Kronos, p.11
Kronos, page 11
Of course, now, seven years later, he was remembered as exactly that. But I remember better. I can recall the bruises glimpsed on young Paul’s arms. I remember the look of terror on Sara Durward’s face when Hagen howled in pain from his sickbed: it was the look of a girl who twitched to please an aggressor in an attempt to make every thing all right before his agony got too much to bear.
I had done my best, of course. I’m a doctor, not a judge of men. Hagen Durward had been confined to his bedchamber for fear of infecting the rest of the family and, with the assistance of a nurse from the village, I had steered him towards death as painlessly and humanely as I could. Nonetheless, the voyage had not been smooth.
The disease had caused Hagen’s muscles to cramp, those swordsman’s heavy arms contorting as he writhed beneath the bed sheets, sheets that were stained yellow and pink despite the frequency with which they were changed. His skin had blistered as if it had been pressed against a blacksmith’s hot iron. He had bled internally and a hacking cough had sent terrible gobbets of blood across the room to spray on the fine oil paintings and tapestries. Disease has no time for art or social position.
The nurse and I had wrapped ourselves tightly in linens, careful to keep contact with Hagen Durward to a minimum while also providing whatever comfort we could. Which was precious little, judging by the constant screams, curses and attempts by Hagen to injure his medical staff.
Every day I would occasionally step out of the room to get my breath and recharge my strength. I would catch the eye of Lady Durward, forever close by, forever awaiting news. Eventually I couldn’t even bring himself to express the usual platitudes: her fear of her husband’s imminent death was so overpowering that it was easier to be in the room with the dying man than under her gaze.
At last Hagen died. One final convulsion and a scream that threatened to put out the windows. I had sat in the bedchamber for full half an hour, putting off the inevitable conversation with Lady Durward. Eventually, aware that I could wait no longer, I had stepped outside. She was there as always, standing in the doorway of her room. Her stare had met mine and I had not had to say a word.
‘Get out,’ she had whispered, stepping inside her room and shutting the door softly behind her.
I made a few pleas to Paul, not least because I was determined that the body should be disposed of carefully. But the son would not go against the edict of his mother. Eventually, Clements, the Durward’s butler, was forced to escort the nurse and myself off the premises.
‘Apologies, sir,’ he said as we descended the front steps, ‘but I have a feeling that things will be difficult here for some while.’ He was proven to be quite correct. The nurse and I left the house.
I have not been back there since.
At one time the Durwards had been the main power in the area. Now, in these uncertain political days, they were simply the owners of the big house to the north of the village. Since the death of Hagen they had kept themselves to themselves. Occasionally either Paul or Sara would be seen but even then any audience with them would be brief and awkward. They had become a mystery, the family that kept its own counsel.
I ride up the long drive, noting that the grounds are as immaculate as ever. (The Durwards may have kept out of village life but they still provide work for a number of locals, Ed Barrowmund, the groundsman, and his sons included.)
I dismount and, trying not to look as awkward as I certainly feel, I knock on the front door.
Clements answers, as dour and dry as ever. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he says, though I can tell that my arrival has caused him some concern. Does he think my presence will anger his mistress?
‘I was just passing,’ I lie, ‘and thought I’d pay my respects.’
‘I’m sure that’s most kind, sir.’ For a moment he looks as though he may say something else but then a voice calls out from behind him.
‘Who is it, Clements?’
Clements steps out of the way, pulling the door open wide, and I step inside to be greeted by Paul Durward.
Paul, much like Clements, cannot quite pretend that he is pleased to see me. He does at least try.
‘Dr Marcus.’ He smiles. ‘A pleasure to see you again so soon. What brings you to our door?’
‘I was just passing,’ I say again, ‘and thought perhaps I should drop in.’
‘Just passing?’ Paul cannot quite hide his scepticism. ‘One can’t imagine where you might be heading.’ He waves the comment away, as if embarrassed that he even made it. ‘No matter – it’s a pleasure to have you with us. Do come through.’
He leads me to their drawing room, a refined, colourful room that is bigger than my entire house. I stand, feeling adrift, in the centre of a large rug, wondering quite what I should say next. Perhaps it’s best to stay close to the truth.
‘I was a little concerned,’ I say, ‘that I had caused offence the other day. I just wanted to ensure that I hadn’t spoken out of turn.’
‘Not at all,’ says Paul, handing me a glass of sherry that I don’t really want. ‘Your concern was appreciated, though unnecessary.’
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Good …’ My conversation is floundering again already. I pace, and pretend to admire the paintings on the walls: bland pastoral scenes and portraits of austere-looking family members. In the end, Paul saves me further awkwardness by asking me a question.
‘I hear that you have visitors,’ he says. I obviously look slightly surprised as he feels he has to explain. ‘The staff talk,’ he says. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Oh indeed,’ I reply, with a smile. ‘And they’re quite right. An old friend of mine with whom I served during my army days.’
‘Really? I’d heard he was foreign.’
‘So many of us are if we go back a few steps along the family tree.’ I know for a fact that the Durwards have French blood from no more than a couple of generations ago.
‘Indeed,’ Paul agrees, sipping at his sherry. ‘We’re all citizens of the world, are we not?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘It’s just a social visit, then?’ he continues. ‘I had under stood he was here due to some medical problem or another.’
‘He’s not a doctor, though I’ll admit he’s been helping with the current problems.’ I decide there’s nothing to be gained by being shy. ‘Three local girls are dead,’ I say. ‘They aged prematurely in a matter of a few seconds.’
‘Ah,’ Paul replies, ‘I had heard something of the sort. Perhaps now I can also see why my mother’s condition interested you?’
I hadn’t expected such candour but am only too happy to match it.
‘Indeed,’ I reply. ‘I had wondered if there might be a connection.’
‘My mother has suffered from grief,’ he says. ‘Nothing more. It has not been kind to her, it so consumes her that she rarely leaves her room. In fact,’ he drains his sherry, ‘you might say I lost two parents that day rather than just one.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, unsure how to respond to this announcement.
‘Oh dear,’ says another voice from the doorway. ‘What are we sorry for today?’
It’s Sara. She is dressed, as is her wont these days, in gentleman’s clothes. I can’t say I mind the affectation: she looks rather good in tight britches.
‘Nothing, sister,’ says Paul dismissively.
‘Indeed not,’ I concur, feeling it politest to do so. ‘After all, who could be sorry in such company?’
It’s a lazy piece of empty charm but it serves to lighten the previous mood. I kiss Sara’s hand and she gives a slight bow before moving over to her brother and draping her arm around him. There is something a little misplaced in their manner, I note. They act like husband and wife rather than siblings: there is a definite sexuality in their contact. Is this what their isolated life has brought them? A confused and unholy affection?
‘And what brings the doctor to our door?’ Sara asks. ‘Please tell me that nobody’s ill.’
‘Indeed not,’ I reply. ‘It is purely a social call.’
‘Not to see mother, I’m sure?’
‘If she’ll see me …’
‘She won’t,’ Paul replies. As before, the comment isn’t made with any aggression: it’s simply a statement of fact.
‘Ah,’ says Sara, ‘what it is to be old. Withdrawn from life, attending on nothing but the grave.’ She gives her brother a positively lascivious smile. ‘I shall never do it,’ she says. ‘I shall remain youthful for ever!’
‘If only that were possible,’ I say, ‘this would be a nation of adolescents.’
‘Isn’t it just that?’ she parries. ‘Anyway, don’t let me interrupt you, I was only coming in for this.’ She picks up an aged book from one of the tables.
‘Researching how to retain your youth?’ I joke.
‘Perhaps.’ She smiles and holds the book up so that I can read the title: Witchcraft: The True Science.
I laugh, for certainly there is no other polite response. ‘Do let me know if you have any success.’
Sara just smiles again and strolls out of the room.
‘A charming young woman,’ I say. The look of discomfort on Paul’s face is so obvious that I hardly know what to do. ‘I mustn’t continue to disturb you,’ I say eventually, feeling that escape is the best option.
He doesn’t argue. ‘A pleasure to see you,’ he says, taking my sherry glass – still half-full – and setting it down.
I give a slight bow and step back out into the entrance hall. I can still hear Sara’s footsteps on the stairs as she returns to her room. But is that another noise? A creak of a floorboard? Am I being observed by the other member of the household?
‘Thank you again,’ I say, ‘and please do send your mother my best wishes.’
Paul inclines his head, choosing neither to accept nor refute the suggestion, and Clements leads me to the door.
‘Be careful, sir,’ he says as I mount my horse.
‘Careful, Clements?’ I ask. ‘Of what?’
He shuffles awkwardly and then nods at the sky. ‘Has the look of a storm,’ he says.
I don’t follow his gaze but rather look at the upper storeys of Durward Hall. I can see the ageing face of Lady Durward looking down from one of the windows. That such a woman can have lost such beauty, I think: the cool grey visage that watches me has all the charm of a gargoyle. ‘I dare say you’re right,’ I tell Clements as I turn my horse and head back down the drive.
As I enter the forest I begin to think that he is. A cool wind is pushing its way through the trees and the lazy late-summer warmth that has hung over us all these last few weeks is gone to be replaced by a distinct chill of autumn. Jenny shuffles her feet and takes a couple of sideways steps, as if unnerved by something in her path. Looking through the swirling leaves, I see nothing ahead.
‘What is it, girl?’ I ask, running my hand across the mare’s head. ‘What’s spooked you?’
The wind continues to build and I’m forced to grip the reins tight as she continues to quiver beneath me.
‘Easy,’ I say, aware that she may bolt at any moment. I have no wish to break my neck falling off her during a panicked gallop through the trees.
The sky above me darkens and it’s the most damnable thing I’ve ever seen, as if someone has just leaned over the world, casting their shadow.
‘What the devil?’ The word feels too accurate in my mouth and I give a genuine cry of fear as Jenny rears beneath me.
The path is no longer empty. Moving through the clouds of leaves, like a hand pulled through water, moves a figure in a long hooded robe. The wind whips at the hood and I catch a glimpse of a full young mouth.
‘Sara?’
I feel dreamy. That glimpse of lips somehow seems still sensual even as the storm begins to rage in earnest. I feel myself fall backwards, thrown from the saddle. The world seems to halt. I hang there in mid-air, surrounded by static leaves. Ahead of me, the mare is likewise frozen, a spume of froth whipping from the corner of her mouth.
I try to speak but to do so would need my lips and tongue to move and nothing moves in this impossible world. I am trapped like a character in one of those dreary oil paintings that line the walls in the Durward drawing room.
And yet … not everything is bound by these rules. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the robed figure move closer until it is standing just behind me. I can feel its presence, I am aware of a faint scent of violets as it – no, she – leans over me. There is another glimpse of lips, red and soft, of a type that I haven’t felt against mine for years, and then they are pressed down on me and there is a rush of cold air.
And then I’m riding along the path, the edge of the forest just ahead of me. The trees are calm now, their branches utterly still. The sun is as warm as before and its light and heat settle on my skin as if to brush away the ghost sensation of a kiss that I cannot swear to have received.
I press my hands to my temples, disorientated. I must have passed out, lost consciousness back there on the path and hallucinated the bizarre vision of time standing still. Was there perhaps something in the drink that Paul gave me? Some opiate that robbed me of my senses?
I lower my hands to the reins and a spot of blood hits the perfect white of my gloves. It brings back memories of Hagen’s last hours.
I touch my nose, assuming that it’s bleeding, but no … there is no sign whatsoever of a source for the blood.
I ride home, eager to leave the forest and the memory of darkness far behind.
Twenty-Nine
Clements Fears The Household
ONE MIGHT WONDER what sin one has committed to be in service here. Surely I must be being punished? Nobody but a sinner should have to endure Durward Hall for the rest of their days.
It has never been a happy place. Though when Lord Hagen was alive at least the house too was alive with his presence. Now it is a tomb, an echoing series of empty chambers … no, not completely empty, for certainly this place does not lack ghosts. At night the corridors are filled with the noise of movement, with the sense of someone – something – abroad.
It’s a wonder that I haven’t gone mad living here. But then, I don’t leave, so maybe that’s madness in itself. I continue in my duties, caretaker to a dead house filled with the very worst things that a man can imagine.
Perhaps it’s honour? I remember young Paul and Sara when they were first born. I have watched them grow as much as – maybe more than – their parents ever did. I have seen them go from scared children to sad adults. There are those who would not countenance their behaviour, would consider them the very worst of sinners. I don’t know. I just see two broken people who dare not love anyone else.
Not that it’s any of my business. I am here to keep the machinery of the household working: the meals on time, the fires burning, the surfaces clean. If it weren’t for me this place would be buried under dust and death. I honestly think I’m the only one who cares enough to stop that happening.
But why do I care?
I couldn’t say. It’s not as if the Durwards have treated me with any great measure of kindness. To them I am the invisible spirit of the building: I am there to be ignored. Which is as it should be, I suppose. But when a member of the household becomes part of the furniture you no longer hide your feelings from them and I see and hear it all. The tears, the threats, the pain and the violence. I feel tired and dirty just being exposed to it all. I am glad that Mrs Clements no longer has to live here. I think if she were still alive I would lead us out of the front door, never to return. It’s never so urgent when it’s just yourself, though, is it?
When Dr Marcus visits I don’t really know what to do. It’s been so long since Durward Hall had guests. My first inclination is to tell him to leave, to run back down the drive before the disease that sits at the heart of this building can place its grip on him. Dr Marcus is a good man – he shouldn’t have to be exposed to the atmosphere here.
I realise, however, that I can hardly say this. If I cannot myself understand the nature of the affliction of the building how on earth can I make the doctor understand? I can tell that he has seen in my expression something of the dilemma. An attentive man, the doctor – comes from examining his patients, I shouldn’t wonder. Maybe he can get to the bottom of Durward Hall’s malady.
Master Paul’s arrival takes my mind off the dilemma and I stand back to let the doctor in. Once the pair of them are in the drawing room I hang back, hoping to catch a few words of their conversation. It is not right for one such as I to eavesdrop, I am aware of this, and yet I cannot help it. It is only as I hear her ladyship’s footsteps above me that I withdraw to the kitchens.
I have heard about the young girls dying, of course. I still have one night off a week and sometimes, just to get free of the building, I spend it in the bar of the White Hart. I listen to the old gossips like Clyde Lorrimer, so I know a few of the things that go on outside these four walls. Most days they seem as distant as news of other countries, so trapped do I feel within the confines of Durward Hall, but there is something about these particular stories … Perhaps it’s because they feel unearthly and infernal. I feel more in tune with the Devil’s business.
Once in the kitchen I check on that evening’s meal. Cook has made game pie and it looks good. I make a mental note to congratulate her on it: certainly the family won’t do so, they have little enthusiasm for her efforts. She deserves better.
Returning through the main house I see that the doctor is leaving already. Perhaps he too has sensed the atmosphere? I see him pause and glance towards the upper floors. It doesn’t pay to show curiosity here so I make my presence heard and escort him from the building with a few misguided words of warning. He doesn’t understand, of course – how could he? Either I take him fully into my confidence or I let him go. Have I really any choice?
As he rides down the drive I sense movement from within the house and am forced to grip the door jamb to stop myself from falling. Let them not attack the doctor, I think: the doctor is a good man.
