revesby had inherited. As I continued my explorations, I saw further evidence of the Tremaines: on brass memorial plates set into the walls and floors of the church, on inscriptions, in the dedication of the large window at the east end. I also came upon the name of Revesby on a more recent memorial plate, and in a conjunction which suggested that the two families had been joined by marriage. It was while examining this latter - I recall quite clearly stepping back and adjusting my gaze, to reduce the slight reflected glare from a window - that I became aware of being watched.
It was quite definite, this impression: I knew as clearly as if I had seen the watcher that a pair of eyes had been fixed upon me a brief instant before I whirled round. But there was nobody to be seen. Only the church door, still ajar as I had left it. And no sound but the gentle hissing of the rain and the steady drip-drip of water from the ruined roof. I shuddered, feeling an immediate compulsion to leave that place of shadows and decay.
Walking quickly down the aisle, I took up my bonnet and shawl, and, putting them on, went out into the rain. The overcast had increased, so that the enclosed space, with its sentinel ring of high trees, seemed almost to be in darkness. I set off back down the path to the lychgate. In passing the east end of the building, I was suddenly shocked to see a tall figure waiting there, just out of sight of the church porch. A tall figure dressed in black, with a clergyman’s twice-about collar and a rusty black tall hat which he doffed in salutation, disclosing a domed, bald pate of an unhealthy whiteness.
»Good day to you, ma’am.« His voice was of a low and mournful quality that matched his sombre looks. He was a man of about sixty years, with eyes that avoided mine. »I observed just now that we had the honour of a visitor to our ancient edifice, so I came from the Rectory to make myself known to you. Pray permit me to introduce myself - the Reverend Josiah Murcher.«
»And I am Charity Carew,« I told him, offering my hand, which he took in his. »I have just come to Malmaynes, to work for Mr Revesby.«
»Just so, dear lady,« he said. »That was what I supposed. One had heard of your imminent arrival. Er - Mr Revesby - he is well?«
»I have not yet met him,« I replied.
»Nor I, ma’am,« said the clergyman. »Though I was well acquainted with the late Mr Tremaine. A most worthy gentleman, who passed away peacefully after a long illness bravely borne. Ah, yes.« His eyes met mine, briefly, and swam away again.
An awkward silence lay between us.
»Well...«I began.
»Ah, I must not keep you here in all this inclement weather,« said Mr Murcher hastily. »I would invite you into the Rectory« - he gestured towards a house beyond the church, whose roofs and chimneys could just be seen above the graveyard wall - »but my dear wife is unfortunately - er - indisposed.« He met my eye again as he delivered this explanation, and I had the immediate impression of having been given a round of untruths. »But I will avail myself of the honour of escorting you a little way,« he added.
»Thank you, sir,« I replied primly.
I do not know what drew my eyes to the two tombstones that stood side by side, close by the edge of the path and about halfway to the lychgate; certainly, I had not paid any particular attention to them on the way in. They were a pair: both of the black Cornish slate, and alike as two crows on a fence. The names inscribed upon them - Ruth Rannis and Emily Jane Witham - brought no immediate response from my memory. But the other inscriptions common to both shocked me to instant recollection...
Foully done to death May 23rd, 1835
»Oh!« I exclaimed.
»Pray, what ails you, Miss Carew?« cried the clergyman.
I pointed. »Those graves. The two women. The women who were murdered.«
»Indeed, yes,« he replied. His glance met mine, and on this occasion his eyes continued to remain steady. »I am surprised that you have heard of that old tragedy, Miss Carew, for it has all but been forgotten in these parts.«
»My uncle, a lawyer, told me of it when he knew I was coming here,« I explained.
»I see,« he said. »Well, you have heard of the tragedy, but perhaps not in any great detail - which is fortunate.«
»I was told about - the Beast of Malmaynes!« I cried.
The eyes slid away furtively.
»We - that is, the folk of these parts - do not care to utter that dreadful pseudonym, Miss Carew,« said the Reverend Mr Murcher in a ghost of a voice. »Nor do we much like to hear it spoken.«
He saw me, in the event, to the far end of the village, to the foot of the winding hill that led back up to Malmaynes; and he pointedly did not refer again to the subject which I had raised; but kept up a monologue about his parish, about the poverty and hardship that the people suffered and how, if it had been in his means, he would have done so much to improve their wretched lot I listened to him, replying only in monosyllables; and receiving the impression that he was only speaking thus, and so continuously, to prevent me from referring again to the twenty-odd-year-old murders of the two women. What was more, I decided that he escorted me clear of the village to make sure that I did not question anyone else on the matter - not that we saw a soul during our passage along the village street, not even the child with the staring eyes.
We parted company, then, at the bottom of the hill. It had stopped raining, but the clergyman’s hand was moist and clammy.
»We shall meet again soon, Miss Carew,« he told me. »Till then, ma’am.« He doffed his tall hat, bowed, and turned on his heel.
Clearly, it seemed, the village of St Gawes - at least, as represented by its rector - had drawn a veil of forgetfulness over the story that Uncle Gervase had unearthed for me. So be it: I would respect the local feelings, since I was to be one of them. Let the Beast of Malmaynes stay buried, along with his victims.
Reaching the top of the lane, I heard the clack-clack of horses’ hooves approaching along the main road; and as I emerged from the lane, two horses and riders came into view, a man and a girl. He was in his mid-twenties or a little older perhaps, with fair hair and side-whiskers, a bronzed, out-of-door complexion, and dressed in a tail coat of hunting scarlet and a hard cap. I scarcely had time to take note of his companion before, seeing me, he doffed the cap and called out.
»Good morning, ma’am. Do I have the honour to address the lady who has just joined the establishment of my new neighbour?«
»That is so, sir,« I told him, and I gave my name.
»Nicholas Pendennis, at your service, ma’am,« he said. »I called in at Malmaynes an hour since, hearing that you had arrived, to pay my respects. We see so very few new faces in these parts that a newcomer is esteemed as highly as a spring of water in a desert.« He smiled, a winning, boyish smile that showed white and even teeth. »May I introduce my fiancée, Lady Amanda Pitt-Jermyn. My dear, this is the lady who has come to act as private secretary to my distinguished new neighbour.«
»How do you do?« said Lady Amanda coolly.
»How do you do?« I replied.
I would not have thought, from her mien, by her tone of voice, by the way her violet eyes flickered expertly over my costume from mud-spattered hem to »sensible’ bonnet, taking in on the way my somewhat over-large mouth and retroussé nose, nor missing such details as the chestnut colour of my hair and the decent state of my fingernails - I would not have thought, by the way Lady Amanda did all those things, that she was the sort of woman who would normally greet the arrival of a newcomer, particularly another woman of like age, with the delight of a desert traveller coming upon a spring of water, to use her fiancé’s metaphor. Her reaction to me, I thought, was distinctly chilly. The angle of that aristocratic head, topped with sleek dark hair piled under her shiny tall hat; the set of her fine poitrine under the well-tailored hunting coat of bottle green; the pose of her slender, gloved fingers - everything about her hinted strongly of distaste of the creature before her.
Mr Pendennis seemed unaware of all this.
»So it’s hail and farewell for the nonce, Miss Carew!« he cried, saluting me with his whip. »But we shall meet again soon, I trust. Your servant, ma’am.«
A flourish of his cap, and he cantered on, followed by Lady Amanda, whose violet eyes were fixed firmly ahead, but who gestured farewell to me by the slightest imaginable movement of one gloved hand. I watched them go from sight round the bend in the road leading towards the sea; then I made my way past the gatehouse.
A carriage and pair stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the door of the mansion - and I knew for certain that Martin Revesby must have just arrived back from Truro.
»Come in, please!«
There was a mirror immediately opposite the door of the library to which Mrs Challis had directed me with the information that my employer would like to see me there. I took the opportunity to make a last tally of my appearance, patted my chignon and arranged my lace fichu more to my taste. Then I opened the door and went in.
The poet was seated in a straight-backed chair at an eight-sided rent table in the middle of the book-lined chamber. His profile, with the wide window beyond, appeared to be framed by sea and sky. It was a regular, straight-nosed, firm-jawed profile. The brow high and clear. Hair greying at the sides, but thick as a youth’s. He was clean-shaven.
»Your indulgence for a few moments, Miss Carew,« he murmured. »I am just completing a line. There we are, now. That scans much better and has the virtue of creating an interior rhyme. How are you keeping, Miss Carew? Come forward into the light, so that I can see you.«
Heart pounding, I did as he bade me.
Taking a deep breath, I said: »Hello, Mr Revesby. I - I have looked forward to this meeting for a very long time.«
He rose to his feet and took my proffered hand. »And I also, dear Miss Carew,« he said. »A poet ploughs a lonely furrow. Fame is slow to come, and ephemeral in quality when it arrives. The support of sincere admirers is rare enough, and greatly to be prized. I have enjoyed such support from your good self for - how long is it now?«
»I first wrote to you four years ago,« I said. »And you replied, sending me a copy of Reflections and Recollections.«
»Quite my worst collection,« he said. »Do you still have the volume?«
»Of course!« I cried. »But how can you say that, Mr Revesby? That volume contains some of your finest verse. Why, the Ode to my childhood is one of the finest poems in the English language. Lord Byron pales in comparison... As for Wordsworth and Coleridge...« I checked my outburst, seeing that he was looking at me with a slight, quizzical smile on his lips, head slightly on one side. Was he mocking me?
»Yes?« he said. »Please continue.«
»I - I’m sorry,« I faltered. »I got carried away. It was presumptuous of me to contradict you, who know best about your own work. But I still think that Reflections and Recollections is a beautiful collection!« And I added lamely: »At least, that’s my opinion.«
Suddenly, with a pang of strange emotion, I saw that his eyes - his dark and somewhat inscrutable eyes - were misted with tears. He was not mocking me. How could I have thought he would do such a thing? My clumsy sincerity had touched his heart: the heart of the poet, who ploughs a lonely furrow.
He turned his back on me. Walked towards the window. When he turned again, he was completely composed.
»Well, now,« he said briskly. »Let me bring you up to date on my present activities. Please do take a seat, Miss Carew. As I told you in my last communication, I am at present engaged upon a cycle of poems relating to the age-old theme of love and death. The central part of the work is a version of the famous medieval romance, the tragedy of Tristan and Iseult. The results« - he gestured towards a sheaf of papers lying on the desk, and I recognized his dashing script - »are quite promising so far.«
»I would love to read some of it,« I said.
»And so you shall,« he replied. »And without much more ado.« He gathered up the papers and passed them across the table to me. »What I would like you to do, Miss Carew, is to take this first draft of the Tristan and Iseult legend and copy it out in a fair hand - your own fair hand, with which I am happily familiar - leaving plenty of space between the lines, so that I can make further amendments and improvements. That is the method of work I evolved with Charles Alphonse in Brussels these many years. How does that strike you?«
»Nothing easier!« I cried enthusiastically.
»Do you think you will be able to decipher my handwriting?«
»If I have any difficulties,« I told him, »I can always refer back to you.«
»Indeed you can,« he said. »And one thing more before you go, Miss Carew: I should like you to write to various of my neighbours - to the Rector, Mr Murcher and his wife, and to my neighbour Mr Pendennis and his fiancée, also to Dr and Mrs Charles Prescott, of St Gawes - inviting them to dinner on Thursday next at seven-thirty p.m.... And, of course, Miss Carew, you are included in the general invitation. You will excuse my asking, but why, pray, are you making those undecipherable squiggles on the comer of that sheet of verse?«
»I am taking down your instructions,« I told him, holding out the sheet. »This is Mr Pitman’s Stenographic Sound Hand.«
He peered at it, and exclaimed: »Well! Upon my word! What will they think of next? You truly are an acquisition for a hardworking poet, Miss Carew.«
That afternoon, I wrote the letters of invitation and gave them to Mrs Challis, who said that the gardener would deliver them immediately. Next - steeling my nerve for an experience to be remembered all my life - I addressed myself to the breath-taking task of transcribing a piece of original work by him whom I regarded as the greatest living poet of the English language. And I should be the first to set eyes upon it, to savour its beauty.
Naturally, I first read right through the work. It comprised four closely-written sheets, each of some thirty lines in length and divided into seven-line stanzas. There were many deletions and corrections. In some places the poet had bracketed several similar-sounding words together, and even phrases of similar meaning, as alternatives - as if he had not yet made up his mind about the final form. But, despite these superficial imperfections - and setting aside his truly awful handwriting - the glory of the poetry shone through.
As he had explained to me, he was telling the tragedy of Tristan and Iseult; and those opening verses lightly sketched in the setting of the legend and the appearance of the principal characters. It was like a lifting of the curtain and the introduction of the actors - but was so much more. Already, with the most subtle and delicate allusions, the poet had begun to weave a web of tragedy about the doomed lovers. Their delight in each other, the tenderness of their passion, carried overtones of a terrible mortality. When I laid down the last sheet, I found that my hand was trembling. It was undoubtedly the most affecting poetry I had ever read. And I - Cherry Carew, spinster, late of the parish of Poltewan - was fated to be a party, however humble, to its creation. A midwife at the birth of a masterpiece!
I set to with a will, and carefully made three copies of the verses, retaining all the poet’s alternative words and phrases by neatly bracketing them together, so that he could delete the unwanted ones. Two copies I placed in a folder which I had made up of brown paper, string and glue, with the title Mr Martin Revesby, his work written on the front, and in it also I put the original manuscript. The third copy I retained for my own records in a tin box - a business-like procedure that I had been taught at the stenographic establishment in St Errol. I then took the folder along to the library. Martin Revesby was not there, so I placed it on the eight-sided rent table, by his pens and inkwell. It was six-thirty o’clock, and the rain still slanted down from the slate-grey sky.
My employer and I had had luncheon together at one o’clock in the great hall, where he had entertained me with a most interesting account of his life in Brussels, and had very civilly consulted me about what time I preferred to dine. In fact, Uncle Gervase and I had never been in the habit of dining - preferring to take high tea at about six, and a cup of chocolate and a biscuit before retiring. Nevertheless, I was now living in a very different establishment from the cottage in Poltewan - so I had proposed eight o’clock as if it was, for me, the most natural thing in the world. And Mr Revesby had nodded assent.
But what to wear?
I possessed no formal evening costume. And the nearest thing to a best dress I owned was a pretty thing of white muslin, trimmed with pink, with a shaped bodice, high in the neck, and a three-tier skirt falling over the crinoline. I had worn it perhaps three times, once at the annual St Errol Fair. Pretty though it was, one could not by any stretch of the imagination have described it as a dinner gown. But as such it would have to perform.
In my oak-panelled room overlooking the sea, I made my toilette and dressed myself for the occasion, taking stock of my appearance as I did so. My mouth and nose depressed me, as they always had the power to do; but I told myself that my hair was my crowning glory, and that my figure was not at all bad. Dressed, I went to the window and looked out. It was dusk, and the rain seemed to have slackened. Out at sea, beyond the headlands of the bay, a two-masted lugger was sailing, close-hauled, to the west, no doubt hastening to make safe anchorage in Penzance before night closed in. I heard the screech of a seagull, and remembering that they were supposed to be inhabited by the souls of drowned sailors, I shuddered.
Eight o’clock. I descended to the great hall.
Martin Revesby was waiting for me. He was in a tail coat of deepest blue, with a black neckcloth. Tall and sparely-built, he looked much younger than his years - which I put at somewhere in the late thirties. There was an indefinable air of distinction about him: he was clearly a man who was destined to be set above others. And I had the notion that he was aware of this quality; though he had not the slightest conceit or arrogance.
»How delightful you look, Miss Carew,« he said.
»Thank you, sir,« I replied.
»Shall we take our places? I believe all is ready.« He pulled a bell-cord by the fireplace and gestured for me to take my seat which was set next to his at one end of the table. Scarcely had we sat down before Mrs Challis appeared, her husband at her heels. Silently, they served us with soup from a great tureen, and then departed.
»They are not the most engaging of servants,« smiled my companion.
»I’m sure they must have a tremendous amount of work to get through in this enormous place,« I replied.
»Do you think so? I’m afraid I’ve scarcely given any thought to the running of the establishment. Very remiss of me.«
»But you’ve only been here for a short while,« I said loyally.
»A fortnight, only. But enough time to have looked about me, if I had the inclination, and put anything to rights that needed to be put to rights. The preparation and serving of the meals, for instance. Tell me, Miss Carew, what is your opinion of the soup?«
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Texte: Carola Salisbury/Apex-Verlag.
Bildmaterialien: Christian Dörge/Apex-Graphixx.
Cover: Christian Dörge/Apex-Graphixx.
Lektorat: Mina Dörge.
Korrektorat: Mina Dörge.
Satz: Apex-Verlag.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.05.2022
ISBN: 978-3-7554-1294-6
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