The Silence (17 page)

The facts of my house, which I am setting down against future need are these:

In October 1899, following the death of my dear wife six months earlier, I commissioned plans for a residence from a Derby architect, Mr Archibald Filbert. Working to those plans, Mr Burlap began construction in the spring of 1900.

The house is to be called Stilter House and its address will be Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor, in the county of Derbyshire.

Work on Stilter House was slightly delayed due to Mr Burlap’s having suffered a brief illness. I did not, of course, ask what it was. There should be a seemly reticence about ailments. So I merely record that I am glad Mr Burlap recovered from his affliction in good time, and that during his absence Mr Filbert was able to oversee the work.

Do I deserve this wonderful new house, this “gentleman’s residence”? Dammit, I do. If I am not precisely a gentleman born and bred, I’ve worked hard and I’ve saved hard and I
do
deserve this. I denied myself things as a young man in order to save my money – things most young men regard as their right. Clothes, the occasional drink, a modest supper with friends. Even an evening at a music hall.

Esmond’s mother, of course, came from a different stratum of society; her family said she married beneath her. “Trade” they said about me, disparagingly, and were very cool and distant to her after our marriage. She was never bitter, though, at least I never saw any signs of it. She retained her gentility and her refinement until her death. I was pleased about that, and it did me no harm with business friends. Often, after a dinner party, she would play the piano to them, and they were always appreciative and admiring.

After she died her family would have nothing to do with me at all, and I, in retaliation, swore they should have nothing to do with Esmond. And wasn’t it better that way anyway? Isn’t it better that Esmond is kept safe and kept close, in this isolated rural pocket of the countryside? Isn’t that my whole plan, for pity’s sake! He must be kept in silence, in
silence, in SILENCE . . .
In Holland the word for silence is
stilte.
I know that – I have acquired a smattering of Dutch – also German – from my dealings with both countries. That’s why I’m calling my house Stilter House. No one here will know what that word,
Stilter,
means, but I shall know. It means Silence. This house is really Silence House.

Friday 24th: Today I commissioned Carter Paterson to pack all the furniture and belongings in this house, and transport it all to Caudle Moor in two weeks’ time. The house is completed and Burlap has done a good job. Stilter House is sound and sturdy and filled with the scents of new timber.

The landlord of the local inn – Mr Poulson of The Pheasant – has undertaken to see to the engaging of domestic staff – that is to say his wife has agreed to do so. They are both Caudle people, born and bred, and have family and friends in the area. I do not think they will cheat me, or hire unsuitable servants.

I have written to the local sawbones – a Dr Brodworthy who apparently inherited the practice from his father, and is said to be well regarded. I received a courteous response from him, which I shall include in this file.

I had closed and put away this file, but have reopened it this evening to add other papers. Recent events are, after all, as much a part of the house’s history as the registering of the land and the building of the walls.

The copies of the three statements made to the police describe the events of last Tuesday evening – the 10th. It seems prudent to keep a private account – one day I may be glad to reread the statements, my own in particular, which I set down while my mind was clear. Or do the mad believe themselves clear in mind . . .?

The main facts are plain enough, though. I had just finished dinner, that is the first solid fact. I remember thinking that the two servants found by Mrs Poulson were proving excellent. I had had a half bottle of Chablis with my dinner – I am a fairly abstemious man, but even the Bible allows a little wine for the stomach’s sake. I am not sure if the Bible also allows a modest measure of brandy to follow, but that is what I had, regardless of Biblical approval. I was not, however, in the least affected by either the wine or the brandy.

Esmond was in bed. He had gone to his room apparently quiet and contented – probably because he had had a music lesson with Mr John Bundy. Esmond has taken to Bundy who, for his part, appears in accord with the boy and unworried by him. (This is a great relief to me, although in the privacy of these notes, I confess it occasionally disturbs me very much to see him seated at the piano in the way his mother used to be, and to hear his attempts at pieces she used to play with such ease.)

The piano lessons seem to have progressed amicably, although to pursue my afternoon’s tasks to repeated scales and arpeggios is not what I should have chosen. Happily, however, Mr Bundy generally ends the lessons with a selection of simplified light pieces, including, I believe, some Chopin, which Esmond particularly likes playing and which is certainly very pleasing to the ear. I appreciated Bundy’s care in finding out Esmond’s preferences, and have said so to the man. Indeed, we have discussed the possibility of Bundy undertaking more of Esmond’s education, since he has several years’ experience of teaching in a boys’ school.

After dinner I wrote a few business letters, the outcome of perusing the quarterly accounts sent me that very day. The company I founded all those years ago is in healthy shape, and although since my wife’s death I have taken a less active part in the day-to-day management, I have retained my place on the Board.

Those, too, are sound facts and they reassure me, for I do not believe I could have studied columns of figures and understood them if I had been suffering any kind of brain seizure.

The copies had to be sworn before a Notary Public, but Sergeant Kiddimore raised no objections, and a suitable local solicitor was easily found.

Statement made by Mr Ralph West of Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.

Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.

Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public

On the evening of Tuesday 10th I was in my drawing room after dinner, writing letters. My son, Esmond, was in bed and my two servants were in their own quarters at the rear of the house.

At about nine o’clock I heard what seemed to be a tapping on the window. It was very light and soft, and at first I thought it was merely a tree branch, disturbed by the wind.

But the tapping came again. It was not loud enough to be someone wanting to attract my attention; rather it was the soft furtive sound of someone wanting to see if there was anyone in the room before breaking in. In case an intruder was prowling around, I opened the curtains to look out. The gas supply had flickered during the evening as it so often does, making the light rather poor, but I assured myself no one was outside and returned to my letters.

The tapping ceased, but I had the strong impression that I was being watched and I could not dismiss the suspicion that someone might be standing outside the window, just beyond my sight. I was making up my mind to investigate further, when the floorboards outside the drawing room creaked.

This ought not to have been alarming. The logical explanation was that the parlourmaid was making a round of the house to close curtains and make sure all doors were locked. Perhaps she was even putting out candles against a complete failure of the gas, which was still dipping and flickering. But there was a soft, stealthy sound to the steps, as if someone did not want to be heard. I was uncomfortably aware that I was in the house with only two female servants – one not young – and my nine-year-old son in bed upstairs.

As I crossed the room to the door, another sound broke the silence – a sound that was so unexpected, but so familiar I ceased to be alarmed. Someone was playing the piano.

I immediately assumed Esmond had crept downstairs and into the music room, and that the footsteps I heard earlier were his. However, half past nine of an evening is not the proper time for a child to be practising the piano, so I accordingly went along to remonstrate with him.

The flickering gas mantles in the hall made the shadows creep and shiver, and the hall seemed unnervingly filled with stealthy movement. Earlier I had felt reassured by the music, but I was starting to be increasingly uneasy, because it was being played with far more skill than Esmond could manage. I was not overly concerned about burglars though, for the average housebreaker was unlikely to sit down at the piano and play Chopin.

The gas mantles in the music room were turned low, and the curtains were open to the garden. The light was strange – the smoky blue twilight was edged with red from the gas jets, but I was able to see the silhouette of the pianist framed in the windows. I could not see the features, but it certainly was not Esmond. It was a woman, and she was so deeply absorbed in her playing she was unaware of me.

I admit that at this point I was prepared to defend my home against this, or any other, intruder. But I could not use violence against a woman. Also, I could not believe any sane person would come into a strange house and start playing a piano, and, if this was some poor witless creature, I was chary of doing anything that might spark her into madness. I believe the insane have their own strength.

So I went quietly up to the piano, and put out my hand, thinking to take her arm and bring her to her senses – that is to say, to what senses she might possess. But as my fingers closed on her arm, I felt the most extraordinary sense of revulsion. Her skin was so cold and strange – like no flesh I ever touched – that I recoiled. And
still
she seemed unaware of me,
still
she continued to pour out her music.

I backed away to the door, intending to call to my servants, and to telephone to the local police for help. Then I saw that a second woman was standing outside the French windows, looking in. I could not make out her features, but I could see she was thin and from the way she moved I think she was not very young, although not old. A lady in her late thirties or early forties, perhaps. What I can be sure of is that she was watching the pianist with the most extreme intensity I have ever seen.

Before I could decide what best to do, the woman in the garden pushed open the French door and stepped inside. She held some kind of weapon – I cannot describe it, for it was not like anything I have ever seen. I could not sketch it, either. I can only say it looked as if it was made of iron and that it was not very large and appeared to be a semicircular shape. Perhaps it was the size of two handspans. I assumed it was some sort of restraining device, although I cannot imagine how it would work.

The woman crept forward, clearly not wanting to alert the pianist to her presence, and there was such menace about her that I drew breath to call out a warning. But I was too late. Her entry into the room brought a gust of wind from outside, and the curtains framing the French window, which hitherto had hung down limply, billowed out, obscuring both women. The gas jets flickered and went out.

It was barely two minutes before I found candles and the tinder box, but it was sufficient time for the pianist to escape and the woman with the iron contraption to go after her. I did not see them go, but they must have darted into the garden – that is the only possible explanation.

I certainly went after them, but I did not explore the gardens very thoroughly. I hope I am as courageous as any man, but I was convinced that the pianist had been some poor mad creature, perhaps escaped from a local institution. If so, the woman outside the house would be her keeper or even someone from her family, trying to recapture her. My first duty, as I saw it, was to ensure that my son and the two servants were safe. I went into my son’s room, then to the scullery where the two women were making their evening cocoa, and then telephoned to the police station.

I should liked it placed on record that Sergeant Kiddimore arrived promptly at the house, in company with a constable, and they made a thorough search of the house and gardens, finding nothing, but arranging for a constable to remain in the grounds overnight. They were courteous and efficient to me and my household, and considerate towards my son.

Signed: Ralph West

Statement made by Mrs Martha Hatfull, Cook and Housekeeper at Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.

Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.

Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public

I was sat in the scullery with Vi – that is Violet Needle – and the steak and kidney for tomorrow’s dinner had just simmered down nicely, which I was making on account of the master having two business friends coming to the house, and him asking particular for steak and kidney pudding, since one of them is a foreign gentleman the master has business dealings with as I understand it, and wanting to give them a real English dinner.

The kitchen clock had just chimed the quarter before ten and those pesky gaslights were going as they’re always doing. Violet and me was thinking it was time for our cocoa, when the master came in to tell us there had been an intruder.

‘Oh sir,’ I said, all alarmed, ‘is Master Esmond all right?’

But the master said everything was all right, so we went to the drawing room, and Sergeant Kiddimore come up to the house, which the master had telephoned him. We had to tell how we had been in the scullery all evening and say if we had heard any intruder, which we had not, for we had both been there ever since clearing away the master’s dinner at half past eight.

I was took all of a tremble afterwards, particularly when the master said a policeman would be in the grounds all night. Police in the house is not what I am accustomed to, having always worked in well-run, godly houses, and I had to have a nip of gin and a hot water bottle to my feet in bed or I should not have slept a wink.

I would like it wrote down that I am very happy with my position at Stilter House, having come from my previous place in Ashbourne where I was cook to Sir Gervais Warrenby, who died at Christmas, and now with Mr West since March.

Signed: Martha Hatfull, Cook

Statement made by Violet Needle, parlourmaid at Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.

Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.

Copy attested and sworn by Mr J Hurst, solicitor and Notary Public

I am house parlourmaid at Stilter House, and I was in the scullery all evening, having cleared away and washed up after the master’s dinner.

Me and cook – Mrs Hatfull, that is – had been making the steak and kidney pudding for tomorrow’s guests. I was just chopping the suet so as to have everything well forward, when the master told us somebody had broken in, but he had seen them off. He said the police was coming to the house and would want to talk to us.

Me and cook hadn’t seen nor heard nothing at all, save it might be the steak and kidney bubbling over on the stove once on account of the heat being too high, but we wouldn’t have heard anything going on at the front of the house, even if the entire 95th Derbyshire regiment had broke in, not that I would have minded that, on account of my young man being a lance corporal and off to fight the Boers any day.

I have been house parlourmaid here since the master moved in. It is a very nice place and the house lovely, saving it being built on the old Acton land. Everyone hereabouts knows about the wicked Isobel Acton who killed her husband. My mother, who was born in Caudle Moor says Isobel walks the land to this day, and folk sometimes hear her playing her piano music like she did after she poisoned her husband, the heartless hussy.

My mother says I’m to give my notice to the master, for if Isobel Acton is getting into the house of a night I won’t be safe in my bed, and better I should work as a skivvy in a house where the dead don’t walk, than be a parlourmaid with a frilly cap and apron in a place where the ghosts of murderers climb in through locked windows and play pianos.

Signed: Violet Needle, house parlourmaid