The Silence (18 page)
Authors: Sarah Rayne
The next letters were typed, and were in very smudged blue ink, which left marks on Michael’s fingers when he picked them up. It took him several moments to realize that they must be early carbon copies; he had a half memory of someone in Oxford writing a rather tedious paper on late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century office procedures, and citing the use of early copying techniques, including carbon paper which had recently come into circulation. Michael’s crony in the history faculty, Owen Bracegirdle, who believed research did not need to be dull, had composed an unofficial riposte, painting a lively picture of several of the great diarists wrestling with carbon paper and photocopiers and fax machines. The article had unaccountably found its way to one of the more satirical student newspapers, incurring the wrath of the proctor, and Owen had been reproved, although the proctor had privately admitted to enjoying the descriptions of Samuel Pepys swearing when a copier chewed up his description of the Fire of London.
Michael grinned at the memory, and turned to Ralph West’s carbons, which were faded and blurred, but readable.
To: Farthing’s Domestic Agency, Derby
Dear Sir or Madam,
I should be obliged if you would arrange to provide me with a good, properly trained house parlourmaid at the earliest possible opportunity.
The household is small and consists of myself and my young son. I employ a cook, and local help three times a week for heavier cleaning. There is a little entertaining, mostly small luncheon or dinner parties, seldom more than six or eight persons, and occasional weekend guests, usually no more than three persons at a time.
Salary is £20 a year, all found, with every Sunday off and every Wednesday afternoon.
Your early reply would oblige.
Yours faithfully,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Mr John Bundy
Dear Mr Bundy,
Pursuant to our discussion of yesterday’s date, I am happy to confirm that as discussed you will undertake my son Esmond’s education in the area of literature, history, geography, and arithmetic. As you suggest, a suitable tutor for French and possibly German can be found in a year or two, when matters can be reviewed.
The salary agreed (£50 a year) will be paid to you each Quarter Day, and your hours in the schoolroom will be nine in the morning until three in the afternoon, with an hour for luncheon at midday, which will be served in the morning room. Esmond will be set suitable homework tasks for weekends and other holiday times.
Your written acceptance of this will oblige.
I am, sir, yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
From: Mr J Bundy
To: Mr R West,
Dear Sir,
I am very happy to accept the supervision of Esmond’s education for the next two years, and your terms are agreeable to me.
Despite his affliction, Esmond is a bright, intelligent and sensitive boy, and I have high hopes that a suitable path in life can be forged for him. In particular, his music develops apace, and I believe he has a rare gift, the nurturing of which is affording me great pleasure and satisfaction.
Yours truly,
John Bundy
From: Farthing’s Domestic Agency, Derby
To: Ralph West Esq.
Sir,
In the past three months we have supplied four parlourmaids for employment in your house. As you know, all have given their notice and left after only a very short time. We give below a summary:
Mary Pod: In your service for one month. Left because could not be doing with caterwauling music at all hours of the night and gloomy rooms where the gaslight never properly worked so you couldn’t hardly see your hand in front of your face.
Eliza Littledyke: In your service for three weeks. Left because it was ever such a scary place, with folk wandering around the gardens of a night, and Master Esmond not like any natural child a person ever met before.
Rosie Hannaford: In your service for one week. Left because it was a long way to the village and not so much as an omnibus to take a girl anywhere, nor shops. (Note from Farthing’s: Miss Hannaford has since obtained employment in Kendals Department Store in Manchester, selling bath salts and face creams, and clearly was not intended by nature to be a parlourmaid. We have removed her from our books).
Polly Waterside: In your service for two weeks. Left because bits of music paper got scattered around never mind how many times you tidied them away, and a piano playing by itself, as well as the gas suddenly dying and plunging a person into darkness, which isn’t something a person likes.
I am sorry to tell you I do not feel we can provide you with any more domestic help. Indeed, perhaps you may be better served by employing local girls.
Have you ever considered having the electricity brought to your house?
I remain, sir, your obedient servant,
S Mackling
(For and on behalf of Farthing’s Domestic Agency, est.1880)
To: Derby Gas, Coke and Light Company
Sir,
I write to protest in the strongest possible terms about the gas supply to my house. It is erratic and weak, and on a number of occasions has plunged my household into a Stygian darkness, which is both inconvenient and dangerous. I have employed a person knowledgeable in gas fittings to inspect all the gas mantles and cooking facilities, and he reports that all are in excellent working order.
At a time when you are trumpeting your expansion into other areas, it is sad to find that you cannot provide a reliable gas source to your existing customers.
If the situation does not improve within one month I shall be forced to transfer my custom to an electricity company, which, I venture to suggest, may result in loss of business to yourselves, since it would make electricity power available to a great many people in this area.
I await your comments with interest.
Yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Mr Alfred Frinton,
Piano Tuner of Ashbourne.
Sir,
I should be obliged if you would arrange to call on me at your earliest opportunity to tune a piano, which is, I believe, of a size termed a boudoir grand. It has developed a disconcerting habit of emitting sounds – actual musical chords and notes – when no one is playing it. This is upsetting to my servants, and I should wish to remedy matters as soon as possible.
The piano is a Broadwood, and has been carefully looked after. It was brought from my previous home in Derby and had belonged to my late wife. It was, of course, tuned after being moved to Caudle Moor, but I suspect the tuning may not have been sufficiently thorough. I am advised by my son’s music teacher that the
equal temperament
may be misaligned, and that the interaction among the notes of the chromatic scale may need adjusting. I hope I have these technical terms correctly.
Your early attention would be appreciated.
Yours truly,
Ralph West Esq.
To: Prebendary, the Rt Reverend Edgar Gilfillan.
My Dear Prebendary Gilfillan,
I am in receipt of your most recent missive, and wish to thank you for your concern. However, I feel myself perfectly able to deal with problems on my own land, and can give no real credence to the various legends attached to the place – interesting though they may be.
Perhaps, therefore, you will do me the courtesy of refraining from further approaches of this nature.
With kind regards,
I am, sir,
Yours truly,
Ralph West, Esq.
Michael laid these pages down thoughtfully, and leaned back against the windowpane, staring unseeingly at the gardens beyond.
It was a curious tale that had unfolded – although it was surely only a portion of the whole. Even though the police statements were couched in flat, official police language, the characters of the main players came over vividly. The young Violet Needle’s account of Isobel Acton walking the land could be put down to the credulous mind of a village girl. Subsequent reports from her replacements could have been influenced by local gossip. But Ralph West was neither credulous nor village-bred and was unlikely to have heard or listened to local gossip. Michael, rereading Ralph’s statement, had the impression that Ralph, while conscientiously telling the truth, had been striving to keep the incident within the boundaries of normality.
The description of the woman who had tapped at the window and had carried some kind of iron weapon almost exactly matched Nell’s account of what she and Beth had seen. Michael was able to dismiss the possibility that Nell had read Ralph’s statement or been told of it. If Nell had known about Ralph’s encounter, she would have said so.
But they all heard the music, thought Michael, uneasily. I heard it, too. He picked up Violet’s statement again. Violet had said that Isobel walked the land and that people sometimes heard her playing piano music.
Like she did after she poisoned her husband
, Violet had asserted
.
It sounded like a typical old country ghost tale, part truth, part legend, part embroidery of facts by succeeding generations.
Yes, but Isobel had existed, and Nell had said she had been tried for her husband’s murder at The Pheasant. The Pheasant said so, too; they had seemed rather proud of that fragment of the building’s history. Would records of the trial still exist?
There was one more letter left in Ralph’s file, and it bore the heading of Dr Brodworthy’s surgery.
My Dear Sir,
I beg to enclose the report from Sir William Minching whose consulting rooms you attended last week, in company with Master Esmond. You will see Sir William has addressed the report directly to you.
I do not know if you will find it of help, but it is certainly interesting.
With kind regards,
I am yours faithfully,
E. Brodworthy. M.D.
Report on Master Esmond West.
I find Esmond West a perceptive and sensitive child. He appears to be of slightly above average intelligence for his age.
The usual methods of approach to a child are through games, school, school friends, and hobbies – but because of Esmond’s affliction none of these were possible. He is, however, devoted to his music, and is also quite widely read. I was able to elicit that a particularly favourite book is
The Water Babies
by Charles Kingsley. Having the book on my own shelves, left during a nephew’s visit to my house, I used this to try to reach him. After some initial suspicion, he seemed – albeit cautiously – to accept me as someone he might trust.
The book’s concept of a child who finds itself in an alien environment (i.e. below the water, having drowned), but later earns the right to return to the world of humans, seems to exert a fascination on Esmond. The description of the humans who ‘do as they like’ in the story, but who consequently lose the power of speech, also appears to have a strong hold on his imagination.
Having studied the book’s illustrations with him, I then suggested he might try his hand at drawing some of his own illustrations – not of
The Water Babies
, but of his own life. At first he seemed unsure what was required of him, so I explained he might draw anything he liked, but I should very much like to see a picture of the house where he lived, and also the things he liked to do. For example, I had been told he enjoyed his piano lessons. This found favour, and my nurse provided drawing paper and a selection of the coloured chalks and crayons I keep for my young patients, then we left him alone, with a glass of lemonade and some sweet biscuits.
I returned to the room after three quarters of an hour.
The drawings Esmond did during that time are a salutary indication of his state of mind.
There are four sketches. Superficially they are mere childish scribbles – although he may have a latent gift for drawing which you might care to allow to develop, for he has the trick of conveying life and movement in his figures.
The drawings seem to form a definite sequence, which is unusual in a boy of this age. The first is of a lady seated at a piano. A child – clearly intended to represent Esmond – is standing with her, either singing to the piano music or just listening to it. It is not a very good drawing, but the main details are easy enough to discern.
The second picture is better, and is of the same lady lying prone – either on a bed or sofa. Scarlet marks disfigure her face and neck, and two figures, a man and a child, stand over her. The lady in both these drawings I believe to be Esmond’s mother, who I understand passed away some eighteen months ago. It seems reasonable to assume the two figures are Esmond and yourself.
The third picture is of the same child sitting at the same piano, but the room in this sketch is very different, and I think it may be your new residence in Caudle Moor. There are open windows behind him, and Esmond has sketched in trees and bushes. However, when I examined this drawing more closely, I saw that woven into the trees was the unmistakable figure of a woman – a thin lady, only partly formed, so that it was hard to make out where the trees ended and her outline began.
The fourth picture is the one that seems to me to provide the key to Esmond’s affliction, for, in this one, the amorphous female has taken definite shape and is standing in the open doorway of the room, with the child at the piano. Even in the childish sketch it is possible to see the fierce concentration the boy is bringing to bear on his playing, and also the fact that his head is tilted towards the open window in an unmistakable attitude of the most intense longing.
It is my conclusion that Esmond is in some way convinced he can bring his mother back to life through music – perhaps music she used to play. I have no notion as to where he could have acquired this idea; bringing the dead back to life through music is not, as far as I know, a legend or a myth that appears anywhere in children’s fiction or, indeed, in any other fiction.
I do not, of course, know the circumstances of your wife’s passing, but the second drawing suggests Esmond was there when she died. That is something that would have a very great effect on a sensitive child of seven or eight (as he was at the time). It may help to talk to him about his mother’s death – to emphasize the happier side of death, if you can possibly do so. If you find that too distressing, perhaps there is a family friend, doctor or clergyman who could do so. The Christian side – for instance the certain belief that she will be reunited with others who have passed over – could be stressed to him.
Before Esmond left, I examined what I will call the death sketch more closely. What I found disturbs me greatly. Esmond had managed to draw several pieces of furniture fairly recognizably – table, chairs, and so on. On the wall behind the dying or dead woman, is what I take to be a tapestry or a large framed piece of embroidery, not depicting an actual scene, but simply a pattern made up of scrolls and curlicues. Within the scrolls Esmond has drawn, in heavy black pencil, two narrow, slanting slits. Through those slits, quite unmistakably, eyes look out.
I drew his attention to this, saying I found it quite unusual, and asking why he had shown eyes there. Surely there had been no eyes in the tapestry, I said.
He stared at the sketch for a long time, as if puzzled as to how they had got there. Then he reached for the pencil again. Carefully and deliberately he wrote this:
The Eyes told me I must never speak.
I believe this is why Esmond never speaks. There is no physical defect to prevent him talking, and by your admission, he possessed normal speech until his mother’s death. You have told me that your previous doctor in Derby suggested the shock of her death could have caused the condition, which is known as mutism. However, I would take that a step further, and say it is directly attributable to his having seen something connected with her death. Whatever he saw, someone told him very forcibly that he must never speak of it. I cannot dismiss the idea that someone was in the room when she died, and if the evidence of Esmond’s drawings and his written statement that ‘The Eyes’ told him he must never speak, can be trusted, it might be that someone was hiding behind a screen, watching. Whoever it was, that person told him he must never speak of what he had seen, and Esmond was so terrified he has never spoken since.
There will, I am sure, be a normal explanation. Perhaps a nurse was measuring medication behind a screen, or perhaps a clergyman was preparing for the Last Rites. However, I hope, sir, you will forgive my asking a question which may be of vital help in reaching Esmond. The question is simply this: how, and in what circumstances, did Mrs West die?
I would be happy to arrange another session with Esmond if you should wish. Perhaps you will communicate with me if you decide in favour of that.