Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Inheritance

 

 

The Confession of Mary Carson

 

YOU HAVE BEEN both patient and forbearing, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes, and for that you have an old woman’s gratitude. You’ll be glad to hear my ramblings are almost at an end. There is little more to tell, and in most respects we are past the worst.

In most.

I had discovered my maternal condition, you will recall, in the autumn of 1837. It was later established that my pregnancy was by then some two months advanced, meaning that the child was due in May the following year. And so I spent the next four months – four lonely months of fearful speculation – quite literally confined to my rooms at Springcross House. The doors were locked, my meals brought by servants. Otherwise, I was almost entirely alone – except, of course, for the occasional visit by the child’s father.

I had my books, which I read and reread to distraction, and could look from my window at the gardens, even open them to take the air. There was no-one to see or hear me shout for help. Besides, the one time I tried, Arodias had the windows shuttered for a week and denied me lamp or candlelight for the duration. He relented for the sake of the baby’s health, but assured me that next time, the room would be shuttered permanently. Privately, I thought that if the child had survived the cruelties heaped on me over Christmas – and where had his concern for it been then? – a little darkness could do no harm, but I dared not say so.

And so I obeyed without question, as what choice did I have? Arodias became the god of my circumscribed world – capricious, inscrutable, rarely seen or heard. While I had no friends among the servants, I would have given anything for a minute’s conversation, but they had been instructed to say nothing to me; even those who’d howled and cackled loudest at my degradation spared me neither word nor glance, kind or cruel.

Except for Arodias’ rare visits, I was alone with my memories, and these turned vicious as time passed. I’d known only four people with any real intimacy. And that included Arodias Thorne, who, it seemed, I had truly known only in the Biblical sense. I had been wholly ignorant of his true thoughts until he had flung them in my face.

But now, I felt, I did know him – and there was little enough to know. Beneath his fine speeches, airs and pretensions, he was a child. We forget, I think, what children are, Mr Muddock – do you agree, Mrs Rhodes? The current fashion is for sentiment; sweet and simpering cherubs. Angels, we call them – and perhaps in that is an unwitting truth. It was God’s angels that destroyed the Cities of the Plain; an angel of God who slew the Egyptian first-born. The innocence of children is not as we think. Children know no evil, true – because they don’t know what evil is, any more than good, until we teach them. Nothing can be crueller than a child; they can be utterly selfish, and pitiless in that selfishness. Most have love, at least, to temper that. If Arodias Thorne had, he’d never understood it. In any case, he had looked on the world and coveted, and whatever he coveted, had taken by force or guile. He’d clawed his way up, made his money, but even that was not enough. He would never feel safe if his playthings could be taken away from him, whether he still wanted them or not.

So what hope had I of ever escaping his control? I was his; why should he relinquish me? Even if he let me go, with wealth and feigned respectability, he would always be able to take all of it away with a word, if he chose. Even when he died, he might conceal some final twist of the knife in his will.

Yet oddly, that gave me hope. With the knowledge that Arodias’ punishment would always be a Sword of Damocles above my head came a kind of calm, born from resignation. Sooner or later the blow would fall, and accepting that drove the worst of the fear away. I could not prevent that, but by guile might delay the event for as long as I could, and find what joy I might. That would be my victory.

But first, I had had other torments to face. Do you know Milton, Mrs Rhodes? There is a line of his: the mind is its own place, which can make a Heaven of Hell, or a Hell of Heaven. And shut off from all human intercourse, as mine now was, it can turn upon itself, like a trapped fox gnawing off its foot to escape.

The other three souls I had known well in life were my father, and the two men whose offers of marriage I had refused: Tristan Moreland and Denys Landen. None of them, thank God, could see me as I was now, but my fancy now ran amuck, and my memory was able to furnish it amply with all it needed to raise them – from the dead, in my father’s case, and from happy marriages and prolific families in those of Tristan and Denys – to sit in judgement on me.

In my mind’s eye, my father turned from me, pity and loathing in his eyes; Tristan and Denys, cruel having been spurned, mocked my erstwhile piety and present misery, parading sow-like wives and hordes of children. Some nights I screamed aloud at them to leave me – then clapped my hands over my mouth, lest my cries rouse Arodias’ fury. They never did, thankfully, but my imagination taunted me with pictures of Kellett and the other servants listening and sniggering amongst themselves to see the haughty Christian woman who had thought herself so pious and full of rectitude brought so low – brought, indeed, to the very threshold of madness itself.

Arodias’ visits were the nearest I had to relief. He was my only flesh and blood companion, though whether they served as any respite depended entirely upon his mood. Sometimes he was kindly, bringing some small gift – sweetmeats of some kind, or a new book – although he would, often as not, taunt me with it until I’d abased myself sufficiently. At other times he was full of lust, despite my condition, and woe betide me if I did not give him his way quickly enough. Or, sometimes, even if he did.

At other times he would come only to torment me, holding up a mirror to my wretched state – crawling in that now-filthy room, in clothes little more than grimy rags. Occasionally he brought me new clothes to wear, and hot water to wash in, but that was for his pleasure, not mine.

The days, the weeks, the months passed by; I thought my ordeal might never end. That was how I strove to think of it, for an ordeal, at length, comes to an end. But at times it seemed as though all the years of my life would be spent this way. More than once I thought that Hell would be this room, but for a true eternity, without even the hope of release through death. At other times I wondered if, indeed, I was in Hell – if I had died in my sleep to pass unknowing into that realm of eternal misery.

I would not allow myself to believe it, because this much theology I knew: the worst sin of all is despair. To believe oneself to be beyond God’s mercy is an act of supreme wickedness and arrogance. So I told myself, over and over, that I still lived, and therefore still had hope of redemption.

But I came close; dear God, I came close.

Even though Arodias had dismissed the very idea, I was tempted, at least every other day, to end my own life and that of the child in my womb, to spare it the fate Arodias had devised for it. But I dared not. Suicide was a mortal sin; so was taking the life of an innocent. And more practically, should I make such an attempt and fail – or worse, end the child’s life but not my own – Arodias’ vengeance would be terrible.

I did not doubt the existence of God, but as to His will or nature I now felt utterly ignorant. At times I could almost believe Arodias, that God was no loving Father, personally concerned with the fate of my soul, but a cruel and capricious deity to whom we were all no more than insects. “As flies are to wanton boys...”

But if God was, indeed, the God of my father and not that of Arodias Thorne, perhaps temptation was being put in my way. Perhaps this was a test of my faith, an opportunity for redemption; bear whatever blows this life had to offer with Christian fortitude, and I might hope for salvation; self-murder or infanticide in an attempt to evade worldly suffering would assuredly condemn me to Hell.

I was tempted still – less for my own sake that that of the child to consider. But neither the will of God, nor the future, can be known. Who could say what future events might deliver my child from Arodias?

And so I prayed. I prayed morning and night, for guidance, for mercy, for forgiveness.

I clung to my reason by the slenderest of threads. All too easily it might have given way, and then it would have truly been the madhouse for me, from which Arodias would have ensured I never emerged again. I was on the brink, until one day – one dark night, indeed...

I cannot be sure, now, that it was not my fancy. I was, after all, near madness at the time. But at the time, I was certain: perhaps I felt I had no choice but to believe and hold fast to it.

A figure appeared in my room – a female one, its arms held open. I could not see her face in any detail; it was pale and indistinct, and it glowed, with a soft, gentle light. It was the Virgin Mary, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes, of that I had no doubt.

You will ask, no doubt, why I should have seen so – well, so Romish an apparition, and I have no answer for you. It was that, indeed, that convinced me of what I had seen. It was one thing for my father, my suitors and other images from my past to haunt me, but this was... something other. God had revealed Himself to me in a form I could not mistake. Let Arodias sneer at my faith and call it a child’s tale. I knew again, once more, that my God was real.

And there at last I came to my final hope; that, whatever my ending on this Earth, I might still find grace after death: reunion with my father, and the happiness that had eluded me here. In that darkness, Mrs Rhodes and Mr Muddock, I found my faith and my God anew, and prayed. Over and over, in the morning, at noon, at sundown and in the night, I prayed for His mercy, and dedicated myself to Him.

You might ask why, having seen the Blessed Virgin, I did not turn to the Catholic faith. Perhaps it was because, as Arodias knew so well, I am not the stuff of which Christian martyrs are made, I am too prone to doubt and question at leisure. The comfort of my father’s faith was easier to embrace once more. More practically, as a Catholic I must make a full confession of my sins – and that I did not believe I could bear to do. And indeed I could not, until now.

Only a week after this, I felt the air outside change. There was, even through the distant reek of the city’s smoke, the scent of something else. A freshening, a taste of something better to come.

In the garden, green shoots sprouted, and buds appeared on tree and bush. Leaves unfurled. As my belly grew, trees blossomed, like a carpet of brilliant foam. Winter became spring. I cannot tell either of you what that meant to me. There was the sense of change and renewal, of rebirth, redemption, that that whole season brings.

I found memories now that were a comfort: the services my father had held at Easter, the hand-painted eggs. But most of all, I knew now that, try as Arodias and the rest might to make me despair, time was passing. To all things there was an end. A day would come, and with it my child. Perhaps my death also; perhaps not. But in either case my current state would not, could not, continue in perpetuity. I would die in Springcross House, or live outside it. If the first – I could not be certain of God’s grace, for I had sinned and there had been no minister to counsel me, but I had prayed and repented, and had, at least, the hope of salvation. If the second, I would build as decent a life for myself as I could. Nothing excessive, for had I not seen how poisoned a chalice wealth was? If I might still have a family of my own – a loving husband, children – that would be the highest bliss on Earth. And if not, my eyes were set on Heaven.

And then, at last, the birth came. I cried out for help when the pains began, and they went unanswered. But when at length my waters broke – ah, then I understood, and cried out that the child was coming. I cannot help but smile, despite everything, when I remember how great a difference that made – his whole damned household came running at that!

What a panic and a performance that was. A doctor was sent for, with a nurse. Were they Arodias’ creatures, like the servants, or simply paid to perform a task and keep silence afterward? I do not know. They had kind faces, I recall, but I was well aware of how little that meant.

What else? I remember the pain of childbirth, of course – but I shall not describe that in great detail, Mrs Rhodes, as Mr Muddock is beginning to look distinctly bilious. Forgive my levity, sir, I know none of this can be pleasant to hear. I can only say it was still less pleasant to endure.

At last, the pain ceased and a small wailing red-faced thing was placed on my breast. I am hard put to describe what I felt then. I experienced a wave of love and tenderness so great as to set the rest of my ordeal at naught, though I knew it was valueless in the face of Arodias’ earthly might. Even should I escape, he would spare no effort to hunt me down. So I told myself then, and tell myself now. I had no choice. Even had I killed him, Kellett and the rest would have avenged his death and disposed of the child. Yet had I done that, at least the child would not have been his to dispose of...

But I had only bare minutes with my child. Then they came and took him, and I was too weak to fight. I howled in my anguish, and so did he. But I never saw him again.

 

 

“A MISCARRIAGE, MISS Carson,” said Arodias several weeks later. “Or stillbirth, perhaps. Such things are unfortunate, but they happen, and must be endured.”

“Yes,” I said, “perhaps that would help.”

We sat in the garden, sipping tea. I wore a white dress and bonnet, he, as always, an immaculate suit. It was July, I think.

I was a little uncertain of time, since following the birth and abduction of my child I had been on the very edge of madness, if indeed I had not crossed over for a time. I’m not sure if, having returned from such a state, one can ever be entirely whole again, but I regained a degree of lucidity, at which point they told me my child was dead. I did not believe them, of course, but a part of me wished to.

Looking back, I have no doubt Arodias knew that. When I review my time with him, the skill he manipulated me with is almost impressive. First he had been the stern man of business with a hidden heart; next, the cruel and arbitrary master who drove me to the point of desperation and made me a cringing slave. And now, having almost destroyed me with his cruelty, he resumed his kindly mien. The fiction he maintained was that I had ‘fallen’ through a dalliance with some scoundrel who had subsequently absconded, to be rescued by Arodias’ charity. I dared not say otherwise for fear of the madhouse, and in truth I almost wondered at times if perhaps I had only imagined what had gone before.

“Here is my proposition,” he said. “You will leave Springcross House, and restrain yourself from making any utterances that might – shall we say – embarrass your former employer. In return, a discreet silence shall be maintained about your own – ah – fall from grace?”

He sat there, eyebrows raised; finally I nodded assent.

“Excellent,” he went on, and laid some papers on the table by the tea things. “These documents detail your marriage to Captain Hartley, an officer in a Guards Regiment, now deceased.” Captain Hartley himself, Arodias assured me, enjoyed the advantages of having been quite real, as well as undistinguished and entirely without close friends or family. Favours owed to Arodias by certain public officials on the one hand, and by a highly accomplished forger on the other, had done the rest.

“This Will and Testament,” he went on, laying down a further sheaf of documents, “and these solicitor’s letters, confirm you as sole beneficiary of his not inconsiderable estate.” The real Captain Hartley’s ‘estate’ had consisted of gambling debts and a good deal of indecent literature, but it served as a suitable fiction to explain the very generous sum Arodias had provided me with.

“No blot on your reputation,” he said, “and you will live out your remaining years in comfort. I am a man of my word, Miss Carson – or should I say, Mrs Hartley?”

Yes, he was a man of his word – when it suited him. For motives best not thought on, it did so now.

“But remember,” he added, leaning across the table, “that what I give, I can take away. Very, very easily, Mary. Never doubt that.”

“I will not, Mr Thorne,” I told him. I had neither stomach nor desire for argument; I only wanted to be as free of him as I could ever hope to be, and at once.

Birds sang in the trees; a host of blooms perfumed the air. Rarely have I known surroundings more beautiful or tranquil than the gardens of Springcross House. In them, the past few months seemed an impossibility. I could almost believe the version of events he related.

“Then I believe our business is concluded. Kellett will take you wherever you wish to go, when you are ready to leave. Goodbye.”

He rose, gave a short bow, and walked away.

And that, Mrs Rhodes, was the last time I ever saw Arodias Thorne, save in my nightmares.

I wish I could have found the courage to defy him at the last, but I could not. How damnably well he knew me. He saw my weakness of character, and, perhaps, my capacity for self-deception. In the years that have passed since leaving Springcross, I played my part so well I came to believe in Captain Hartley, that I was his widow and the mother of his stillborn child. Part of me, of course, wished to, rather than admit the truth. At times I found the courage to admit the lie, if only to myself, but I refused to look beyond the deceit that lay below it, that Arodias Thorne had saved my honour and reputation when I fell pregnant through an illicit love affair. At most, I might have acknowledged that Arodias was the child’s father, but not the worst truth of all – the truth of the Moloch Device and the Fire Beyond.

Until now, of course. Soon enough I shall discover at first-hand exactly how merciful – or otherwise – my God is.

What else was to be done? I went to my rooms. They were unrecognisable either as those I’d moved into that first day or as the filthy, stinking chambers I’d spent my confinement in. While I’d been lost and raving, the servants had stripped, cleaned, repainted and scrubbed, then burned all that could not be cleansed. They gleamed and shone as new and were utterly unwelcoming, alien to me.

My belongings were packed, and I had already arranged lodgings in Liverpool; Sodom and Gomorrah could not have been more loathsome to my sight than Manchester by then. I would have dearly loved to return to Burscough, but feared I would be unable to deceive the people among whom I had grown up. Instead I had rented a clean, roomy house where I would have quiet, for the prayer and repentance I had resolved to spend my life in.

I heard soft footsteps on the landing, spied a shadow at the periphery of my sight; Kellett, his usual smirk upon his lips. “Ready, Miss Carson?”

I walked by him without a word, loathing even the sensation of my skirts brushing him as I went past.

 

 

WE ARE ALMOST done, Mrs Rhodes, and indeed Mr Muddock knows my history since then. Within two years of moving to Liverpool I met a gentle Welshman, a childless widower called Geraint, whom I can honestly say was the one true love of my life. You knew him, of course, Mr Muddock, for he became my husband: within a year of that meeting I was a bride – truly one, for the first time – loved, and cherished. My life was transformed, and for the better, in every way.

And in very short time, I was a mother again. Despite my age, I bore Geraint three healthy children – a boy and two girls – all of whom have survived to adulthood and borne children of their own. I am, Mrs Rhodes, truly blessed. I could almost believe that God was recompensing me for past hardships... but then I think on my sins, and my greatest dread over the years has been that He will take my loved ones from me as a punishment.

But all through our first decade of marriage it was not God I feared, but Arodias. He had no reason to expose me, of course, but might, for all I knew, do so out of petty spite. And there were the other servants – Kellett, most of all. I knew it could only be justice if the axe fell, but the thought of the suffering such an event would cause my loved ones was too much to bear. Oh, it’s true – Geraint, God rest him, was devoted to me, but could he have forgiven me, had he known? I wanted to believe so, but did not dare put that to the test. And so I suffered in silence and watched my children grow, my worldly joys all tainted with dread...

And then, in December 1851, a miracle: Arodias Thorne died.

I learned it from his solicitors. It seemed I was, almost, his sole beneficiary. The mills were mine, his tenements, his warehouses – all of his considerable estate. Including Springcross House and the lands appertaining.

Briefly I wondered if it might constitute some gesture of repentance on his part, but this I thought unlikely. More probably, it was Arodias Thorne’s last, black joke. It certainly caused surprise – and, I think, suspicion, in my husband’s case. I was able, I am glad to say, to convince that good man that Arodias Thorne had entertained nothing more than a paternal affection towards me, an emotion for which he had found no other outlet in his prosperous but lonely existence – hence this final and startlingly generous bequest.

Why did he really do it? I have often pondered the question. On the one hand, who else was there to leave his worldly goods to? Perhaps it was a means to leave one last mark on my life, by forcing me to remember. Perhaps he hoped to poison my marriage with suspicion; with a man other than my husband, he might have succeeded. Most of all, though, I believe it was so that I would know what he had done.

What had he done, you ask? Well, I have no proof, merely conjecture. To understand what that conjecture was, and how I arrived at it, requires an account of my final visit to Springcross House.

I wanted nothing of his. I made arrangements for the immediate sale of his properties and businesses – vetting, wherever I could, the prospective buyers in the hope Arodias’ tenants and employees would enjoy kinder treatment and conditions than before. As for the house – that was why, early in the February of 1852, I returned to Manchester for the first time since leaving Springcross House as Mrs Hartley.

When I was made aware that Springcross House was now my property, my first worry was how to deal with the servants – would any there remember me, after all these years? However, I soon learned I need have no worries on that score.

You’ll remember, Mr Muddock, my saying I was almost the sole beneficiary of Arodias’ will; the other was Kellett, to whom Arodias had bequeathed one hundred thousand pounds – more than enough to keep him in whatever manner he desired to become accustomed for life, no matter how depraved that manner might be. Those monies had been made available even before the reading of the will; Arodias’s solicitors had been instructed to that effect. At which point the butler had, taking the wages of his many sins, vanished.

With Arodias dead and Kellett gone, the servants – most of them, I have no doubt, with histories that might not bear close scrutiny by the authorities – had looted the place for anything they could carry away and fled. No record of their names could be found; any such record had gone with Kellett, we knew not where. Since then, the great house had stood derelict, open to the elements and any who sought its shelter.

My husband was against my going there alone, for who might now have made their abode in Springcross House? I might have answered that no-one could have been viler than its former master, but forebore. For my own part, I was adamant Geraint should not accompany me, lest he stumble over some incriminating matter left there out of carelessness, or – more likely – by intent, to inflict a final ruinous blow on me. If there were any ghosts from my past at Springcross House, I would face them by myself, and lay them to rest if I could.

By way of compromise, I agreed to take Thomas, whom I had hired when I first moved to Liverpool and had served me faithfully ever since – a former soldier, stolid, loyal and dependable. He had always been my, rather than my husband’s man, so I felt secure regarding both my physical safety and any potential threats to my reputation. My husband was satisfied with this. Thomas, though in his forties by then, was strong and fit, while Geraint was my own age and – as I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr Muddock, having known him – while a good and kind man, was no warrior born.

And so we took the train from Liverpool to Manchester, and then a carriage from the station. As I said before, I took little notice of the city, nor of Crawbeck as we passed through it, but doubtless it had changed as one might expect, with more low, mean tenements sprawling up the hill slopes. Even if it had been unchanged, I was not; spying my reflection in the glass, I saw a plump matron with greying hair, but was more than content to be so. It was hard to recognise the woman who had ridden this way in 1837, or believe I could once have stirred the passions of Arodias Thorne. That sense of distance enabled me to contemplate Springcross House with a smaller measure of fear.

The gates of Springcross House had been forced asunder; a length of broken chain lay on the gravel path, and the journey to the house itself was decidedly bumpy. When we reached the house itself...

I’m sorry, Mr Muddock. Might I trouble you for another small measure of your brandy? I vowed to avoid any such stimulant until this testament was completed, but it has been a most fatiguing day.

Many thanks. Yes, the house.

Arodias had not been dead two months when I visited Springcross House, yet the condition of the building and grounds suggested a far longer period of neglect. Windows were broken; great pieces of stucco had fallen from the walls, ivy writhed across the frontage and slates were missing from the roof. And the once-beautiful gardens, the one aspect of the place for which I cherished the least glimmer of warmth, were wild and overgrown, the trees, shrubs and plants stripped bare and withered by the winter winds.

It was as if Arodias had allowed the whole building to fall into disrepair once I had gone, yet my enquiries showed he had done no such thing. It was as though, like Jonah’s gourd, it had grown up, then withered, in a day. It is only one more mystery amid the rest.

Inside, the impression of desuetude was much the same, but the explanation was more readily apparent. The servants had departed like a plague of locusts, leaving only when they had stripped the house bare. Even the carpets and light-fittings were gone. With no servants to clean them, the empty chambers were already accruing layer on layer of dust. There were pale gaps on the walls where paintings had been taken down; the kitchen’s drawers and cupboards had been emptied. In places one could hear the drip of water and the scuttling of rats.

One painting remained in the house. I invite you both to guess which one. Yes, Mrs Rhodes: that damned portrait of Arodias in his study. I can well imagine how even those depraved souls might have feared to touch it. I had Thomas take it down, then slashed its face to ribbons with a knife. We lit the fire in the study, and the portrait, torn and broken, went into it.

At one point, I thought I heard a chuckle from behind me. Well, no; let me be precise. His chuckle. A middle-aged woman’s fancy, no doubt. But still.

I wished to remain no longer than I must, but there was another purpose to my visit. You see, Mr Muddock, one small detail regarding the death of Arodias Thorne continued to worry me.

The circumstances of his passing were somewhat gruesome. If one believed in poetic justice one might have even called them apt. Arodias, it appeared, had been stricken with a violent apoplexy while reading late at night. Not even time to pray forgiveness for his sins; I confess to having taken a most uncharitable satisfaction from that, which made me feel guilty. After all, I hoped, and still hope, for forgiveness for my own.

But that is neither the poetic part, nor the detail that concerned me. Allegedly, the apoplexy had not killed him outright; he had risen from his chair, then fallen. To be precise once more, he had pitched headlong into the very fireplace in which I had burned his portrait. Where a fire had been burning.

Why, Mrs Rhodes, you have gone quite pale. Do you feel faint? Mr Muddock, I believe another small measure of your excellent brandy might be in order. Indeed, you look as if you yourself might benefit from a little...

To resume: I mention that rather unpleasant aspect of Mr Thorne’s death not to revel in his suffering, but because his body had been identified – could only be identified – from its clothing. The head, face and hands had all been burned beyond recognition in the fire.

I can see from your expression, Mr Muddock, that you divine my fear correctly. Arodias Thorne was not dead – the body discovered was doubtless that of some poor unfortunate he had made away with, using the fire to disfigure the face and hands beyond recognition – although whether he was still alive, in any commonly accepted sense of the term, is harder to say.

But why should such a man so cavalierly dispose of the wealth he fought so hard to gain? Ah, but even his wealth was only a means to an end. He wanted power; he wanted control. Wealth gave him that in earthly terms, but sooner or later death must take it from him. What he truly sought – his ultimate goal, if you will – was what he called the Fire Beyond. Through it, remember, he believed he could attain immortality. Eternal life, and – and, I think, a kind of transcendence. Where he was going, money was unimportant.

For myself, I cannot say what the Fire Beyond truly was. I can testify only to what I saw, on that long-ago Christmas night I wish I could believe was only a horrible, fevered dream. It might have been a trick, or a delusion of Mr Thorne’s that I briefly came to share. I do not know. Still less can I say if it would, indeed, fulfil him in the ways he dreamt of. I do know, however, that he believed it would do so. The Fire Beyond, immortality – they may have been pipe-dreams on his part, but believe me, Mr Muddock and Mrs Rhodes, the Moloch Device, and the children who perished in it, were all too real.

The child I had borne Arodias – the one he had told me had died at birth, but about whose fate I could no longer delude myself – would have been thirteen years old at the time of Arodias’ ‘death’. The age of reason, we are told, and the time he referred to as ‘Perihelion’ would have coincided with that development.

That underground chamber, I believed then and now, was where Arodias’ story truly ended – or, perhaps, truly began. It was also where the body of my first-born child, along with those of countless other innocents murdered in the Moloch Device, lay. If nothing else, I hoped to ensure them a decent Christian burial. And if I could find some way to strike a blow against Arodias – although I supposed him to be far beyond the reach of any justice but God’s by now – then I’d do that, too.

Yet, search as I might, neither Thomas nor I found any trace of the hidden entrance in the music room, still less the place it led to. It was as though they had never been.

At the last, I was forced to admit defeat. I had Springcross House pulled down, every trace of it erased – yes, Mr Muddock, even the gardens. The land was sold to the Corporation of Manchester. A hard choice, but one I felt I must, for my own sanity, make. I did also make arrangements with the Church authorities – in exchange for a sizeable donation – that the site be blessed and consecrated. If I could not find my child’s remains, I could at least be sure that he, and the others, rested in holy ground.

 

 

KELLETT’S DISAPPEARANCE REMAINED a source of disquiet to me for another five years. He moved, it later emerged, to the district of Whitechapel in London, where any appetite, however base, was readily sated. He fell in with a crew of procurers who specialised in abducting women and young girls for the use of men like him; all he and his kind need do was select a victim.

However, he made the mistake of choosing the young – the very young – daughter of a soldier who had just returned from the Crimea, with others of his regiment. These young gentlemen, having alerted the police, took the law somewhat into their own hands thereafter, and fortunately so; they found the girl in good time to save her virtue, her sanity and her life.

Mr Kellett, it seems, reached under his jacket to draw out his wallet, being convinced that this would be sufficient to extricate him from any difficulties, but the girl’s father, in addition to his quite natural outrage at the whole business, assumed him to be reaching for a weapon, and shot him several times with a revolver. I am pleased to report that the father and his confederates were subsequently exonerated of any wrongdoing, but more pleased yet to report that Kellett expired two days later, in what appears to have been extreme agony. I have tried in vain to repent my lack of Christian charity in this matter.

Through all the years I have feared to tell the tale, because there have always been those who might be hurt. My husband, my children... I often thought of coming to you in the past, Mr Muddock, as Geraint always trusted you implicitly, but knew that to confide these matters to you would place you in a most invidious position, as you and he were not only close in business, but friends. But now Geraint has passed away, and the problem no longer arises.

I fear judgement, Mr Muddock and Mrs Rhodes. It has been hard enough to speak of what I have done, and been, before yourselves. Before the eyes of the world I dare not speak more – such is the measure of my cowardice. But I fear that other judgement too – the one I cannot escape, and must face, sooner rather than later. And the dread that Providence would bring the Lord’s wrath upon me in this life, through my family, has never left me. Not even now.

And that, I think, is all, save for the end.

My name is Mary Wynne-Jones, widow of Geraint Wynne-Jones, shipping merchant, of the City of Liverpool. I was born Mary Carson in a small Cheshire village called Burscough, in the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and two. This is my Confession. I believe it to be as full and comprehensive as needs be, and I leave its disposition in your hands. And now, Mr Muddock, I hope I might trouble you for another – and more copious – measure of your brandy.