House of Small Shadows (32 page)

He wanted to shriek out his prayer, but kept his voice down in case the accountant next door was working late, or someone should pass in the street outside. ‘Open this pathway to sublime
knowledge that we may carry the true cross.’

Leonard sniffed and blinked away his hot tears.

So little was salvaged after the routing of Henry Strader’s broken remains by beggars, in that filthy street on the morning of 6 June 1649. The power of the revelation, that never dimmed
with time, struck him hard: he actually held, in his own humble hands, one of the few surviving parts of the first of the known Martyrs. One of the actual fingers no less, returned to
Strader’s birthplace after his murder. The very idea never failed to paralyse Leonard with astonishment.

‘Grant that such heavenly treasures will bless your keeper’s pilgrimage.’ Leonard kissed the side of the golden hand. ‘And that other wretches will be saved as I was
saved.’

From the wrist portion of the reliquary of the Hand of Strader, Leonard unscrewed the golden cap and gently removed a small parcel from the hollow canister.

Carefully, he unfolded a fragment of protective material. The fabric was stiff and brown; a glorious shred from the shirt of the king who lost his head. From within the wrappings, Leonard
removed the wizened third finger from Strader’s right hand. The relic was as black as liquorice and almost weightless.

When he cupped the finger in his palm his entire body convulsed, and he longed to slot something sharp beneath his meagre flesh.

Before he fainted from the touching and the blessing, he slipped the soiled linen upon the girl’s altar and placed the finger of the Martyr upon the cloth.

Leonard regained his breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead and nose with the back of one gloved hand. Gently, holding the aged chin of the leather face with his fingers, he then raised the
Mandylion of The Smooth Field
from the wooden chest. And with the Mandylion came the perfume of stale incense and old sweat.

Long curls of raven hair fell from the relic and tickled his knees. He could barely stand upright at the sight of the mottled ivory of Henry Strader’s skull fragment stitched within the
discoloured fabric of the scalp. So glorious was the sensation of holding the head of the Martyr he became terrified he might urinate again.

Holding his breath, the lean tendons in his legs quivering like catgut strings, he placed the
Mandylion of the Smooth Field
upon his old hairless head. When the skull fragment rested
upon his flesh, he collapsed to his hands and knees and began to whisper from behind the blank mask of leather, pressed so close and hot to his face.

‘Live through me, Lord. So that I may do thy bidding. Let thy will be resurrection. As thou did raise them, we too are saved.’

‘His religion didn’t understand it. His science couldn’t explain it. But my uncle found something. And it passed across a distance you cannot imagine. Unless
guided. As you have been, my child.’

As soon as Catherine’s feet skittered across the polished floor of the hall, Edith’s sharp voice had come down at her from the vaulted airiness above, to cut short her breathless
cries of ‘Mike! Mike!’

The mistress of the house had spoken from where she waited behind the first-floor balusters, sat in her chair, a carriage that appeared to have absorbed the frail body inside it. A body that now
appeared as little more than a collection of bones wrapped in an evening gown of black silk. Edith’s small face was but a pale smudge, high up in the air, at the furthest reach of the red
lights of the hall walls.

Mike had not been outside the Red House, that great spiky monolith with roofs and chimneys and finials she could no longer see, all rearing into a night that itself lacked definition and
borders. Catherine had been calling, and then crying his name in the lane that tapered cold and lightless to the black front gate. There had been no answer.

The front entrance to the house was open in expectation and emitting the unwelcome red glow of the interior. Tonight, each of the arched front doors had been swept back to the reception walls,
as if to provide access to a group of guests.

From the distance the amplified blare of ‘Greensleeves’ still drifted, as if broadcast from a nightmarish ice-cream van that collected children after midnight. The encroaching sound
had finally propelled Catherine through the front entrance.

But was Mike even here? If he was, the idea now troubled Catherine more than she wanted to admit. And what was Edith talking about? The sudden sound of her voice from above had nearly stopped
her heart. But as ever, the old woman’s meaning was obscure and disingenuous. ‘What do you mean?’ she cried out to the small figure above her. ‘What are you saying? I
don’t want to be guided!’

Edith pretended not to hear her. The distant head of the woman was angled upwards at the skylight. ‘My uncle found the places where they rested. Buried with the remains of their murdered
masters. In unmarked places they hid themselves, and waited. Eager to perform. You know of Henry Strader’s fate. And you now know of the fates of the other known Martyrs. Blessed Spettyl,
blessed Pettigrew. They too heard the calling from hallowed ground.’

‘I don’t want anything to do with this! Where is my bloody car! You’ve no right!’

Edith ignored her pleas and continued to speak as if to an audience peering through the skylight. ‘My uncle spent years looking for what remained of them, for what had returned itself to
our soil after the Last Martyr fell. But maybe my uncle was found. Chosen. Perhaps the other known Martyrs were too, in their own times. Who can really say in these matters?’

‘I do not want to know any more, or see any more. Nothing of what you are trying to show me.’

‘But what called out to the Martyrs was a life most precious and sacred. Not life many would recognize, or believe in, unless they were young. But this life came back to certain things
when called upon, my dear, in the right places. Small things were repaired. There was resurrection, blessed resurrection, for them and for those who revered them.’

‘Enough of this! Mike. My friend, Mike. Is he here? My car has gone! My bag—’

‘Do be quiet! You are hysterical. I will not conduct a conversation about a stairwell. It is undignified.’

Edith’s chair rolled backwards out of the winey light. But how she had been moved, or by whom, Catherine didn’t understand. The regular squeak of wheels rotated along the first-floor
landing in the direction of the drawing room. The wheelchair moved as it had done so during her first visit, a time that now seemed like an old and weird dream. And one she wished she had once
taken better heed of.

Either she had gone mad here, or nothing but a total relocation back to a recognizable world would create a discontinuation of the house’s manipulation of her mind, her memory, her dreams
and imagination. The very structure and its trapped chemical air were like a powerful psychotropic drug, one whose effects prevented the organization of clear thoughts.

Catherine climbed the stairs. Perspiration from her race back to the Red House cooled beneath the thin dress and made her shiver. Both of her feet bled.

Perhaps she’d never been this ill before,
mentally ill.
But if she had to seize Edith by that scrawny neck she would have answers. Edith had not invited her to the pageant so much
as sent her there. Edith had not been present because Catherine would have seen her enter the wretched hall. But who had operated the marionettes? Maude?

Please let it have been Maude.

When Catherine stood in the doorway of the drawing room, a hundred glass eyes glittered in the dim light around Edith, who grinned behind a gauzy veil. Like an old exhibit returned to its place
in a public display, her wheelchair was back in position beside the fireplace, with Horatio curled around the iron footplates.

‘I just want my car back and my things . . . and then I will go.’

‘Go? Where, dear? Back to where you came from? Preposterous. Why would anyone want to go back over there? It’s been quite the ordeal, I can assure you, just tolerating the place
again for a short while.’

Catherine approached the old woman. ‘I have a life—’

‘A life? Why, really.’

‘A family—’

‘Not your real family, dear.’

Catherine reached out her hand and steadied herself against the back of a chair. Her thoughts scrabbled. She was at the heart of a cruel conspiracy. She was asleep and this was a nightmare in
which she was endlessly persecuted. ‘What do you know about me?’

Edith smiled and softened her voice to a tone of patient understanding when speaking to a confused child. ‘You were given away, dear. And picked up again. That was very kind. But you
didn’t get far because you were born in Magbar Wood. The last child, no less, practically within the shadow of the First Known Martyr’s tomb. So you could hardly fit in anywhere else,
could you? Our people never did. You may never have amounted to much, but nonetheless there are those for whom you were always special.

‘And since my uncle returned enchantment to our little corner of the world, there are some opportunities that are granted to so few. We mustn’t spurn opportunity, dear. Don’t
you agree? Your little friend, Alice, has known marvels since she joined us on your behalf.’

Catherine sank to her knees. She needed to be close to the floor before she collapsed. She was so tired now her breath shook its way out and her legs trembled. Once she’d got her wind
back, she would set off again, with or without Mike, through the garden gate and across the fields. Eventually she would reach a road. On a road there would be cars with people inside them. People
that belonged to the world she knew. She found herself staring at the hem of Edith’s long, antique dress.

‘Try and understand, dear. All my uncle ever tried to do was startle us awake. Into wonderment at what lay beyond us. After us. We all became party to what chose us to see such sights.
Things that had not performed in this part of the world for many years.’

‘Please, I don’t want to hear this. You are mad! Your uncle was insane—’

‘Perhaps he lost his way at the end. And he lost his nerve, dear. He was old and tired. But he was once a man of God, let’s not forget. It was perfectly natural for his old faith to
return when it was too late. You must understand, as we have all had to accept, that what was fetched out from those hills, and from the church, my dear, was not so easy to put back – it was
too late for that.’

‘What are you saying? I don’t understand. My car. My friend, Mike—’

Edith gazed into the middle distance. ‘When my uncle opened his throat, he only seemed to tighten his relationship with
it.
You could say he even strengthened the whole
family’s association. He was the first to be saved. My mother was next. I can’t even remember when. And then it was my turn.’ Edith smiled her yellow smile. ‘And we’ve
all made a great effort to welcome you, too. But we’re tired now. It’s very demanding on us to be here, even for a while.’

‘Please, what is happening?’

‘How many little girls were ever offered such a gift? That is what you should consider.’

Catherine gripped the wheelchair, as if a closer proximity to the old woman would add weight to her pleading. ‘Gift? I’m not well. Please. I need help now. Edith, please.’

‘It would have been better if you had come across with your friend, Alice. We saved that little stowaway because you weren’t ready. You still wanted to fit in somewhere, out there,
in a world that despised you, rejected you. But all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided if you weren’t so stubborn! Their arms are always open for the lame, and the forsaken. Of
course, you may find it strange at first. We all do. It’s much easier for the little ones.’

Beyond Catherine’s hot tears, Edith’s shape blurred to a shimmer, itself vanishing into the dark mantel and fireplace. The wheels of Edith’s chair squeaked. Something clicked
above her head. She briefly thought of knitting needles as small fingers, cold as porcelain, combed through her tangled hair and touched her scalp.

‘I want to leave. Where is Mike?’

‘Hush.’ Edith’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I tried to leave once. When I was twelve I ran away. I didn’t get far. About as far as my poor father did before me,
though I never met him. When my mother caught up with me, she remarked at how I had followed my father’s footsteps, into the meadow you’ll never find the end of. Then she put me in a
room with Grizell Killigrew for a day, and I never ran again. I can tell you.’

Catherine raised her head, frowning so hard it hurt the muscles around her eyes. She pushed herself to her feet, swallowing the constriction in her throat that seemed determined to render her
mute. ‘What are you doing . . . what . . . to me?’

‘Enough of my old tales. Your young man, your beau, is waiting for you.’

‘Mike?’

‘He came with that girl who had too much to say for herself. Maude was the same once. Compared to your friend, I’d like to say poor old Maude got off lightly, but then I doubt Maude
would agree with me on that matter.’ Edith tittered.

Catherine’s voice was more intention than sound. ‘Mike’s here? Tara?’

‘Strangers have never been welcome. How could they understand us, Catherine?’ She said
us
and looked at Catherine in such a way as to include her. ‘We have made a rare
effort for you and your needs.’

‘Needs? I don’t—’

‘All must learn there are consequences for what they desire.’

Catherine wrung her hands together until her fingers hurt. She stepped away from the mad old thing in the chair. ‘Stop this! Stop it now! I don’t want to hear any more of your crazy
shit!’

‘When you were mooching in my uncle’s room, did you not come to a better understanding of our history? We hoped you would. It’s why we let you go in there. So you could see how
my uncle was tutored in the Great Art.’

‘The girls. Those girls from Ellyll Fields, what did he do to them?’