The Lie Tree (34 page)

He reached past the books, knocking on the back of the bookcase, perhaps testing for a hollow space. As he did so, he turned his face towards the door.

It was Uncle Miles.

Anger at the desecration of her father’s books overwhelmed Faith’s fear. She stood up, turned the handle and flung open the door.

‘Uncle Miles! What are you doing?’

Her uncle started, the light from a single candle washing across his face.

‘A proper inventory . . . your father’s possessions . . . long overdue. All the thefts . . .’

Faith looked around the room. The cushions had been slit, and their stuffing pulled out. All the drawers were on the floor. A few floorboards had even been pulled up.

‘Does Mother know you are doing this?’

‘Faith!’ Uncle Miles dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You and I agreed – your mother is distressed, best left untroubled by such things!’

Faith stared down at the leather and paper sprawl at her uncle’s feet, her father’s precious, wounded books.

‘Mother!’ she shouted.

She glared at Uncle Miles while floorboards creaked above. Footsteps descended the stairs, and then Myrtle appeared in a rustle of crêpe.

‘Mercy, what was that scream! Is Howard hurt?’ She joined Faith in the doorway, and stared. ‘Miles!’ She stared at her brother in shock.

‘I had to take matters into my own hands,’ said Uncle Miles, reddening.

‘Matters?’ Myrtle advanced into the room. ‘These are not
your
matters to take, Miles! You have no right! These things belong to my husband! To my family! To
me!’

‘The time has come for that to change,’ said Uncle Miles. He had retreated a step, but only a step. ‘Myrtle, I talked to Lambent at the excavation. He told me that the inquest
is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. There is no more time.’

Myrtle’s shoulders drooped very slightly, and once again she looked older and more tired than usual.

‘Is that true?’ Faith turned to her mother. ‘Did Dr Jacklers’s letter say so?’

Her mother hesitated, then nodded.

‘And do you think that the good doctor is so besotted that he will rally to your story?’ Uncle Miles gave a small, sad chuckle as he eyed his sister. ‘I think given enough time
you might have brought him to that, but time has run out.’

‘Do not be so sure.’ Myrtle’s defiance rang hollow. ‘He is very fond of me.’

‘I daresay, but you ask too much of the man! You want him to perjure himself, or near enough. And do not forget that Lambent, as magistrate, decides whether the coroner gets paid, and will
probably
not
pay if his decision reeks. No, my dear, I think that a sensible, level-headed businessman like Dr Jacklers will choose two guineas in the hand over a pretty but unpredictable
widow in the bush.’

‘If I have to testify myself . . .’ Myrtle straightened her back.

‘If you testify, you will win yourself gossip and nothing else.’ Uncle Miles no longer had the demeanour of a criminal caught mid-burglary. ‘Everybody is already talking about
the way you continue to receive visitors after your husband’s death. Do you think a jury will look kindly on you if you march up to give evidence, bold as a sailor? And what other witnesses
do you have? I know Prythe will not lie for you – I was there when he said as much.’

‘Mother, let me testify!’ pleaded Faith. Dr Jacklers had not listened to her when she talked of murder, but perhaps a jury might. It was too good a chance to waste.

‘No!’ Myrtle snapped. She looked angry and horrified. ‘You have not even taken your confirmation – you have a clean, new soul, Faith, do not squander it!’

‘Then let me tell the truth!’ exclaimed Faith, overwhelmed with frustration. ‘Nobody believes our story, because it is a lie! We should have told the truth from the
start!’

‘Faith, go to your room!’ ordered Myrtle, her face flushing.

No,’ said Faith.

The two adults stared at her. For the first time Faith wondered whether there were three adults in the conversation.

‘We could not tell the truth, and we cannot now!’ spat Myrtle. She was breathing heavily, struggling against her corset for air. Her eyes were large, bright and dangerous. ‘The
truth is that your father abandoned us – left us without a thought of how it would affect us, or how we might survive afterwards. He did what he always did. He took his own cold course, and
left everybody else to flounder!’

Faith clenched her fists and felt her eyes sting, and wished her mother dead, dead, dead.

‘And you
will
flounder,’ Uncle Miles cut in before Faith could reply, ‘unless you listen to me. Myrtle, from now on, everything is reversed.
You
need
me.
If I am to take care of you all, you must let me call the tune. All I am asking –’

‘– is everything,’ Myrtle finished bitterly. ‘You want everything we have—’

‘I have found a way to make us a good deal of money.’ Uncle Miles spoke over his sister. ‘There is a respectable person, right here on the island, who will pay generously for
the papers and live specimens your husband brought here. If I am to provide for your family I will need the funds!’

‘Who?’ demanded Faith. ‘Who is this “respectable person”?’

Her uncle immediately looked annoyed, sly and calculating. It was no good, Faith realized. The identity of the buyer was one of his trump cards. He did not want Myrtle rushing off to sell the
items herself.

‘You really have no choice,’ Uncle Miles urged gently, and Faith saw Myrtle wilt slightly.

‘Mother, we do have a choice!’ protested Faith. Somehow she had to persuade her mother to stop Uncle Miles tearing up the house. ‘We have money put away at home, and in the
bank – I remember Father saying so! There is money set aside for school and university for Howard, and a dowry for me! I am never getting married, so we can live on the dowry!’

Myrtle stared at her, blue eyes wide. A single tear slid down her cheek, and one of her hands reflexively wiped it away, drying her lower lid. She dropped her gaze and her shoulders slumped in
surrender.

‘Faith,’ she said, ‘go and fetch your father’s papers.’

‘
You
had them all along?’ Uncle Miles glared at Faith accusingly.

‘Leave the child alone,’ Myrtle said wearily. ‘I told her to hide them and keep it secret. You win, Miles. Is that not enough?’

‘No,’ said Faith. It was not a defiant declaration like her refusal to leave the room. It was a small, cold sound, and it lay there in the silence like a pebble.

‘Faith . . .’ There was a warning note in Myrtle’s voice.

‘No.’ Faith took a few steps backwards, shaking her head. She had briefly considered agreeing, running upstairs and coming down with all of her father’s papers except the
vision sketches and the journal. But her uncle would probably follow her. Besides, she had only looked quickly through the other papers, and could not be certain that they did not hold some crucial
secret of the Tree.

‘Faith, do as your mother says!’ Uncle Miles advanced, his rounded face no longer kind or comfortable.

‘Mother, he needs to tell us who has offered him money!’ declared Faith. ‘Uncle Miles lied to us – he brought us here because he wanted to join the Vane dig! They told
him he could only join if he persuaded Father to come. It was a bribe—’

Faith got no further because Uncle Miles had grabbed her by the arm. It hurt, and she was shocked by the realization that it was meant to hurt.

‘Be quiet!’ Uncle Miles was taller than he had ever been. ‘Where are the papers?’ He shook Faith hard, yanking her neck. She tried to pull his fingers loose, but he
tightened his grip and dragged her out of the room. ‘Show me!’

‘Miles, stop it!’ called Myrtle somewhere behind them.

Faith was not strong, and nobody had ever taken advantage of that before. But now she knew the threat had always been there, lurking in every smile, every bow, every allowance made for her sex.
A veil had torn, and here was the truth in all its ugliness. Her shoes slithered on the floor. At the base of the stairs she tripped on her hem and fell painfully on to the steps.

Without hesitation Uncle Miles dragged her back to her feet, and Faith turned and hit him, as hard as she could. His expression changed, anger forming soft, ugly bulges like porridge bubbles.
She knew that he would hit her back. He would break her face like a meringue.

‘Let go of my daughter!’

There was a
thwack
, and Uncle Miles cried out, clapping his free hand to his neck and looking over his shoulder. Beyond him, Faith could see Myrtle, a poker swung back in one hand,
ready to strike again.

‘Myrtle, have you gone mad?’

‘Let go of her now, Miles, or as God is my witness I shall knock you silly and have the servants throw you out!’ Myrtle’s voice grew louder as she spoke, and the end of the
sentence echoed through the hall.

Uncle Miles looked nervously about him, as if expecting Prythe to come running from a side room and bowl him over. He swallowed. There was a long pause.

‘Is that your decision?’ he asked.

Myrtle said nothing, but stood her ground, holding her poker in front of her like a fencer’s foil.

‘Then I wash my hands of your delightful mess of a family,’ Uncle Miles said sourly, releasing Faith. He took a step towards the stairs, but Myrtle’s poker hand twitched, so
instead he stormed down the hall, seizing his coat and hat from the hooks. He opened the front door and disappeared into the night, leaving the door to bang open behind him.

Myrtle’s poker arm fell limply to her side. She walked to the front door, closed it, then headed slowly back into the drawing room. Faith followed, still feeling shocked and tremulous.

Myrtle dropped the poker back among the other fire irons. She stopped with her back turned to Faith, and dropped her face into her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. Faith found a handkerchief
and stepped forward, putting a tentative hand on her mother’s elbow.

‘Mother . . .’

Myrtle twitched from her touch, turned around and slapped Faith across the face. It was not hard, but it stung. ‘Why could you not give him the papers?’ she cried, her voice
breaking. ‘We needed him! Now . . . I do not know what we can possibly do.’

‘He betrayed Father.’ Faith’s pain and shock gave way to anger again. ‘And we do not need him. We have—’

‘We have nothing, Faith!’ shouted Myrtle. ‘Nothing! Nothing! Our home was the
rectory
, for the use of the rector. With your father dead, the next rector will take his
living and his house. We have no home, and no more money coming in.’ Myrtle drew in and released a ragged breath.

‘You said we could live on your dowry,’ she said, with a pained grimace. ‘There will be no dowry Faith, no money for Howard’s education, not even money for food. If he
had died in a natural way we would have his savings . . . but suicide is a crime. The moment the inquest finds your father guilty of self-murder, everything he owns will be confiscated by the
Crown.’

Faith stared at her open-mouthed. At last she began to understand her mother’s determination to lie about the place where the body was found, and her uncle’s cryptic remarks about
taking control of her father’s possessions so that they would not be lost.

‘But . . . why should
we
be punished? That is cruel and makes no sense!’

‘The world is cruel and makes no sense,’ Myrtle answered bitterly. ‘Every suicide is treated so, aside from maniacs. I think it is too late for me to change my story and claim
that your father was mad. Besides, it would blight your futures if everybody thought mad blood flowed in your veins.’

‘You never told me any of this.’ Faith felt her bruised cheek. The truth had been hidden from her, and she had been slapped for not knowing it.

‘There was quite enough to bear without having to tell you what your precious father had done to us.’

‘How dare you speak of him like that?’ Faith felt her own temper spark. ‘He never abandoned us! He was struck down! He was murdered!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Myrtle’s voice was flat and weary.

‘I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen! They killed him in the dell. They hit him from behind. They took him in a wheelbarrow to the cliff, and tipped him over the
edge.’

‘What? Who?’ Myrtle frowned, her eyes still incredulous.

‘What do you care?’ shouted Faith. She had gone too far and now could only go further. ‘Father is
dead
, and all you care about is your dresses, and your jewels, and
flirting!
You never even waited for them to bury him! I saw you! I saw you with Dr Jacklers, when Father was lying there dead on the carpet!’

‘How dare you!’ Myrtle’s voice was no longer girlish. It was full-lunged and hard-edged, like that of an angry cat. ‘Do you think that was vanity? I was fighting for my
family’s survival, and my looks were the only weapon I had! I
needed
Dr Jacklers to say your father’s death was an accident. I
needed
Mr Clay to change the picture, so
that we could use it to dispel rumours back in England. So I was the rich, pretty widow who counted on them, and might be grateful enough to marry them some day.

‘This is a battlefield, Faith! Women find themselves on battlefields, just as men do. We are given no weapons, and cannot be seen to fight. But fight we must, or perish.’

Faith’s face was hot. She had heard her mother’s voice properly for the first time, stripped of coy wit. It was hard, ugly and strong.

‘You disgust me,’ Faith said. Her voice wobbled. She wanted her own words to be true, and they were not.

For a second Myrtle’s face looked hurt and a little childlike, and then the anger surged back.

‘And I barely recognize you!’ Faith’s mother stared at her as though she were on fire. ‘Where did all this anger come from? I have tried so hard with you, Faith, but you
were never company. It was like talking to a sleepwalker—’

‘I was always awake!’ interrupted Faith. ‘I was always angry!’

‘You shut me out!’ There was a tremble in Myrtle’s lip that was not just anger. ‘You are just like your father—’