The Secret Of Fellmouth Bay Pt 02

The diary of Eleanor Thorn. April 3rd 1876

Father Malloy came and sat with me last night, despite the fact that I have assured him there is no need. It was very kind of him to come, of course, and I'm sure he had nothing but the very best of intentions. Nevertheless, the pleasure of his company paled very quickly. The weather was surprisingly warm for so early in April, so we took tea out in the gardens. He offered me his arm as we made our way outside but of course I refused. I refuse to bring shame on my family by being rude but I am quite capable of making my own way. Father Malloy, along with my father, believes that, above all, I require protection and spiritual guidance. The cause of my physical weakness continues to be a mystery, at least to others if not to myself, and I suspect Father Malloy is not alone in suspecting a mental or even spiritual cause for my condition. That they are, at least, half correct is not a fact I choose to confirm. I imagine all of them will find out, one way or another.

Until then I am left to spend tiresome afternoons in the company of a priest who advises me that I need to pray and otherwise tend to the well-being of my everlasting soul.

The fact that I am being counselled to expend so many words and so much effort on a part of myself that I willingly surrendered fully three weeks ago is, I confess, a source of some amusement to me.

1: House Call

The cottage stared blankly out at the sea, curtains drawn and no sign of movement from within. It was late afternoon and the tide was drawn far out, exposing a broad expanse of sand that seemed almost colourless underneath the grey, concrete sky. The weather had been warm all week but now the air had the feel of autumn to it, chill and damp, despite the fact that this was, technically, the last day of spring.

Police Constable James Waites had walked down from the town's only police station, there really hadn't been any point in driving. Nowhere in Fellmouth was very far from anywhere else, not really, and he usually enjoyed the walk. Today was different; there had been a somewhat subdued atmosphere to the town. The streets were unusually empty, with the main activity being the usual army of seagulls battling over spilled fish and chip cartons. Town was dead.

The cottage too showed no evidence of life, and he suspected this was a pointless visit. The fact that the curtains were drawn did strike him as odd; why would you want to rent out a cottage on the front only to block out your main view of the sea? It was possible the woman he had come to talk to had overslept, he knew that she worked a late shift at the restaurant in the next town, but it was nearly 4pm. From what he knew of the woman he wouldn't have guessed her to be the type to lie in bed all day. He had come to ask her about her work colleague, missing since last night. Her family had reported her missing and, according to staff at the restaurant, she had been last seen getting ready to walk the coast road back to town with the woman who lived here.

He firmly believed it all to be a waste of police time. Anyone who kept even half an ear out for gossip knew the scandal of the William's girl and the fact she had made herself scarce should have taken nobody by surprise. He was convinced she would have left town out of sheer embarrassment. He had been in Fellmouth long enough to know that it was, at heart, a town of conservative traditions. People tended to have a dim view of people who forgot their place; he had certainly been reminded of his from time to time, uniform or no uniform. If he had been the Williams girl he would have told the whole pompous lot of them to piss off as he headed for the hills.

But now, as he trudged up the pavement towards the front door, he felt uncertain, the hairs on the back of his neck stirred to attention. It occurred to him that he could simply turn around and go back to the station, come back later. He was embarrassed at himself for even considering it.

The door-knocker was a heavy iron weight cast in the shape of a shell; the noise it made as he rapped it against the wood seemed overly loud in the still, quiet air. It occurred to him then that the sea front was unusually quiet, lacking even the caw of the, usually, ever present seagulls. It's funny that, living in the town as he did, you didn't really notice the noise until it was absent. Before he had time to consider this further, the door opened.

Helen stood way back from the doorway, in the shadows. His first thought was that she must be hungover. Why else would she be sitting in the dark this late in the day? She looked tired and pale, but his second thought was that she was quite beautiful. He had seen her around town and had thought her attractive enough, but now, as he looked at her pale face appearing to float in the shadows of the house, he struggled to take his eyes off her.

Feeling suddenly embarrassed he removed his helmet. "Sorry to disturb, I was wondering if I could have a chat?"

"Is anything wrong?" Her voice was calm, unsurprised. This should have been a further warning to him something was wrong, but he ignored the prickling sensation along his spine.

"I'm sure it's nothing, but it's about Lucy Williams. She didn't come home last night and her folks are worried. I'm sure everything's fine but I understand you worked with her?"

""Would you like to come in, James?" She said it softly, but there was an edge there, an eagerness. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, not wanting to show weakness. He wanted this women to like him, even to admire him. He stepped into the gloom. Around him he could make out deeper shadows but his eyes were on the woman in front of him. Only on her. He found that he couldn't look away even as he sensed, from the corner of his eye, two dark shapes begin to detach themselves from the shadows and move towards him.

As the door closed quietly behind him, so that a deep darkness swept back into the room, it occurred to him to ask how it was exactly she had known his name.

2: The Expedition.

He had kept the piece of paper locked away in his desk for close to fifteen years and yet he had not gone a single day without thinking about it.

Tonight, as he unlocked the drawer for the first time in years, he was seized by the belief that it would be empty, and that all would be lost. The lock was stiff, and he had to jiggle the key in order to force it to turn. As the drawer came loose with a yank he saw bundles of cloth, tied with brown string, but no paper. Forcing himself to remain calm he fished around at the back of the drawer with his hand. The sense of relief, when his fingers finally brushed against the note, tucked firmly against the wood as though cowering, was so powerful he almost sobbed with relief. Fortunately there no one here in his study to have seen this. Now, more than ever, he needed to remain strong. His family would look to him for strength, for protection. If they sensed his fear they would fall apart, he was sure of it.

When he withdrew his hand the slip of paper flapped about in his fingers, the breeze from the open study window giving it the movement of a trapped moth seeking escape. Moving quickly, as though afraid his nerves may, at any point, fail him, he dialled the unusually long number written on the note. He waited until he was connected to an answer machine. He felt a sense of relief that he had, at least, been spared having to talk directly to her.

"Hello, it's Alexander," he said. There was no trace of anything resembling fear in the confident, business-like tone of his voice. The appearance of calm under pressure had been a skill he had spent the last forty years of his life mastering. "There has been a development, here in the bay. It may be nothing but I thought you should be informed. We had an earth tremor a few days ago, nothing major, just a few cracked chimney pots. But since then a girl has gone missing. She was known to the family and it is possible that she has simply left home, but I'm not so sure. Anyway, I'm going up to the ruin tonight, take another look around. I'll keep you informed. I said that I would." He hesitated, wondering if he should add anything but then disconnected the call when he realised he was only adding awkward seconds of silence to the call.

He got up from the desk, walked over to a side table where he poured himself a brandy, his hand steady. He took his time drinking it, planning his next move. He could hear voices downstairs of people gathering, waiting for him. He poured himself another drink and downed it before heading for the door. The alcohol didn't even so much as warm him.

First, he entered the dining room. His daughter, Jennifer, was sitting alone at the head of the long dark-wood dining table picking her way morosely through a salad. He took some satisfaction in the fact that she had clearly taken his comment, that she could afford to lose a few pounds, to heart. She didn't even look up as he crossed the room to enter the living room.

The rest of his family were gathered there along with several others he trusted. They all turned as he entered the room. He knew that everyone there, with the possible exception of Amanda, thought him mad. When he had last seen his wife, she had been engrossed in a small book she had found amongst his archives. He was grateful that she had found herself an interest. At forty three his wife was over ten years younger than him and had shown no sign of losing her looks. Nevertheless he had found his interest waning in their four years of marriage so that he could not remember the last they had shared a bed. He had discovered long ago that, as in business, so with women. His main interest was in negotiating and closing the deal. Once his business was resolved he quickly lost interest. He felt a nagging sense of guilt about this. After all, his wife had been the only one to take his concerns about Blackfell House seriously. Everyone else here tonight, with the possible exception of the priest, had little time for larger questions that had nothing to do with the accumulation of wealth. Maybe when they got to his age.

He consoled himself that it must be a sure sign of success to have such people fulfil his wishes despite secretly dismissing him as a crackpot. He was no fool; he knew that several of the men in the room acted only out of self interest, keeping in the old fart's good books to reap the rewards later. Certainly he put Jake in this category: a swaggering bag of ego with designs on Jennifer, an interest Alexander only tolerated because, for all his faults, Jake was a more appropriate choice than his daughter's previous interest. He couldn't see them marrying of course, he would never allow that, but as a stop-gap until someone more suitable came along, he was quite adequate and at least they wouldn't fuel the town gossip if they should be seen together in town. That at least would be a blessed relief.

Also in the room was Giles, his personal assistant, who'd been with him at the firm for the last twenty years along with Tim, his son who, as Alexander entered the room, was taking to Sarah Winters, the local vicar. Usually the idea of taking a woman up to the ruin would have clashed with Alexander's old fashioned, gentlemanly small-mindedness, but they had needed the help of the church for what they had planned and, this modern world moving at the insane pace it did, the right reverent Sarah Winters was all he had. The fact that, Mark excepted, she was probably the fittest out of all of them gnawed at his pride. He swore to himself that he wouldn't allow himself to lag behind on the climb up to the ruin.

He was relieved to notice that his son Mark had returned from his regular evening run. His grey jogging clothes soaked black by the downpour which had swept through the town while Alexander had been driving home. Alexander could always rely on Mark to be honest with him. His son had little or no interest in the family business and so had no problem in telling his father how close to the nuthouse he was currently driving. It was a side of his son that he almost respected, but there was no getting away from the fact that both of his children had let him down with their life choices, in one way or another.

He kept it short, the burnt amber of the western sky showing they needed to leave soon to get to the ruin by nightfall. They would be staying at the site all night, he told them, and they should make sure they dressed appropriately, then he went back to the dining room to talk to his daughter.

She ignored him, as he guessed she would, when he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. This lack of respect irritated him. He would have expected more from his own daughter and the sense of gratitude bewildered and angered him. After all, he had gone against his instincts in letting her attend University in London rather than closer to home; added to which the year she had wasted travelling, before finally agreed to return home. Now that she was twenty four he had planned to involve her more in the company. Recent events had led him to question her judgement however and the petty refusal to accept the wisdom of his decisions did not reassure him. Now, as he looked at her, he felt little of the affection he had once known. She sat there, a pretty floral dress completely ruined by the heavy boots she had decided to wear as if she had just come from a work site. And then, of course, there was the nose ring. He opened his mouth to scold her, remind her that he had guests and that he would prefer it if she didn't look like she bought her clothes from a charity shop, but then he reminded himself that there was more pressing matters to discuss than his daughters temporary childish rebellion.

He placed a small linen bundle on the table. When Jennifer refused to even raise her eyes from her salad he swallowed his irritation and unwrapped it himself. From it he drew out a delicate rosary made of jet stone. The black beads shone like drops of oil leading down to a small dark crucifix. He pushed it towards his daughter.

"I want you to wear this. I have given one to your mother." He noticed her stiffen at this but at least she had the sense not to correct him about who Amanda was. He simply did not have time to get into that again. He kept his voice level, calm. "I'm not asking you to believe me, but I'm not going to argue. Wear this, and then we'll talk when I get back in the morning." He waited, letting the silence drag on, until he saw her hands slowly reach across the table to draw in the rosary. Rising from his seat he lent forward to kiss the top of her head before leaving the room. As he reached the door his daughter spoke to him for the first time that day.

"Is she dead?" He turned to face her and was surprised to see tears and hatred in her eyes as she glared at him across the room.

"Yes," he replied. He opened his mouth to add that he was sorry but then closed it again without speaking.

She wouldn't have believed him. She could always tell when he was lying.

Outside in the hallway he bumped into Mark. His son was busy pulling on a dark winter coat.

"Take it off, you're not going," Alexander said brusquely, holding out a hand to forestall any argument. "You need to stay here, watch over the house." Mark was still struggling to vocalise a response so Alexander took the opportunity to press a linen wrapped bundle into his hands. "Take these, you know what do do with them if you need to." Suddenly he had the urge to hug his son. Cursing his own weakness he turned and strode from the house. Shortly afterwards he was joined by the other members of the expedition.

Getting into their cars they drove away out into the twilight and the sound of their engines was swallowed up by a deep silence.

The Diary of Eleanor Thorn. May 7th, 1876

Outside my window the snow continues to fall; three days now with very little respite. The garden is hidden beneath a gently rolling blanket of deep snow, all of the sharp edges have gone. My family believe that the weather protects me, that it is sent from God. The purity of the white convinces them of this, the unblemished surface of the snow each morning proof that I am protected, that no one has visited the house. How little they know. My visitor came for me last night and will again tonight.

When I look out at the blanketed landscape surrounding the house I do not see the work of God. I do not see purity and protection.

I see teeth, bright and sharp, closing in around me.

Three: There Will be Guests at the Hall

The night had flooded from the woods, surrounding the house. The deep silence lay unbroken, even as the four dark shapes, two men and two women detached themselves from the shadowed treeline and began to make their way up the long driveway towards the house. They wore black clothing which accentuated their pale features, making them almost luminous in the darkening light. One of the men, wearing a more official outfit than the others, reached the large front door first, while the others moved to one side, out of direct sight.

James Waites, whose six year career in the police force had come to an unexpected, and somewhat bloody, conclusion only hours before, reached out a trembling pale finger to sound the doorbell. The necessity of remaining calm had been explained to him but it was difficult. He was so hungry.

The chime of the doorbell sounded unnaturally loud in the still air and, for a moment, he was sure it would bring unwanted attention. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other before forcing himself to stay calm. They needed the invitation.

After an excruciating wait he heard footsteps approach from the other side of the door. A crack appeared and light shone out, momentarily blinding him. When the glare faded he made out Giles Fairbrother's smug face peering out through the gap.

"Evening Sir," he said, careful to remember he was meant to be on official business. "I was wondering whether we could come in for a moment, there's been some news." He was hoping the use of the word "we" would not register.

Giles looked irritated to even be asked. "Well I don't suppose I can stop you," he sneered.

James hesitated. Did that count as an invitation? It seemed ludicrous but apparently one was absolutely essential. In response he countered Giles' high handed manner with some of his own.

"Look," he said, letting his own eagerness show, "the sooner we do this, the sooner we can be be gone. Can we come in?"

Giles let out an exasperated breath that made James want to reach in and tear his throat out with his fingernails. "Of course, Officer". It was clear that the tone was sarcastic and once again James had a moment of doubt. Did sarcasm count? But by then the other man was already moving from the shadows, throwing the door open with a force that wiped the smug look from Giles' face as he went reeling backwards. As James stepped across the threshold the man turned to him.

"Bon appetite," he said with a cruel grin, "but make it quiet, we don't want to alert the rest of the house just yet."

Giles opened his mouth to say something, to object, to order them out. But he saw the terrible change come over James' features and, for the first time in his life, he ran out of words.

Four: Ancient History

Amanda Thorn had spent most of her day reading forbidden books.

They were kept in a locked room on the upper floor of the house. She had been married to Alexander for nearly two years before he had entrusted her with the key. Prior to this she had entertained numerous fantasies about what was being kept on the other side of the heavy wooden door, always locked. She remembered the old story of Bluebeard and had imagined chained up bodies of all of his ex-wives, the ones she had never been told about. The sheer sense of anticlimax, when the room was finally revealed to contain nothing but boxes of moldering papers pilfered from the town archives and library, lasted only as long as it took her to pick up a random piece of paper and start reading. Here, hidden from sight, was the secret history of the town and it was far more interesting than she had ever dreamed.