The Prophet, page 17
No, in the same slow and painful fashion, the ghastly woman raised her head. Tabitha saw the lower half of a chalk-white face, the chin bound up by a burial band to stop the jaw from dropping. Two long plaits hung past the shoulders. It was the thin grey hair that she remembered combing so well.
She struggled to gather her breath. Her eyes kept losing focus. ‘Mother,’ she uttered at last.
‘But she is dead …’ Nat insisted. It was true, her mother had been dead this last year and yet it seemed she sat here upon a solid wooden chair. Nat left her side and went to try the door into the chantry. ‘It’s locked,’ he shouted. ‘No key.’
Tabitha shrank back. If the door could be opened, did she have the courage for a reunion with her dead mother? Perhaps. Yes, for her mother had come to warn her of danger, she was sure of it.
‘Is there another way in?’ she asked. She looked back towards Gunn but he still sat silently sleeping. The boy was cringing by the chapel door, eager to escape, still grasping his fiery torch.
‘The only other way inside is up some stairs from the crypt,’ Nat said.
That was an even greater horror. She could not bear to think that her mother had climbed up slick black stairs from out of the cold earth. Yet still she was resolute. For her child’s sake she must hear her mother’s warning.
‘Or we could break this window,’ he suggested.
‘Do it.’ She leaned against the cold wall feeling queasy. Nat searched about and found a stout rod of iron. Then, ushering her out of the way, he swung it at the latticed glass and a score of small panes broke and fell tinkling to the ground.
‘Wait!’ Tabitha raised her arm to halt him and stumbled towards the broken window. At last she looked through the holes in the empty lead frame and saw the figure with her own eyes. Her mother appeared shrunken in size, wrapped in a ragged burial shroud that was stained yellow and filthy brown.
Tabitha spoke into the darkness of the chantry. ‘Mother. Who is my enemy?’
She held her breath. There was no disputing that the true Widow Hart was dead. Yet still this figure spoke. In a high, reedy voice the skeletal figure uttered one word: ‘Salvation.’
‘Don’t look,’ Nat muttered. ‘We should leave at once.’
Standing so much closer than Nat she could see every contour of the woman’s rags and pitiful shape. And as clear as day she also saw the contour of the carved back of the chair. As if in a nightmare she could see both the woman’s torso and the back of the chair on which she sat. Lord God in Heaven, she could see straight through the insubstantial substance of her mother’s body. Her fingers clawed at the wall. What she was seeing was not a trick but supernatural – a transparent wraith or a phantom. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. Her legs weakened; her vision grew dark. Though Nat tried to catch his wife as she fell, with a little cry Tabitha crumpled down on to the cold stone floor.
THIRTY-EIGHT
These signs will appear by the Prophet foretold,
Come Midsummer’s Day in the world of old.
The New Prophet of the Forest
‘No!’ Nat sank to the floor beside the motionless body of his wife. Pressing clumsy fingers to her throat he found her pulse ran fast although her skin was cool and waxy. What had he been thinking? He ran to the door and jangled the old chapel bell, calling the alarm.
The next few hours he felt himself to be buffeted like a small bird on a storm. Higgott and Tom helped carry Tabitha upstairs to the solar. Doctor Caldwell was sent for but delayed by another case. When the doctor arrived after midnight Nat dismissed the servants and tried to explain how it was his wife lay senseless.
The doctor rounded upon him. ‘What the devil was Mrs De Vallory doing in that unwholesome chapel of yours?’
‘I was apprehensive of that preacher Gunn’s prophecy. So I tried to draw him out—’
Caldwell left off his examination of Tabitha to glower in disapproval. ‘And Gunn was doing what, exactly?’
‘Demonstrating his powers of prophecy.’
‘After all my sound advice, you allowed your pregnant wife to attend this … performance?’
Nat gave a mute nod.
‘So, to be clear. What exactly precipitated your wife’s collapse?’
‘She had a shock,’ Nat murmured. ‘A spirit appeared.’
Caldwell’s paunchy face grew rigid with contempt. ‘I have heard of this preacher fellow. I suppose he played some charlatan’s trick upon you?’
Nat was not entirely sure what had happened. ‘The spirit was alive. Clearly moving, yet most apparently a corpse.’
Caldwell harrumphed indignantly. ‘You do understand you have gravely endangered your wife and child? Her heart is greatly overexerted. Has she complained of late, of any troubling symptoms?’
Nat was at first baffled. Then a series of tiny observations sprang to mind. ‘She has been agitated. Yet that I fear is my fault. And breathless. I believe the baby is pressing up into her lungs. And tonight she complained of cold.’
‘So, your wife has been cold, short of breath, her heart overworked? You did not think to call me?’
‘I did not know …’ Nat mumbled. ‘My God, is she in danger?’
‘I must bleed her. After that we can only hope and pray for the best.’
Nat stared at the floor while Caldwell unpacked a case of scarification tools. Tabitha tossed her head a few times but gave no sign of waking. Even above Caldwell’s mutterings he could still hear Gunn’s voice ringing out in his mind. ‘The child will live. But there is danger.’ No one could argue with those prophetic words now.
Nat had a bed moved beside Tabitha’s four-poster and for the next twenty-four hours he would not leave her side. He fretted and dozed and wandered in his mind, while Sukey Adams kept vigil by the fireside. Dazedly, he observed the nursemaid: when not busy with her needle, she bathed Tabitha with scented waters, changed her shifts and bedclothes, and succeeded in feeding his wife spoonfuls of strengthening beef tea. She was a comforting figure in her neat blue gown and voluminous white apron. His decision not to dismiss her stood alone as one of the few sensible actions he had taken over recent weeks. He entirely forgave her indiscretion on his return from Langley Hall, for surely an abandoned wife could succumb to loneliness?
‘Your wife is no worse,’ the doctor announced at his next evening visit. ‘I believe she suffers from a chloritic condition and her heart may be weakened. My apothecary is preparing a syrup of iron to give her strength. And thankfully, the child still lives.’
Tabitha only slowly regained her strength, occasionally opening her eyes and making little sighs and murmurs. The apothecary’s potion arrived, a sweet syrup of wine in which iron filings had been steeped and then removed. Obediently, Tabitha sipped it and seemed to gain a little colour. Yet in reply to Nat’s entreaties, Caldwell insisted there was still no sign of the child’s arrival. ‘And a good thing, too. The longer your wife can rest and recover her strength, the better chance she will have of a successful travail.’
Nat sat caressing her hand when Tabitha first opened her eyes and spoke.
‘Nat,’ she whispered, moving her hand awkwardly towards him.
‘My love.’ He dropped to his knees beside the bed and pressed her cool fingers to his mouth. ‘I am so sorry.’
A smile fluttered on her lips. ‘Is it over now?’
‘All is well. Our baby is still safe.’
She sank back on to the bolster, looking weary. ‘Good,’ she said softly. ‘Now I can sleep again. Kiss me, Nat.’
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Then he thanked the Lord he had been saved from the consequences of his own folly.
Later that day, Tabitha sat up in bed and ate a little mutton jelly. With Mrs Adams watching over her, Nat left the solar for the first time and headed to the chapel. Lighting an oil lamp, he re-entered the high arched chamber, struck by its expectant air, as of a stage play suddenly interrupted. He inspected the area where Gunn had sat in apparent deep sleep. He could find no sign of mischief. Then, walking over to the chantry window, his boots crunched on the diamond twinkles of broken glass. Peering through the broken lead frame he could see nothing save for darkness. He tried the door and as before, it was securely locked. This time, he seized the iron rod he had abandoned on solstice night and attacked the ancient door with gusto. It felt good to hit an object so devilish hard, and he had soon splintered the ancient wood and struck away the lock. When the door creaked open, he ventured inside,
On first inspection the small chapel was as he remembered it. There stood the chair upon which Tabitha and he had watched the spirit sink down. He touched its cool surface; it was a solid chair. He sat upon it and it bore his weight easily. Next, he searched the small room inch by inch. He found two further matching chairs in the corner. Beside them was a heap of abandoned rubble: broken furniture, a funeral bier, a lectern, and what looked like a glasshouse window. He moved to the chantry altar where the alabaster figure of a long dead De Vallory knight reclined in full armour. Nat had no recollection of seeing the effigy before, nor of noticing the elaborate fan-vaulted ceiling. He touched the knight’s cold gauntlet with his fingertips. The effigy had reclined there for centuries; it was securely plastered into an ornate funerary arch.
Nevertheless, his uncertain memory recalled only the ghostly figure hobbling across the room exuding its own sickly illumination. This was most curious. Could the visitation of a spirit overwhelm the human mind and alter human perception? Raising the lamp above the altar he noticed a short thread of black cloth snagged on a barbed excrescence of stone. Inspecting it under the lamp’s glow he saw it was a thread of black wool about an inch long. This was clearly no relic of his mouldering ancestors but fresh and clean. Carefully, he tucked it inside his pocketbook.
As he had suspected, there was a second exit from the room by a low door which he supposed was the entrance to the crypt. When he tried the door it swung open, revealing a hole as uninviting as a dungeon. Slowly, he descended steep stone steps that dropped into the ground, ducking his head to avoid the arched roof which hung with dripping lichens. At last he reached an uneven paved floor. The air tasted sweetly putrid and was as cold as a cave. He was in a low stone chamber perhaps half the size of the chapel, paved with unwholesomely gleaming flagstones. He did not like to wonder what that fluid might be, for against the walls stood deep shelves that had once stored the dead. Nevertheless, in a few minutes he had inspected each dark corner and found no other exit, not even a trapdoor. Neither did any coffins remain, save for one imposing stone sarcophagus standing against the furthest wall. He began to inspect it, noting that the heavy lid had been pulled aside. He lowered the lamp to look into its interior. Something – or someone – was lying inside. Catching his breath, he waited, not certain if the bundled shape would move. When nothing stirred, he lowered the golden light of his lamp so it illuminated a mass of stained rags, much like those the spirit had worn when moving across the chapel. Not having the stomach to touch the bundle, he pulled a penknife from his coat and tentatively poked at the rags. Good. The death shroud no longer contained an entity. Cautiously, he cut a scrap of fabric and put it in his coat pocket.
Desperate to leave he took one last look about himself, into the impenetrable blackness beyond his lamp. He felt a momentary jolt to his senses, as if he had fallen into a bottomless pit or other great void. And it seemed to Nat that this physical loss of orientation entirely reflected the present state of his life. He wondered if Gunn had hoaxed him but could make no sense of it at all. And now, having lost his bearings, he felt entirely ill-equipped to take even the smallest step forwards.
On his return Nat assembled all the servants and questioned them about all the comings and goings on the day and night of the solstice. No, each and every servant assured him, only Mister Gunn and his boy had arrived and left their wagon in the stables, passing back and forth to the chapel by an outside path to a side door. Just as the master had instructed the pair had never ventured into the main part of the house. So far as anyone could remember, Mister Gunn and his lad had gone on their way shortly after Mrs De Vallory had been taken ill. No, Gunn had shown no signs of being in a trance and driven away as wakeful as a young cat. As for the chantry chapel, Higgott assured him that it was at least five years since anyone had taken the key and ventured inside it, or into the crypt below. Finally, Nat gave orders that if Gunn or any of his followers were seen nearby the constable must be sent for instantly.
THIRTY-NINE
24 June 1753
Midsummer’s Day
Upon waking, Nat took a breath of air at the window, noting the luminous blue sky and sweet balmy air of Midsummer’s Day. He spent the day in anxious expectation, questioning Tabitha. ‘You are sure you do not feel any pains yet?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It seems both Doctor Caldwell and … your preacher friend … were wrong about the date of my confinement.’
It was the first time she had mentioned Gunn and Nat was at once uneasy. ‘He is hardly my friend. Let us hope he was wrong. About everything. I have set a watch against his ever returning here.’
She laid a finger on his lips to silence him. ‘Thank you. Then let us be glad,’ she said. ‘The baby is well. Fate has been good to us.’
When Caldwell arrived he was unruffled about the matter. ‘Your wife was never especially certain of the date,’ the physician said smoothly. ‘First pregnancies often run longer than subsequent births.’
At midnight, Nat heard the church bell tolling twelve times as he watched Tabitha sleep. There had been no fateful birth of a saviour, or at least not here at Bold Hall. Gunn’s prophecy was proving false. Sukey Adams also looked up from her needlework and paced over to touch Tabitha’s cheek and stare intently into her peaceful face. And so, to the disappointment of both master and servant, all three had an undisturbed night.
A few days later Tabitha woke to find not only Nat but Sukey absent from her side. It was Grisell who came tapping at the door to the solar with a tray of titbits and an oilskin packet posted to her from Chester. Inside was a message from Joshua explaining that the gimmel ring had been returned to him now the inquiry into Maria’s death had been closed for lack of evidence against any credible suspect. As it had been found on De Vallory land and Tabitha had expressed an interest in it, he now enclosed it for her safekeeping. She opened a small cotton bag and inspected the half-ring. It was a pretty trinket and now she studied it again she was convinced it was one half of the ring worn by Phyllis Langley in the portrait.
Joshua also directed her to a dirty and tattered handbill folded inside the package. She read it rapidly:
20 POUNDS REWARD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whereas a most cruel THEFT and DECEPTION was committed in the house of Mrs Elizabeth Green in Wardle in the County of Lancashire, whereby from the use of pretended Fortune-telling was defrauded Seven Guineas, a Silver Watch, several Bottles of Wine, and some other articles, by use of certain subtle craft to deceive and impose upon the said Mrs Green, by pretending to tell her future, and for telling her of certain things that concerned her husband.
Two suspicious characters are being sought, a man and woman working in league. The male is a tall Man of good genteel appearance and was last seen about the town as a travelling preacher known as Bradley Gun, also called Baptist or David; and the woman is supposed his Wife, a pretended sibyl, known as Sarah Bracewell, also called Sal or Salvation Gun.
If any person concerned in the above matter shall Cause one or more of these persons to be convicted, the utmost Means shall be used to obtain a Pardon for him, and he shall receive the above Reward.
October 1752
Tabitha felt all the keen pleasure of vindication at being right. There was no doubt that the man they knew as Baptist Gunn was a rogue and a thief. Yet to her frustration the handbill did not go far enough and condemn him as capable of murder. Tabitha twice read the description of Gunn’s wife. This must be the barren first wife whom he had cast aside. Had it been this woman who play-acted her own dead mother? Or, she wondered with a sudden thrill, could this supposed wife be a false name used by Maria? Many street-walkers did have light-fingered habits, and even Tabitha herself had been known to lift a pocketwatch from a sleeping gentleman’s waistcoat.
No, she decided. How could tangibly pregnant Maria have been discarded for not bearing children? Oh, she would give a heavy purse to question this Salvation woman about these goings-on. Dammit, though the handbill corroborated Gunn’s criminal past it offered little help in discovering Maria’s killer.
She rose to ring the bell and then stopped herself and pulled on a loose morning gown. It would be pleasant to spend more time alone and unobserved. The curtain at the window was half open and a breeze as clean as spring water was freshening the room. Two days had passed since Midsummer’s Day and the baby might arrive at any time. From that moment her old life would vanish. What was it that Nat said? That she could not change him; that she had known well enough when they married that he needed to exercise his intellect. Well, so must she be true to her own self. And there was one thing she had vowed to achieve before she faced her ordeal.
She traced her way along the passage to her old chamber. Opening the large doors of the linen press, she saw that Sukey or Grisell had moved a good few of her garments to the solar so that the shelves stood half-empty. The two great wooden doors stood open as bare as empty canvases waiting for a painter to fill them. Opening her mother’s box, Tabitha gathered up the items she had collected. There were the pressed flowers that had once decorated Maria’s corpse. She pinned them to the open door. Next to it she hung the lace-bedecked poppet doll, and beside it Gunn’s pamphlet of prophecies. Next she pinned up Nancy Blair’s letter identifying Gunn as the man Maria had left Chester with. Finally, she added the handbill naming Gunn as a fraudster. She sat back and pondered.
