The Dead of Winter (13 page)

‘I am a rational man, Michael,’ he said quietly. ‘I take pride in those words. Never in my wildest
dreams did I ever imagine that I would be about to have the conversation I think we are to have.’

‘Sir?’ I said.

‘Sir Stephen was not an altogether happy man even before Lady Margaret took her life, Michael,’ Jerwood continued, ‘though he was happier with her than I had ever seen him before. But I think a good deal of his unhappy state of mind can be traced back to that day, to the time he was locked in the priest hole. Hodges has told you about that, I gather.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

‘The mind is a fragile thing, Michael,’ he said as he walked over to the portrait of Sir Stephen on my bedroom wall. Jerwood breathed a sigh. ‘I had never seen a person so wild and terrified as he was that day.’

‘Do you mean to say you were here when it happened?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Before I was Sir Stephen’s lawyer, I was his friend – and I hope I always shall be, however difficult that may be at times. We were at school together and though I was not at all of his rank or standing in the world, I had been invited to spend Christmas with him –’

‘Just as I have been,’ I interrupted.

Jerwood nodded.

‘Just as you have been. I would have been about your age,’ he added. ‘As would Sir Stephen.’

Jerwood was lost to these thoughts for a few moments. Then he sat back down with his hands on his knees and leaned towards me. He made two or three attempts to start before he finally managed to get a coherent sentence out.

‘Many years ago,’ he said, ‘Sir Stephen told me a curious story about your father.’

‘My father?’ I said, startled by this sudden change in topic.

‘Yes,’ said Jerwood. ‘It happened some months before he was killed – while he and Sir Stephen were together in Afghanistan.

‘Sir Stephen’s regiment were resting at a small village, waiting for the big push into Kabul. Of course, the locals were hostile but, intimidated by the force of numbers, they could do little except to put on a show of accommodating them with reasonable hospitality. The officers were billeted in a large deserted palace.

‘On the first night Sir Stephen saw your father standing in the moonlit courtyard, staring into space. He called to him and had to call twice before your father responded. Sir Stephen asked him what
he had been looking at. “The boy by the well,” replied your father. But Sir Stephen couldn’t see a boy.

‘He happened to mention this to one of their Afghan guides the following day and he was awestruck and said that some years before a boy had been thrown down that well by his brutal father.’

I stared at Jerwood in amazement.

‘Sir Stephen confronted your father about this and he admitted that, in some circumstances, where there was an untimely or violent death and when the place itself was of a certain sort – a sour or tragic place, was how your father put it – then he did, on occasion, see images – silent visions – of the dead.’

Jerwood nodded.

‘Yes, Michael,’ he said. ‘I believe you have inherited that gift – or curse – whichever way you might see it.’ He pursed his lips and scowled. ‘I am also ashamed to say that Sir Stephen may have asked you to come here in the hope that you would share your father’s ability and shed some light on the thing that has clearly been haunting him. It seems that you do.’

‘You knew it was Lady Clarendon I saw on the
road, didn’t you, sir?’ I asked. ‘You recognised her from my description?’

Jerwood smiled and sat back in his chair.

‘I have not really appreciated what an intelligent young man you are, Michael,’ he said. ‘Or rather, you are better than intelligent; you are perceptive. Intelligence is a somewhat over-rated virtue. Real intelligence is valuable, of course – but so often people are actually talking about a cleverness, and that is simply a matter of reading and schooling. It is a badge of effort. Perceptiveness is something you are born with, Michael. You can’t teach that.’

Jerwood put his long hands together as if in prayer and grew serious once again.

‘As I have said,’ he continued, ‘I have been Sir Stephen’s friend since we were school children. I grew up with him and I hope he thought of me as a brother. I know that is how I thought – think – of him.’

Jerwood paused here and shifted in his seat as if the chair had suddenly grown very uncomfortable. I sensed that he was recalling something painful and was struggling to find the words.

‘When Sir Stephen and I were at university together I fell in love with a girl, as young men will. But this was a love that I felt was like no other. I
loved her with a passion that I had never experienced before – or since.’

‘Did you marry her?’ I asked.

Jerwood shook his head, of course. This was never going to be a happy tale and I knew him to be a bachelor.

‘She married another, Michael,’ he said quietly. He picked up his glass and took another sip of brandy. ‘She married Sir Stephen.’

I stared wide-eyed. Jerwood had been in love with Lady Clarendon!

‘But how … ?’ I could not understand how Jerwood could have remained friends with a man who had taken his true love from him.

‘There was no malice,’ he said quietly. ‘Stephen loved Margaret and she loved him. He did not take her from me; she chose him freely. I loved him too much to resent it, and her too much to turn my back on her for ever out of some misplaced feeling of rejection.’

He looked at me and saw my wide eyes.

‘But still it was hard,’ he added.

Neither of us spoke for a few moments and I felt that I was forced to change all my preconceptions about Jerwood, to tear down my image of a cool and logical man and fashion instead an earnest
lover and loyal friend.

I was touched that he had entrusted me with this tale. I think I instinctively knew – because my character was not so very different – that Jerwood was a man who did not form attachments easily, and perhaps was therefore all the more open and honest when he did. I was proud beyond words that he thought enough of me, a mere boy with precious little knowledge of the world, to take me into his confidence.

‘I think Lady Clarendon fears this place,’ I told him.

‘Fears this house?’ said Jerwood. ‘Why would she fear this house? It was her home.’

‘There’s something else here,’ I said.

‘In the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen it?’ Jerwood asked. ‘Is it the ghost of the priest perhaps?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve only seen glimpses. It is a boy – sometimes.’

‘Sometimes?’ said Jerwood. ‘Michael, I want you to tell me everything that has occurred here – everything, mind you, however strange or fanciful it may sound.’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘However disbelieving you may assume me to be.’

And so I told the lawyer all that I had seen and heard: about the boy in the mirror, the noises, the night visitations, the thing in the priest hole. He listened to it all as gravely and as seriously as though I had been making a perfectly normal witness statement in a court of law. I told him too about Sir Stephen’s manic behaviour atop the tower.

When I had finished, he ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me with an expression of amazement and awe.

‘The priest hole seems to be at the root of so much of this, Michael. I wonder if the house has always carried that black void inside it like a tumour – if it has always been bad, from the day the place was built.’

I nodded. I felt that too.

‘I am so sorry,’ said Jerwood quietly. ‘Sorry for being party to bringing you here. You shall leave tomorrow with me. I saw Mr Bentley when I was in London and, without telling him much, explained that your visit here might be cut short. They would, of course, be delighted to have you.’

I felt a wave of relief crash over me and I was close to tears.

‘I shall square things with Sir Stephen,’ said
Jerwood, standing up and patting my shoulder.

‘Ah – I almost forgot,’ he said, fishing in his pocket and holding out a small blue velvet bag tied with a black cord.

I took the bag and opened it to find a gold pocket watch inside. Prompted by Jerwood, I turned it over and saw my father’s name inscribed on it with love from my mother.

‘It was your father’s,’ said Jerwood. ‘Mr Bentley asked me to give it to you. Merry Christmas, Michael.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

There was a tradition at Hawton Mere that the servants and their masters all sat at the Christmas dining table together. It was a fine thing to see that long table laid out its whole length with white linen and silver, candles and holly.

I had the great good fortune to be seated as far away from Sir Stephen as possible, between Mr Jerwood and Hodges. Once Mrs Guston had finished cooking, she and Edith brought the food to the table and sat down opposite us. I realised that there were far more servants working in Hawton Mere than I had previously noticed and they, at
least, seemed to know how to enjoy themselves.

And what a feast it was: the Queen herself could not have been partaking of a finer meal. There was a choice of roast turkey or roast goose. The turkey was particularly enormous, the dish taking two maids to bring it in. I had never in my life eaten so well – and rarely since.

I stopped and gazed about me: on all sides of the table conversations were in full flow, and laughter rang out every now and then, the sound bouncing joyfully around the huge room. For the first time since coming to Hawton Mere, I actually enjoyed myself.

I felt I had a small glimpse of the happier place that Hawton Mere must have been in earlier days, for even Sir Stephen looked unusually relaxed and the whole house seemed at ease.

I was, of course, reminded of the Christmases I had spent with my mother: an altogether more meagre affair, but happier for me, by far. Yet, sad though the recollection was, it was not painfully so and I found that I could still enjoy this day – and I was hungry for happiness.

When we had finished our plum pudding, and the dishes had been taken away and we all sat back, full to bursting, Sir Stephen rose from his chair and
said that he had some announcements to make.

‘I shall not detain you long,’ said Sir Stephen, ‘but first I want to thank Mrs Guston for providing us with such marvellous food.’

Mrs Guston received warm and enthusiastic applause. She looked exhausted, poor woman, and well she might, having spent the best part of the previous day preparing our feast.

‘My sister and I thank you for all the work you have done for us this year and wish you all a very Merry Christmas. We hope that you and your families enjoy the rest of the festivities. You will find the usual tokens of our appreciation on the table in the hall.’

‘Merry Christmas to you too, sir,’ said Hodges, getting to his feet and raising his glass.

‘Merry Christmas!’ chimed in the other servants.

Sir Stephen acknowledged the servants and then raised his hand for silence and Hodges sat down again.

‘I have another rather important announcement to make,’ he continued. ‘It concerns young Michael here, whom I hope you have got to know a little during his rather eventful stay at Hawton Mere.’

I felt embarrassed to be the centre of attention, but all faces that now turned to me were smiling
broadly – even Jarvis, whose smile, though hardly pleasant, was clearly well meant. I looked at Sir Stephen, wondering, with some trepidation, what he was going to say next.

‘I have named Michael as my heir,’ he went on. ‘When I die, Michael will be the master of Hawton Mere and I think he may prove to be a better one than I have been.’

There were many surprised faces among the servants at this news. Edith looked as though she was about to shriek, her eyes fairly popping from her head. But no one in the room could have looked more shocked than me.

The heir to Hawton Mere? Was this more madness? The staring faces of all about me only increased my sense of embarrassment and I could not hold their gaze. I looked to Jerwood but the lawyer merely smiled back at me.

‘I hope when the time comes,’ continued Sir Stephen, ‘you will treat him with the respect and goodwill you have always shown to me. And so, I would ask you all to raise your glasses and drink a toast to our young friend.’

At this, everyone stood and picked up their glass.

‘To Michael,’ said Sir Stephen.

‘To Michael,’ came the response, so loudly and
enthusiastically that I was quite overcome.

Charlotte came round the table and I stood to greet her. She embraced me warmly and so tightly I could feel her long fingernails digging into my back.

‘Congratulations, Michael,’ she said.

‘Congratulations, my boy,’ said Jerwood, reaching out to shake my hand, and this action was repeated time and again while I stood in mute incomprehension at this bizarre turn of events. Even Hodges’ handshake, which was so vigorous that I felt sure he had broken two of my fingers, was not enough to rouse me from my stupor.

When the excitement of Sir Stephen’s announcement died down, the servants cleared the table and the festivities were over. The servants who had family in the village were given leave to visit them. The festive air departed with them.

There is always a melancholy mood that lies in the wake of such festive moments and this was no exception. But my depression was added to by the realisation that, though the servants had generously accepted the idea that I might one day be their master, I still had no wish to adopt that role.

I did not want to spend one more moment in that house than necessary. Ironically, now that Sir
Stephen had made his announcement, the need for me to be at Hawton Mere was satisfied. If this was why he had brought me here, then it was done, and I could go. My fondness for Hodges and the other servants was not enough to make me want to stay. I would never want to live in that house.

I returned to my room and looked at the portrait of Sir Stephen as a boy and tried once again to imagine him running about those rooms, playing with Charlotte, but my thoughts turned instead to his inhuman treatment at the hands of his father. How sad he looked, even then; how fearful.