I must conquer these superstitious whims! But even now that I am returned home, with my papers spread over my desk and Wilkie climbing the bars of his cage, my sense of dread remains.
With many inkblots, I scratch out my answer to Sir Thomas’s letter. Time and time again, I must cast a draft aside and start afresh. Few tasks can be as distressing as this. It is an offer that, were I not engaged in my heart to David, I might well have accepted. There can be no doubt that Mama would have rejoiced to see me allied to her friend’s brother.
I do not know that Mama ever met Sir Thomas herself. His living in Gloucestershire makes it unlikely. And yet, as I write, the facts seem ever more curious to me. Why, after all these years, has he suddenly become acquainted with my father? Why has Lady Morton summoned her brother to Heatherfield, if she did not deem it necessary while my mother lived?
Doubt nibbles at me, whispers that Lady Morton is behind this proposal. Perhaps she is low on funds, and wishes her brother to marry into money? Yet I did confide in him about Mrs Pearce and the change to my fortune, should progeny spring from the union. Unless Sir Thomas thinks, as Papa’s son-in-law, he would have the power to stop the marriage?
I cannot satisfy myself with this rejection. Language is clumsy and gauche. I cannot command it as I must. Putting aside the current attempt, I turn my thoughts to Ruth instead.
From the archives, I have successfully obtained many articles relevant to the next period of her story. Bursting with scandal, the tale travelled beyond local journals to some of the national papers. I must say, it appears a very fortunate circumstance that the police did finally arrive at Metyard’s, prompted by a civilian tip. I cannot imagine what would have become of Ruth otherwise.
Whether she really did try to escape, I cannot prove, but she was certainly found locked in a room on the first floor of the property, in a death-like state. Her condition does not make for pleasant reading. There was a fear of gangrene and acute dehydration.
It is little wonder that Ruth has grown into such an unnatural child, passing as she did from a drunken father’s care into the Metyards’ torturous clutches for the duration of her formative years. A child cannot abide with a murderer and remain untouched. Evil thoughts float about the house like smuts from a fire. They speckle, they smear, they find a way in.
One murder has brought on another.
But could it have been avoided? That is the question I must ask myself: whether it is the innate nature of a person to kill, or if moral turpitude arises from insufficient nurture. Had Ruth enjoyed her youth in my house, with my faith, would she still have committed this outrage?
I open the bottom drawer to my desk and cradle the human skull. It is a comfort to me no longer. Beneath my fingertips, the bone feels immovable. Constant in its purpose. Today, for the first time, I consider the possibility that each head is predestined, just as Judas was predestined to betray Our Lord. We are trapped within them, flies caught in a jar. Some skulls have an unwavering, malignant will, and they must see it through.
Like Mrs Metyard.
She did not linger, awaiting her fate in the manner Ruth has done. Her capture coincided neatly with the assizes and she was tried almost immediately. So little time for her to be reclaimed – if indeed such a thing were achievable. Unchristian as it sounds, I am doubtful salvation could reach this woman. She appears more goblin than flesh and blood. But perhaps I have been influenced by Ruth’s recital. There is no alienist report amongst my papers, nothing to inform me whether she ever truly took on the guise of ‘the captain’ – I rather suspect this to be the embellishment of Ruth’s youthful fancy. All evidence suggests the original man was a distasteful fellow, not the kind of husband and father you would wish to resurrect. Yet something drove her to kill, to mistreat those girls …
Was it two bumps, above the ears?
I wonder where she sat in the old Oakgate Prison, which cell contained her wicked skull.
Would I have visited her? Would I have placed my fingers upon her head, given the chance?