The Silence (4 page)

It was, of course, some fantasy imagining of an elderly lady; Michael thought he would not pay too much attention to it. Or would he? Emily West’s words ran through his mind yet again.
Esmond never left Stilter House,
she had said. The prickle of unease increased, and Michael thought if he had not made contact with Nell by this time tomorrow, he might try to track down Margery West.

It was all nonsense, of course, and he was overreacting. Nell would phone tomorrow, and in any case she would be home on Wednesday evening, and they would have supper together. Michael would cook for them as he always did when Nell had been away on a buying expedition, and she would relate all her exploits as they ate, which was also a small tradition. This time he would try not to have a culinary disaster, although it was remarkable how easily things got burned in his cooker, or did not cook at all.

But the words on the answerphone kept replaying.
Esmond never left Stilter House . . .
And,
Beth is so very like Brad was at that age . . .

Esmond . . . The unease at the back of his mind stirred again.

Nell and Beth had scrambled eggs for their supper, after which Beth seemed happy to go up to bed. She had picked out one of the children’s books, and Nell had found a box of old-fashioned night lights in a cupboard which would be quite safe for Beth to read by. She tucked her in, left her absorbed in the long-ago world of plucky schoolgirls to whom rap and boy bands and text-speak would be a foreign language, and thought she would take a look at the rest of the children’s books while she was up here. It was already almost dark, but if she lit a couple more candles she would be able to read titles and authors.

The small bedroom, lit by the candles, had a comfortable atmosphere. Nell sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the shelves, enjoying sorting through the books. There were complete sets of Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers school stories, as well as the Brent-Dyer and Angela Brazil books. The Angela Brazil ones were cloth covered, and appeared to be first editions. Nell listed all the titles carefully, recording the ISBNs and dates of publication, and thought she would photograph the covers and the end papers tomorrow, in order to discuss them with the bookseller in Quire Court when she got back.

She was just reaching for a copy of
The Water Babies
, which was surely considerably older than the other books, when a sheet of ruled paper, covered with a child’s writing, slid out of it. Nell, supposing it was a home-made bookmark, but interested in the child who might have placed it there, unfolded it.

It was not a bookmark. It was a letter, and it was dated twenty-five years earlier.

Dear Esmond,

I know you’ll find this, because The Water Babies is your favourite book and you’ll read it again really soon.

I’m very sorry I won’t be at Stilter House to know about the secret you promised to share with me, but I have to go home early tomorrow morning, because my father has just heard he’s being posted to Germany. My mother phoned earlier to say so – it must have been while we were playing the duet. Aunt Charlotte says I’ll be going to Germany for my next school holidays instead of coming here.

I wanted to say goodbye, because I know you hate it when people go away without saying goodbye. But I will come back one day, and we’ll play some more duets and I’ll practise extra hard so I can keep up with you.

I wish you had told me what the secret is!

   From Brad West.

It was a long time before Nell laid the little note down, and when she finally did so tears were streaming down her face.
So you do haunt this house after all
, she said to Brad’s memory.
And you had a friend here called Esmond, and you used to play the piano with him. And when you were nine, Brad – the age your daughter is now – you left Esmond this note inside his favourite book
.

She dashed the tears away impatiently, and reread the note, touching it with her fingertips as if a trace of Brad might linger on it. It was so easy to imagine two boys playing in the gardens at Stilter, exploring the lanes – perhaps for blackberries in autumn or birds’ nests in spring – and picking out a duet on the piano. Having their childhood secrets from the adults . . . Esmond, whoever he was, must have come here often and been made very welcome to have been in the habit of borrowing books from this room. Nell held
The Water Babies
for a moment longer, then replaced it on the shelf.

The room was dark now, and rain had started to lash against the windows. She snuffed the extra candles, and went along to the large bedroom. Beth was asleep, the Malory Towers book upside down. Nell stood by the bed for a moment, looking down at the small figure. Beth’s hair was ruffled on the pillow and she was not quite smiling, but she looked as if her dreams were pleasant ones. Nell felt the ache of Brad’s loss all over again. She wanted him to be standing next to her, to share this moment with him, to look down at their sleeping daughter and then to exchange smiles of mutual congratulation. For a moment she thought something sighed in the room’s shadowy corners and she turned sharply, but there was nothing. Brad was not here, despite that fragment of memory he had left in his note. He would never smile at Beth again and it was stupid to wish for what could not be. She touched Beth’s face lightly, then went downstairs.

The little sitting room was snug, the gas fire popping gently and casting a warm glow of light. Nell thought she would have a final cup of coffee and see if the candlelight was enough for her to type her notes onto the laptop, hoping that would help drive back the clustering memories. But it did not, and after ten minutes she gave up and switched off the laptop.

The best way to deal with a ghost was probably to confront it. Very well, she would confront Stilter House’s past, which was also Brad’s past and see if the memories could be diluted that way. The wodge of papers Margery West had sent were inside the laptop case, and Nell drew out the sheaf of letters sent to Ralph West during the building of this house.

April 1900

Dear Mr West,

We have finally levelled the site, apart from the old outbuildings and I shall use casual labour to demolish those. Even as I write, the apprentice, Adolphus, is taking messages to the labouring gang, who live in and around Caudle Moor, offering them the work.

Yesterday I paced out the footings again. I like to be sure everything is in order and make it a rule to double-check everything – a fact which doubtless you will recall I employed during our first meeting in Derby.

I’m afraid we have had Prebendary Gilfillan on the site again. Might you have a polite word with him? I am sure he is welcome to walk on your land, but it distracts the men when he begins praying and intoning rituals, saying the ground must be purified of its evil, and the unquiet spirits banished. Last week Mr Filbert and I were discussing the best place to site the mains drains, and the Prebendary walked along a trench my men had dug out, reciting the Lord’s Prayer as he went, with several excursions into the Twenty Third Psalm. I am a reasonable man and accustomed to working in all kinds of conditions, but psalms in sewer trenches are not what I care for.

Respectfully yours,

   S Burlap,

   Builder.

April 1900

Dear Mr West,

I am sorry to report a problem with the demolishing of the outbuildings. The boy, Adolphus, delivered the messages to the local labouring men as per our arrangement, but none of them seem to be available for hiring.

Two plead illness, viz., to wit:

1. A stiff neck running down both arms, making it impossible to swing a sledgehammer and the pain cruel as charity.

2. Wife sick something chronic, and cannot be left. (The wife in question is, I am afraid, a little too fond of frequenting the local hostelries, although it is ungenerous of Prebendary Gilfillan to say she will be flat on her back from an excess of gin. Although sadly probably true).

In addition, two more men have apparently accepted other casual work, in one case emptying the cess pit on Sir Beecham Bondley’s estate, in the other lime-washing Sir Beecham’s buttery which seemingly stinks to high heaven on account of four cock pheasants and six partridges having been left there by the gamekeeper last autumn to ripen, but overlooked, resulting in the carcasses ripening to putrefaction level.

If we are to finish the house by the end of the summer, I cannot take my men from their work to demolish the outbuildings. I recommend, therefore, that we leave them be. They are some distance from the house, and perfectly safe, particularly if I secure the loose sections of roof slates and nail up flapping windows.

I await your instructions, and am, as always, your obedient servant,

   S Burlap,

   Builder.

April 1900

Dear Mr West,

I have to hand your letter of yesterday’s date and am glad you agree we should leave the outbuildings in place. They could easily be demolished at some future date. Also, if you plant a climbing ivy or a nice Virginia creeper on the south wall you will hardly see where the roof has fallen in over the coal shed.

I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,

   S Burlap,

   Builder.

N
ell laid the letters down. They had served their purpose a little; Brad’s ghost had stepped back into the shadows, and the ghosts of Samuel Burlap and Ralph West were more prominent.

The renewed hints in the letters that the land was haunted were intriguing; it might be interesting to delve deeper into that. But probably the trail would be too vague, and most old and remote country houses had a legend attached to them.

Nell wondered what relation Ralph had been to Brad. Great-grandfather? Great-great uncle? She must ask Margery. Perhaps she and Beth would find some photographs of Ralph or his family while they were here. Part of the reason for coming here was to give Beth a few memories of her father’s family.

She reached for the next letter, which this time was headed:
Doctor Brodworthy, The Surgery, Caudle Moor. Consulting Rooms open 10.00 to 12.30 each weekday. Members of Mutual, Benefit or Friendly Organizations, and Oddfellows Societies, seen on Wednesday afternoons by appointment.

May 1900

My dear Mr West,

I write at the urgent request of a patient, Mr Samuel Burlap, (Builder), to inform you that work on your new house on Acton Fields has been temporarily delayed due to Mr Burlap’s indisposition.

I am hopeful that this will only be a short delay; however, there has been an incident of the most unfortunate kind, and Mr Burlap is presently incapable of overseeing the work. Being a prudent man, and a moderately prosperous one, he has paid into the Good Fellows Mutual & Benefit Society, so is assured of proper care.

You will appreciate that I have a duty of confidentiality to my patient, and trust you will accept my assurance that the illness is in the nature of a temporary disturbance of mental facilities, and that after a judicious period of rest and calm, Mr Burlap will resume his duties.

I am, sir, very sincerely yours,

   E Brodworthy. M.D.

Clipped to this letter, with a pin that had rusted into the paper, was what appeared to be a report on Mr Burlap’s condition, sent to the Good Fellows Mutual & Benefit Society, again on Dr Brodworthy’s headed notepaper.

May 1900

Sirs,

I beg to enclose a note of my charges for treatment for two weeks to one Samuel Burlap of Caudle Moor in the County of Derbyshire, Mr Burlap having, as I understand it, been a member of your esteemed Organization for several years, and you being therefore bound in honour to attend to my fees.

As per your Rules and Terms, I enclose my report on Mr Burlap’s condition, and as your Rules also request in a case of mental disturbance, his own statement.

Your early settlement of my fee will oblige.

Yours very truly,

   E Brodworthy. M.D.

The fee that the good doctor had apparently deemed appropriate on this occasion was one guinea, and although Dr Brodworthy’s report did not appear to have survived, Samuel Burlap’s own statement was there and clearly had been written down verbatim. Nell, scanning the first few sentences, received a brief image of an earnest clerk seated at the corner of a desk, scribbling for dear life everything that Burlap said.

Nell paused for a moment, listening to the storm that was still lashing rain against the windows of Stilter House. It was the kind of night when you were glad to be safely indoors. She got up to make sure the window was firmly closed, then reached for the papers again, wondering whether to postpone reading the rest of Burlap’s statement until tomorrow – or even to take it back to Oxford. But she was curious to know what had happened to Mr Burlap and it was only a quarter to ten, too early to go up to bed.