2:
It was Monday morning, and barely any snow remained. Only the narrow patches of ice on the roadside left any indication that there had previously been a blizzard. The ladies complained that their petticoats were getting damp in between bouts of intense chatter, as they lined the edge of the road. They were idle, those middle-class girls. Drawn to any glimmer of knowledge (or indeed conjecture) about yesterday’s events, groups of three or four stationary ladies rapidly grew to eight or more. Labourers and market-men bustled by, irritated by the human road blocks yet curious for any information on the recent occurrences.
“I just can’t believe it, they came here, what? Twelve months ago?”
“Oh Helena, I believe it was at least a year and a half.”
“Still, to leave the town like that without a trace…Makes you think there must be more to what Lucy saw.”
“Oh definitely, one can be in no doubt that the two things are related.”
This was played out again and again throughout the town. Even the busy workmen found time to stop and deliberate on how wealthy the Ghest patriarch had been, as though he had passed away.
“’E weren’t all that rich, so I ‘ear.”
“But ‘e ‘ad that fancy terrace ‘ouse on White Road.”
“Maybe he’d spent all ‘is money on the races.”
“It was probably cos ‘e were always buying a new ‘ouse. My missus ‘eard from one o’ the maids that they were constantly on the move. They’d gotta be ‘iding sommat.”
It all came back to the same thing. These events had to be explained away despite anyone having any hard evidence to support their theorising. Humans really were predictable sometimes.
The buzz from the gossip had grown intolerable, yet like anything it eventually died down to be replaced by something newer and more exciting. An unknown (and very dashing) young gentleman had come to the village to look at the empty house, and with his arrival came a new wave of speculation. More forceful, less secretive: the tones were completely different. Some of the ladies found that the level of information floating about was too little to bear, so they turned detective, even going as far as to watch the young man as he went about his business. Despite the curious stares, the hair-raising feeling of being scrutinised from afar, (not to mention the giggling – it was like they’d never seen a human male before, I mean honestly) he took the house almost immediately. “After all, it’s a stunning residence and a fair price on top o’ that” was how someone had put it. He moved in soon after.
The gentleman had been living in the village for barely a week, but by then most of the villagers already knew the man’s name, occupation, past residence and his reason for coming to the area (or so they supposed). To them he was James Henry, a lawyer from London who desired a nice country residence. To James, he was a failure to his father and a disappointment to his masters. About 3 months previously he had decided, upon reflection, that a life spent locking up the poor for crimes against poverty was something he could no longer do - having gained a strong conscience in the last year or so - so he decided to flee to the countryside to become a clergyman. Among the haystacks and cowpats he could practise what he preached, helping the poor and uniting the social classes with understanding and compassion. Only problem being that after having arrived at the Shires a week ago he had come to be educated on what it was actually like to live among the country folk. Of course James had read books about the subject, and some exquisite rural poetry; but what good were long green fields when abject poverty abounded? Misguided by ‘friends’ in London who gave strong opinions on subjects they knew little about, James had found himself, a week previously, surrounded by fields, shivering outside the only building for miles around. “Thank goodness it’s a pub”, he thought to himself, “because I need a drink.”
The coachman left. “Good luck young man,” were his parting words. “You’ll certainly need it.” Night had fallen and with it an intolerable chill that spread through the young man’s bones. Surely it couldn’t be this cold? London was never this cold, was it? James saw the reflection of the moon in the pub window and looked skywards. It was only a half-crescent but it still dominated the sky, its luminescence the only light save for a few lamps in the public house. He looked back at the pub. It was a decrepit old place. Although hard to make out details in the dark, James noticed that most of the windows had been boarded up, and there were at least a dozen tiles missing from the roof. Gingerly pushing the shabby door open he stepped inside, and was immediately confronted with five stern faces staring right at him. If he thought the temperature outside was chilling, it was nothing compared to what was waiting within.
James cleared his throat and began to speak, only softly at first, but gaining confidence as the publican’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he began, which seems a strange thing to say upon entering a public house, yet somehow appropriate under the circumstances, “but I wondered if you had any spare rooms for the night. I’m new to the area you see, and -”
“If it’s a bed you’re after, you’ve come to the right place. D’ya wanna nightcap, or…”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’m awfully tired, you see, so -”
“Right y’are sir, jus’ follow me.”
James sighed inwardly and followed the owner up the narrow staircase. Relief swept over him at escaping the gaze of the four surly patrons sitting about the place. He hadn’t looked very closely out of fear, but he was almost certain that the old man sitting in the far corner had a scar on his cheek. This was quite surprising. James had been let to believe that the countryside was filled with simpler, more gentle folk, so he didn’t quite know what to think. What was this place? Lost in thought, he hadn’t fully taken in the countenance of his host; now, outside his bedroom door he could clearly see that the man was a drunkard, after observing his reddened nose and cheeks, his bloodshot eyes, and the stench of whisky about his person. James avoided small talk and almost immediately slipped into the bed. At least the sheets are clean, he thought to himself. Tomorrow I must found a house; anything will do – as long as I don’t have to spend another night in this pit. Before he could make out whether the dark mark on the ceiling was some kind of insect or just a stain, he drifted off to a fitful sleep.
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