Kronos, p.6
Kronos, page 6
‘Oh,’ I say, rather disappointed. ‘That doesn’t sound like the best plan I’ve ever heard.’
‘No,’ Grost admits, ‘it can be somewhat awkward. You have to hope that you can catch the thing before it’s killed everyone within sucking distance. Night-night.’
With that he pulls his eye mask back down and goes to sleep.
Fifteen
Marcus Pays His Respects
TODAY SEES THE funerals of both Ann Sorrell and Petra Wilkins and it is my unfortunate duty to attend both.
Leaving my guests to busy themselves with their own tasks, I ride through Padbury to the small church on its far side. When the building was originally constructed the graveyard was barely twenty feet square and the tiny plot soon filled up so that the gravediggers were forced to branch out, climbing a hill to the rear. This has resulted in inclined funerals and a selection of lopsided crosses silhouetted against the sky. Never under estimate the numbers of the dead – they will soon prove you wrong.
All this topographical inconvenience tends to mean that interments are shallow and services brief. This latter is strongly against the prefence of Father Volk, a particularly theatrical Puritan who likes nothing more than beating his congregation senseless with the blunt edge of his religious fervour. Some priests like to give their congregation a sense of love and awe, some just like to give them nightmares. Father Volk is of the second school.
‘Ah.’ His voice booms from within the shadows of the vestibule. ‘Dr Marcus. I had wondered if we might have your company today.’
‘Indeed you shall,’ I reply. ‘And why might you not?’
‘Oh.’ Volk dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand, as if trying to bat away a particularly intrusive horsefly. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you for feeling unwelcome, considering. It can’t be easy to be the man they turn to to keep the spectre of disease from the door … and then to fail. But then, none of us are perfect – except the Almighty.’
It is clear that he considers himself a close exception. Still, I choose not to comment on any imperfections we might possess.
‘In both cases it was too late for me to assist.’
‘Really? I understood you were present when Petra passed. And, of course, you spent time with poor Ann the day before she joined her friend in the heavenly fields.’
It is, of course, frowned upon to kill priests. I therefore choose to continue ignoring Volk’s remarks. It’s safer that way.
He stares at me for a moment, then offers me a distinctly brutal smile and returns into the darkness of his church.
I walk over to where two holes have been freshly dug in the vertiginous graveyard. Young Luke Hopkins, gravedigger and preserver of the local tavern’s fortunes, is sitting on the edge of the hole, dangling his legs inside and mopping at his sweating brow with his shirt-tail.
‘Hot work,’ he explains, as if it were necessary to do so. ‘Don’t know why we’re bothering for that Petra Wilkins either. From what I hear there ain’t more than a bucketful of her to bury.’
‘It’s about the ritual,’ I say, angry at his callousness.
‘That may be so,’ Luke replies. ‘But there’s no ritual that’s going to put me back on my feet. Two graves in one morning – I ask you. Another five minutes and somebody would have had to dig a third.’
I decide that it’s best to leave Luke to his recovery. Everyone I have met thus far seems designed to anger me. But then, Luke’s attitude is not so unusual: how else can the young face death other than by dismissing or laughing at it? It’s a time-honoured method and I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s not as if Luke actually saw it happen, after all. That was a burden placed only on myself.
I notice Petra’s family at the church gate and catch my breath for a moment. Is Volk right? Do they believe I have failed them in some way?
Saul Wilkins, Petra’s father, is surprisingly small considering his trade as a blacksmith. He is also perpetually sweating, so that one wonders if he started off large and has simply been worn away over the years.
‘Doctor,’ he says, nodding at me. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, bowing my head towards his wife.
Katherine Wilkins is not so polite. She stares at me for a moment, opens her mouth as if to speak and then shakes her head, moving past me and walking towards where Luke is still sitting in her daughter’s intended place of rest.
‘You’ll forgive my wife, I’m sure,’ says Saul. ‘It’s knocked her hard, as you would imagine.’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any more idea what it was …?’ he asks, scratching at his short beard as if he’s forgotten the rest of his sentence.
‘I’m afraid not,’
‘Only we’d heard you’d called for someone to come and help. A foreign gentleman, I believe?’
Even after all these years I forget how small a village really is. You simply cannot keep a secret in it.
‘He’s just an old friend,’ I say, ‘from my army days.’
‘Oh aye …’ Saul looks uncomfortable at that, as well he might had he ever seen Kronos fight. Stories of the violence wrought by the New Model Army in Ireland have made many folk wary of ex-soldiers. They’re often quite right to be so.
‘He’s just visiting for a few days,’ I continue. ‘You have to look after your old comrades, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Saul says, not having much choice but to agree. ‘Of course you do.’ He looks over to where his wife has begun arguing with Luke. The young man leaps out of the hole as quickly as if something inside it had grabbed his foot. ‘I’d better …’ He moves over to help whichever of them appears to need it most.
The rest of the village arrives in dribs and drabs. You don’t bury someone in circumstances like these without drawing a crowd. Everyone wants to know what happened to these two girls, and if the villagers manage to catch a glimpse of their remains, all the better. Such ghoulishness is hard to understand but it will for ever be a part of human nature and there’s no point fighting it. Standing in the shade of one of the trees I can hear stray pieces of conversation floating over on the light breeze.
‘Like a woman of ninety, so I heard.’
‘Crumbled away to nothing.’
‘New type of plague.’
‘The doctor will be next, most likely.’
‘Foreign he is, turned up last night.’
I see the Sorrells making their slow way along the road. Barton can hardly help slowing them down. I notice that one of his crutches has been snapped and then fixed, which makes me picture him tumbling to the ground, coming face to face with his dying sister. He is a man who has suffered altogether too much. I decide to walk up to meet them – anything to get me away from the crowd and its gossip.
Isabella is the one to greet me, so like her mother and always the strongest of the three Sorrells. ‘Doctor.’ She nods, and offers much the same greeting as Saul Wilkins. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Again I can say nothing other than ‘Not at all.’ We are, after all, just trading polite chat. I am no more wanted there than anyone else. Who wants to be at a funeral?
Barton certainly doesn’t.
‘Look at ’em all,’ he says with disgust, staring at the gathered crowd. ‘Loving every minute of it, I dare say.’
His face is bright red and his forehead is dripping with sweat. It’s obvious that he’s finding it extremely painful to move along. I open my mouth, about to suggest that I should take a look at him, see if there’s anything I can do to help. Then it occurs to me how unlikely it is that my offer will be appreciated. Barton doesn’t want sympathy, he just wants his sister and that wish is beyond the power of any of us to grant.
‘Oh hush now, brother,’ says Isabella. ‘It’s lovely that so many wanted to show their respects. Ann was well loved.’
‘Balls,’ Barton replies succinctly. ‘They’re just a bunch of nosy bastards.’
Isabella gives him a sharp look but he ignores her.
Throughout all this, George Sorrell seems in another world entirely. His eyes are glazed, his mouth slack, he might be about to fall asleep. He is not a man who grieves easily: he took the death of his wife terribly hard and this can only be worse. When a loved one grows ill you prepare yourself, you make your peace with the sad process as best you can. None of the Sorrells had had that advantage with Ann. No doubt they had imagined that she would outlive them all.
We enter the graveyard and the idle chatter stops as we force our way through to join Petra’s family at the graveside.
‘Good morning,’ says Volk, reappearing from within the dark church. He looks up at the sun and it’s as if the light is all a bit too much for such a dark soul as his. He squints and gives a great sigh as if unburdening himself of the most terrible weight.
‘Let us abase ourselves in the sight of God,’ he suggests, almost cheerfully. ‘The all-merciful, the wise, the healer and the father.’
‘Not that merciful,’ someone mutters at the back and Volk twitches as if there’s a wasp at work beneath his robes.
‘Silence,’ he hisses. ‘Have respect for the Almighty.’
Not to mention the memory of the two dead girls, I think.
‘We are gathered here today to commit the bodies of Petra Wilkins and Ann Sorrell to the earth, to remember them as the bright children they were and to remind ourselves that only through firm obedience to God are any of us saved.’
I let his words drone away. I have no interest in the God of Father Volk: he is a prickly, cruel and vindictive God and not the one I believe in. Volk utters all the usual threats and contradictions and very little about the two girls we are here to remember. I decide to indulge in my own memories, casting my mind back to the years when I had been their doctor, smiling sadly at the thought of the beautiful and spirited people we have lost.
When the caskets are brought to the graveside, the families are united by their tears and I’m pleased to note a small fracture appear in George Sorrell’s icy expression. He rubs his watering eyes and I feel relief that this important first step towards dealing with the death of a loved one is being taken.
Finally, Volk finishes his miserable litany and the caskets are lowered into their shallow holes. I take my turn to cast earth into the graves and privately wish the pair of girls all speed into the afterlife. Let it always be summer where you are, I think. May the sun never set.
As people began to file away I notice the Durwards’ carriage pull off the road slightly. Paul Durward steps out. It’s good that they’ve made an appearance, I think, albeit a late one. It’s so rare that they leave Durward Hall these days and I don’t think it has occurred to anyone to expect them.
Paul is holding a small wreath and I walk towards him, meaning to meet him halfway. He veers away, however, climbing up the hill towards the large tomb at its summit. It’s then that I remember the date. It’s the anniversary of his father’s death: he’s not here to attend the funeral of Ann and Petra at all.
I decide it’s a perfect opportunity to reacquaint ourselves anyway and I climb up the hill after him.
Sixteen
Morris Blake Plans Ahead
DEAREST NELL,
I am sorry it has been so long since my last letter but affairs in the Durward household have not been all they might be. ‘When are they ever?’ you will likely ask and I dare say you’d find nobody to disagree with you. Still, even for this hellish home, the atmosphere of late has been almost impossible to bear.
I have also been even more than usually cautious. I am under no illusion that they would be merciful should they find out that we’re married. The mood here is so hostile that I would surely be beaten and hurled from the premises. How I wish I could understand this ridiculous notion that precludes a footman from taking a wife. I am living proof that it doesn’t affect a man’s work! I miss you, darling, but fear not: we won’t be forced to live like this for ever. And yes, my dearest, I know it’s hard on you too but where would we be if I didn’t have this position? Our best hope is for me to make myself indispensable to the household and then, when I rise to the rank of butler, there will be opportunities for us.
So what of the household? Well, as you know, Lady Durward has long been a recluse. She sits in her chamber, barely moving. She might as well be as dead as her husband. If the glimpse I caught of her face the other day is any sign, she soon will be.
I had been ordered to accompany her ladyship and Master Paul to the grave of Lord Durward, it being seven years now since he passed. It was the first time she had left the house for nearly a year and she was dressed just as if it were old Hagen’s funeral all over again. Head to toe in heavy black, layer upon layer of lace so that it was impossible to see her face. She moved at a slow crawl, as if every footstep had to be carefully considered before it was taken. It took great effort not to stare.
Master Paul helped her into the carriage and we drove to the graveyard.
On arrival, Master Paul stepped out and laid a wreath before the statue of his father. It is an impressive tomb, my love, and that’s for sure: a stone Hagen looking down on all comers, twice the height of the real man but with that same terrible sneer the man wore in life. I dare say the worms have had that from him now. Just goes to show, we’re all of us equal in the end. I know that sounds callous but I promise you he doesn’t deserve consideration. Be glad you never met him, my love, he was a bastard right enough. (Forgive my language but there’s no prettying the old man up.) It’s a wonder to me that these two could bring themselves to visit his graveside – you wouldn’t catch me dead there if he’d been my relation. Unless, perhaps, I was in the mood for a dance!
Not that Lady Durward left the carriage, that job was Paul’s alone. Still, I managed to catch a glimpse of her face. I was pushing the door closed when she leaned forward, noticing the approach of Dr Marcus – the medical man of hereabouts. She obviously still couldn’t see well enough as, just as I was stepping back, she lifted her veil so as to look at him properly. It was a terrible shock!
Lady Durward had always been a fine-looking woman, one of those regal beauties, you know – pretty to look at but cold as ice. She had had, I suppose, all the warmth of her husband’s statue. But good-looking for all that. No more! She has wasted away. The skin fair hung off her, great cream-white folds of it. It looked crisp and powdery, more like dust than flesh. Her eyes appeared utterly lifeless, little more than dark holes peering out from this goose-fat face. Perhaps she noticed me looking for she gave a low moan.
Of course, the noise might have had nothing to do with me, it might rather have been on account of her feelings towards Dr Marcus, feelings that were made only too clear when the man approached the coach.
‘Forgive me,’ he was saying, ‘the anniversary had quite slipped my mind.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to remember,’ Master Paul said, though not unkindly, just in that cool way he has. ‘I am sure you cannot remember the deaths of every patient who has been in your care.’
‘You would be surprised,’ the doctor replied. ‘Some of my profession develop a cold heart against death – I can’t say that I have.’
‘It is to your credit,’ said the master. ‘Though my mother would consider it of little compensation.’
‘Paul,’ the doctor said, ‘you know there’s nothing I could have done, the plague was too virulent … nobody could have saved him.’
‘I know,’ the master said, ‘but my mother …’
I suppose the doctor caught a glance from Master Paul, for he suddenly realised that the lady in question was present. He glanced through the open door of the coach and he must have seen her face too as his look of keen embarrassment soon turned to one of horror. I’ll give him his due, he was quick to cover it up with a gracious smile and a small bow.
‘Lady Durward,’ he said, ‘I had no idea …’
‘She won’t speak to you,’ insisted the master, leading him away from the carriage.
It got difficult to hear them but I could tell from the doctor’s face that he was deeply concerned about what he had seen of her ladyship.
‘It’s the effect of the grief,’ I heard the master say, and I reckon I believed that just about as much as Dr Marcus did. His expression was almost mocking as he led the master a little way further, no doubt wanting to ensure that Lady Durward couldn’t hear what he was saying.
They had a brief but civil argument but Dr Marcus got nowhere and soon the master climbed back into the carriage and we left the doctor there.
Credit to Dr Marcus for caring, really. Had I been treated so dismissively by the lady in question I’m not sure I would work so hard to assist. Perhaps it was curiosity, too. I dare say that if I was a medical man I’d be fascinated by what could have brought about such a change in her ladyship. As it is, I try not to think about it: there can be little merit in my prying, I want to further myself, not end up out of a job.
On the subject of furthering myself, I very much hope that just such an opportunity is on hand.
I told you of how Mistress Sara always fusses around me, did I not? (And don’t get jealous, my love! She’s mad as a tramp’s tick and not half the beauty you are.) She’s a weird one and no mistake: you only have to watch how she and Master Paul carry on when they think nobody’s looking, there’s a way about them that just ain’t natural. Anyway, she’s always making eyes at me and I’m no fool: if she has a liking for what she sees then I’m not averse to turning that to our advantage. My only goal is, as always, for us to get enough money together to be safe, my love, and if the hardest thing I have to do is give the gentry a shy smile now and then I shall count myself lucky. This morning, just after breakfast, she hinted that there was something she wanted me to do for her and that I should find myself well rewarded for my efforts. That’s what we like to hear!
In other news, the village gossip is reaching new heights. Two girls died last week and nobody seems to know what happened to them. Of course, that never stopped the owners of the chattering tongues from having a guess. From what I hear, their bodies were horribly aged – they’d wasted away before their loved ones’ eyes. They should take a look at her ladyship! I bet she could give them a run for their money!
