also by CHARLES PALLISER
The Unburied
Betrayals
The Sensationist
The Quincunx
For Marcus
Contents
Foreword
The Journal of Richard Shenstone: 12th of December 1863 to 13th of January 1864
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Foreword
What follows is my transcription of a document which has lain unnoticed for many years in the County Records Office in Thurchester. It is a Journal which casts light on a murder that attracted national interest at the time but which, since nobody was ever charged with the crime, was subsequently forgotten.
The book in which it is written is a leatherbound quarto volume of three hundred pages of unlined paper of which the Journal takes up two hundred and eighty. At an unknown date in the past someone had pasted into it a number of the anonymous letters relating to the case. I have reproduced them exactly as and where I found them. One of them, however, was not stuck into the Journal but came from another source and it is the last and the most revealing.
This is part of that letter:
That threat was executed in full.
Near the end of the Journal a police-officer reads out a section of that letter but admits that he has not been allowed to see the whole. I was intrigued by that and, wondering if something crucial had been suppressed, I decided to try to find the original. I will return to that topic in my Afterword.
CP.
The Journal of Richard Shenstone:
12th of December 1863 to 13th of January 1864
Saturday 12th of December, 10 o’clock at night.
I’m baffled by Mother’s reception of me. I’m sure she blurted out either William or Willy when I caught her by surprise. But I can’t think of anyone of that name she could have taken me for and I don’t see how she could have been expecting a visitor at such a late hour in this out-of-the-way place. What is even stranger is that she wasn’t pleased to see me.
As for Effie! She was obviously horrified at the sight of her brother.
I wonder how long I will be able to endure this benighted backwater. When I lifted a corner of the curtain and looked out a moment ago I saw nothing but the moon shining palely across the silvery expanse of mud and waves—both so smooth that it’s hard to see where the marsh ends and the sea begins. Nothing. Not a house. Not a light.
I’m astonished that the house is in this state. Almost nothing seems to have been done to make it habitable. Yet they’ve been here for weeks.
And I have lost my trunk! Because that wretched carter who brought me from Thurchester station was afraid of getting stuck in the mud, he forced me to deposit it at a grimy beer-shop along the way. And the brute of a landlord charged me a shilling but would not give me three minutes to unlock it and remove its precious contents. From now on I must keep an account of my expenses and not fall into the old ways. That should not be hard: there is nothing here to spend my money on.
· · ·
Memorandum: OPENING BALANCE: 13s. 4½d. EXPENDITURE: Carriage to Whitminster (2s. 3d.) and storage of trunk at 4d. per diem for three days (1s.) TOTAL EXP: 3s. 3d. FINAL BALANCE: 10s. 1½d.
· · ·
Then 2 hours on foot along a winding muddy way until at last I rounded a threadbare hedgerow and before me lay an inland bay filled by a salt-marsh that spread towards the distant sea like a great black stain of ink on a blotter. In the fading twilight I could just see an ancient house with a muddle of high chimneys like an age-bent hand raised against the grey sky. This truly is the last place in England.
I opened the iron-studded door and found myself in a large hallway with an ancient oak staircase. It had black panelled walls and narrow casement windows. No fire burned in the hearth. The place was so dark and musty that I believed I must have mistaken the house.
I passed through one comfortless chamber after another, ducking my head beneath the low cornices of the doorways. Then in a cramped scullery lit by a flickering oil-lamp, I came suddenly upon a little old woman bent over a sideboard with her back to me. She turned. It was the mater! For a moment she recognised me no better than I had recognised her.
That’s when she said: Willy? I wasn’t expecting you so early.
I said: Who is “Willy”?
Richard? Is that you? Now she sounded frightened.
Who did you think it was, Mother?
She came towards me and I thought she was going to kiss me but she only stretched out her hand and touched my coat as if she thought I were a phantasm.
Who is the “Willy” you expected?
I did not call you “Willy”. You misheard me. I cried out in astonishment because I didn’t think you were coming until after Christmas.
I said: Why weren’t you expecting me?
I thought you were going on a walking holiday.
Didn’t you get my letter?
She shook her head.
I had overtaken it!
I said: Mother, aren’t you glad I’m back?
She came up to me at last and raising herself on tiptoes, she kissed me. Then she stood back and looked at me. You’re thin, Richard. You haven’t been eating well.
It’s odd how one’s mother treats one as an object. She was eyeing me as if I were an old table she was thinking of purchasing. I was almost afraid she would kick my legs to see how they sounded.
Then she said: Stay here. Your sister should know you’ve come.
I was astonished. Effie was here! How could my fastidious sister endure the darkness, the dirt, the lack of gas, of carpets?
I raised my candle. On the sideboard was a neatly folded pile of bed-linen and towels, two pillows—all starched and ironed—and two enamelled metal basins. She watched me looking at them. Was someone unwell?
No, she said, it’s better if I take you to your room first. Where is your trunk?
I had to leave it at The Black Lion. The carrier will bring it when the weather improves.
She turned and led me through a series of dark little rooms.
This is a strange old place, I said as I followed her through low doors and along dark passages. You inherited it when your father died?
She hesitated and then said: Yes. Herriard House is mine. It has been in my family for centuries.
We climbed a staircase and then walked the length of a corridor whose uneven floorboards creaked like twittering birds.
She pushed open a door and showed me into a big gloomy old chamber with a four-poster bed. It smelled musty.
I’ll have the girl bring you some hot water. You’ll want to wash after your long journey.
The girl?
The servant. Betsy.
I suppose none of the old servants could be induced to come out here?
Come down as soon as you’re ready, Richard. We dine early here.
She left me.
After a few minutes there was a mouselike scratching at the door and in came a little creature bent over and carrying a jug of hot water. I could not see her face clearly as she kept it averted. Just to get her to turn round I said: Is your name Bessy?
Without looking up, she muttered: Betsy, sir. Then she scuttled out.
I washed my face and changed my linen and went down the stairs.
As I reached the hall, suddenly there was Effie. She appeared as astonished to see me as I was to encounter her. And, moreover, she had obviously been out in the rain. We stood facing each other in the dim light. She looked as if she were about to attend an evening party: She wore her hair up and was in a dark green velvet gown I’m sure I had never seen before. It left her shoulders perfectly bare and was cut so low that it emphasised her bosom in the most striking manner. Th
ere were raindrops running down her naked shoulders and onto her front and into the top of her bodice. She has become a very handsome girl—tall, black hair, large grey eyes, regular features.
When I was young she had no hesitation in undressing in my presence down to her shift and even beyond that, but one day when I was about twelve she saw me looking at her and I don’t know what she saw on my face but she never did it again.
Without a word she showed me her back and hurried up the stairs.
I found the mater in a large room at the back of the building. She was sitting, as I had seen her a thousand times in the other house, working at an embroidery-frame.
I said: You didn’t tell me we are dressing for dinner.
She said: What are you referring to, Richard?
I told her I had just seen Effie togged up like a costermonger’s wife on a Saturday night.
Then I assume your sister has made a special effort to dress up for you.
Then why did she respond in that way? Like a deer staring at the stalker’s gun and then loping away?
Mother went on: Your sister is a very beautiful young woman and it gives her pleasure to adorn herself. She has had few opportunities to do so since we left town. She added, with a little fluttering smile: She reminds me so much of myself at that age.
As I sat down she asked: Why are you here, Richard? I believed you were going to the Lakes.
As it turned out, I couldn’t afford to.
It seems a shame you should lose that pleasure after what you’ve been through.
Mother, you’re the one who has borne the brunt of it. I should have been by your side for the funeral.
What could you have done? she said almost angrily.
I wish you had told me at the time. You must have known it would be in the newspapers.
She said: I thought it was for the best. I won’t discuss it now.
(For the best! That meant I had the shock of reading about Father’s death in a newspaper.)
I said: Mother, I still don’t know what happened. At the end, I mean.
We’re talking about your holiday, Richard. If it’s a matter of money, I can give you a little.
I’m very grateful, Mother, but it’s too late. Unfortunately, my friend is now unable to go.
She went on with her work and said: It would be better if you went away now and came back when we’ve made the house fit for habitation.
I want to help you do that.
This is women’s work, Richard. You’d be in the way. Why don’t you go and visit Thomas?
That was a surprise. Uncle Thomas? I said. Are you and he in touch now?
I wrote to him, of course, to tell him his brother had died.
(Yet she didn’t write to me!)
And he came to the funeral, she added rather nervously.
He came to the funeral, I repeated. Mother, you sent me that telegram telling me to stay in Cambridge and then I found I had missed the funeral!
Without looking up she said: I didn’t invite Thomas. He came of his own accord. And there were things we had to talk about. Your Cambridge expenses, for example. He undertook to continue to pay them. And that’s why you should go to him now—to thank him for all he is doing for you. And there might be more to follow.
That was a horse I didn’t want to saddle. And why was Mother suddenly favourable towards Uncle T? Even Father could never abide his own brother. Luckily fate came to my aid. Is something burning? I asked.
Almost without knowing it, I had become aware of a dark ancient smell as of things long decaying.
Probably, Mother said, rising to her feet. I’ve left Betsy preparing dinner. I’d better go and try to rescue something edible.
· · ·
She has aged so much. And she seems smaller. Seeing her like that for a few seconds when I believed she was a stranger, I realise that she is an old woman. She doesn’t appear to be looking after herself as she used to. Her hair is straggling and her cheeks pale. She’s wearing some faded old gown that I don’t remember seeing before. What happened in November has added years to her. I wanted to tell her that I loved her but at just that instant she was less motherlike towards me than I have ever known her.
· · ·
I took a candle and went to look for some of Father’s wine in the dark little back-offices around the kitchen.
I struck lucky and located a dozen of Father’s claret in a mouldy cupboard in the smallest scullery. I noticed that the towels and metal pans I had seen earlier had gone.
When I joined Mother in the dining-room she looked meaningfully at the bottle but said nothing.
At last my sister deigned to descend and it was clear that she was late because she had changed out of her fine clothes. Did I get an affectionate greeting and a sisterly kiss? Far from it. She came in and sat down without even looking at me even though it was the first time we’d met since I’d gone away at the beginning of October. Not counting our strange encounter just a few minutes earlier.
I’m very pleased to see you, Effie, I said.
How long, may I enquire, are we to have the pleasure of your company? she asked.
Until I choose to go.
Children, Mother said brightly, we must try to make the best of things.
Richard is doing that already, my sister said pointedly as I raised a glass to my lips.
What’s happened to the rest of Father’s cellar? I asked them. He had some very fine wines. And all the books?
Your priorities are very revealing. The books come a poor second, I see.
We have some of his books, Mother said. I’ve put them in one of the rooms at the back of the house.
Just then Betsy came in to serve the soup and now at last I glimpsed her face. Pale, large brown eyes, a thin mouth compressed as if in secret resolution.
When she had gone I attempted to identify the ingredients: Something of the leather boot has certainly gone into it. And a sprinkling of sawdust with . . .
You’re not being funny, Effie interrupted.
I said very forbearingly: I’m just trying to cheer us up. I know this has been difficult for you, Effie.
What do you know about it? she said. Father’s death has made no difference to your life. Your expenses are being paid at your blessed college, thanks to Uncle Thomas. You’ll go back there in a few weeks, I assume, and Mother and I will still be stuck in this muddy hole. You shouldn’t even be here. Why did you come back so early?
She stopped when Betsy returned to take away the bowls.
Seizing the chance to change the subject, I asked: Have you met any of our new neighbours?
Do you imagine there’s anybody here I would want to know? In this windswept marshland?
There must be some people worth knowing, I said. What about the church in Stratton Peverel? In my experience, where you find a church you find a parson and most of them, whatever their intellectual deficiencies, are at least able to read.
Mother, how long will we have to endure this childish facetiousness? He’s come back more insufferable than ever.
Children, children, the mater said reproachfully.
I’m just saying that I’m sure there must be some society in this neighbourhood to make up for the friends we’ve left behind in the town, I said.
You never even had any friends in Thurchester. Everyone found you queer and eccentric. Apart from that odious creature you befriended at school. Are you claiming him as a friend?
I don’t know how she could ask that. Bartlemew and I had nothing in common at Harrow except that we came from the same town and, since we had won Scholarships, were both despised for being clever.
I said: Mother, why did you come to live out here?
Oh for goodness’ sake! Effie exclaimed.
We’re very poor now, Richard.
I understand that. There is no stipend and of course that makes a difference. But you must have a pension from the Church?
I’m not receiving a pension.
Why
on earth not? It’s been two months.
This isn’t the moment to talk about it, Mother said and glanced towards Betsy who had just come in carrying a large dish with a lid. She removed it and scurried out as if she wanted to be clear of the room before we could hold her to account. We all stared at our dinner. Some black lumps floated in a thick slurry of grease. Mother poked the contents nervously with a big spoon and then served it. It tasted no better than it looked.
Euphemia suddenly asked: Why aren’t you in the Lake District? You weren’t expected for another week.
Richard won’t be here long, Mother said. He’s going to visit Uncle Thomas.
How soon? my sister asked.
This was alarming. I said: Mother, I have no cash and I can’t think of taking money from you now. I added for my own amusement: Uncle Thomas will have to be patient.
I’ll decide what I can afford to give you, Richard, Mother said sharply. Then, as if to soften the effect of her words, she went on: You’ll be here until Monday at least so you’ll see what society this place has to offer when we go to church tomorrow.
I must have frowned because she went on: The Rector has two rather pretty daughters and both of them are about your age.
No, surely, Mother, Effie cut in. One is only fourteen or fifteen and the other about a year my junior.
As I said, my dear, they are about your brother’s age.
Hardly, Mother, I pointed out. You can’t imagine I’d have anything to say to a schoolgirl of fourteen.
And by the same token, Effie said quickly, the elder girl won’t be interested in a boy of seventeen.
Seventeen and a half, I pointed out. Will there be anyone else worth wading through the mud for?
There’s a lady who comes to church in a veil, Mother said. She has one of those fine old houses on the Green. And lives alone, it seems. I mean, with just her servants.
I said: Well, I’m intrigued.
Then you can represent the family if it’s raining tomorrow and you’ll probably see her, Mother said.
I’ll go whatever the weather, my sister said.