The Silence of Ghosts Page 18
‘Do you think William’s slaves danced like that in Portugal?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps. Now, I think we’ve made ourselves cold enough. Let’s get Rose and Octavia back inside.’
Dr Raverat had arranged to collect us after visiting a patient, and so I could update him on my finds in a calmer manner than I was able to last night.
Tonight, Octavia fell ill. She started as if she had contracted a cold, and I regretted having allowed her outside in this cold snap. It didn’t seem serious enough for me to call on Dr Raverat again, but Rose said I should keep an eye on her. We put her to bed at nine, and I stayed with her for a while and tried to distract her with some stories, which I told with my fingers. I thought she would fall asleep, but as I gestured to her I noticed she was growing more uncomfortable and was starting a fever. I called Rose, who examined her carefully and took her temperature.
‘Her fever is getting quite high,’ she said. ‘I just had a reading of one hundred and two. We can leave her to sweat it out, but I’m worried there could be a link to her leprosy. I don’t know enough to say if it could be a symptom or not.’
‘What else could it be?’
She shrugged.
‘I really don’t know. There are some odd symptoms.’
‘Couldn’t it just be a result of her being out in the cold today?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s not impossible, but I don’t think so. She said earlier that she had aches in her joints. When I examined her just now, I found swollen glands in her groin. And the fever seems unusually severe. I want to bring the fever down if I can.’
We found the cottage bath and moved it to Octavia’s room, which was where I slept as well. Rose made an infusion of yarrow; she said she often used it on patients and found it effective. It took a lot of kettles, but we got the bath half-filled with the infusion. Rose undressed Octavia and I helped lift her into the bath. We left her there for a while, watching her the whole time and adding some hot water as the infusion grew cold. When it was all done, we put her nightdress back on and slipped her into bed with a hot-water bottle against the cold.
Wednesday, 8 January
Cecil Blanchard arrived today at noon. He’d spoken to my father on Monday, who loaned him a small car – not the Hispano – to make the journey up to the Lakes. He began the tiring journey yesterday, but he decided to break it in Sheffield, doing the rest today.
Before his arrival, we had woken early to check on Octavia. Her fever had gone down, but was still high, and Rose continued to be uneasy. She went to fetch Dr Raverat as soon as it was reasonable to do so. He hurried here, still unshaven and without a tie. Snow was still falling, there was a silence of birds. He came in, brushing white flakes from his shoulders. I watched him as if from afar. His presence altered things, made Octavia’s case seem more dangerous. He and Rose talked for several minutes, then she led him to where Octavia lay in bed. The child had fallen back into a fitful sleep. Rose took her temperature and looked at the stick.
‘It has gone back up again,’ she said.
Dr Raverat had brought a sphygmomanometer and stethoscope, which he used to assess her blood pressure and lungs. He shook his head as he pulled back from the bed.
‘I’d like to get her to hospital,’ he said. ‘I don’t recognize her symptoms.’
He turned to Rose.
‘You say she had a headache overnight and dizziness this morning.’
‘That’s right. I don’t understand. Nothing fits together.’
‘I’m as perplexed as you are. I’m going to ring through to Barrow and get them to send an ambulance over.’
‘Is she in any danger, Doctor?’ I asked. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her. I forced her to make the journey back here.’
He put his hand on my arm.
‘Nobody forced her. But I’ll not keep this from you. Octavia does give me cause for alarm. Years ago, I’d have given up on her the minute I set eyes on her face and listened to her chest. But we have these new sulfa drugs now, which can work miracles. The hospital in Barrow has a super new drug called Prontosil. It’s used mainly on members of the armed forces. I daresay they gave you a dose or two on board that hospital ship.’
Rose nodded. She had my notes, which she kept well hidden.
‘You had an infection in your wound,’ she said. ‘Prontosil probably saved your life.’
Raverat took himself off, back to his surgery, for he had a long list of patients to see that morning. He told Rose to fetch him when the ambulance came, and said he might travel to the North Lonsdale with Octavia.
‘I only wish it weren’t so damned cold. She’ll have a rough ride if they can’t make time.’
By noon the ambulance had not arrived. At ten minutes past, Blanchard turned up with a screech of brakes. When we went out to greet him, we found the snow lying heavily and more coming down. It was not quite a blizzard, but it was not far off. He told us he hadn’t been sure he was going to get through.
I asked Blanchard to wait inside, and Rose helped me across to Dr Raverat’s house. The waiting room was still packed with patients, young and old. Several had colds or the first signs of the ’flu, and one old woman looked too frail to have ventured out in this weather.
Dr Raverat saw us when he came out from his previous patient.
‘Have they picked her up yet?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t get over – you can see how busy it has been. There’ll be more in the afternoon.’
We told him the ambulance still had not arrived.
His face flushed, and he went back inside the consulting room. I could hear him using the telephone.
When he came out, he looked angry.
‘Damn it to hell,’ he exploded. I thought I was back in the Navy.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They say the roads are closed for miles around. They have farmers out to bring in as many sheep as possible. It’s a national emergency, and they say there’s no chance of an ambulance getting to Pooley Bridge and back. I should have driven her myself while there was still a chance of getting through. If only I could lay my hands on that sulfa drug.’
Back at Rose’s cottage, Octavia was declining. I found Jeanie with Cecil Blanchard sitting on either side of her bed.
‘The ambulance isn’t coming,’ I said. ‘That means she won’t get the medicine Dr Raverat prescribed for her. We’ll just have to make do with what we have. He’ll be over again later.’
‘You’ll need to ring your father,’ Cecil said. ‘Do you have a telephone here?’
I shook my head and, leaving Rose to get Blanchard settled in, I struggled to the Post Office.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ said the Postmistress, ‘but all the lines have just gone down. I’d suggest a telegram, but they’ve been suspended for the duration, as you probably know.’
Rose demanded quiet in the bedroom and shooed her mother, Cecil and myself into the parlour. Jeanie, who was tearful after watching how Octavia was sinking, shuffled off to the kitchen. She would need extra rations for Cecil, but he had handed her his book.
Cecil and I talked about Octavia for a while. A periously ill child was not what he’d expected to find at the end of his exhausting trip. I ended up telling him much more about Hallinhag House than I’d intended. Then we kept vigil by burying ourselves in the documents: the ones I had brought here and others that he had found in the archive on Monday.
I took him through the letters I had read. There were several in Portuguese that I did not understand. He put these to one side and said he’d brought a Portuguese–English dictionary with him and, better still, an ancient Portuguese dictionary which had been stuck on a shelf in the office for decades.
‘My Portuguese isn’t too good,’ he said, ‘but I manage to get by. I’m often asked to translate letters. As you can imagine, it comes in handy from time to time in this business.’
Rose had to help the doctor for the rest of
the day, but he told her to stay where she was, in order to look after Octavia, and with instructions to fetch him if she showed significant signs of getting worse. So Rose stayed in the bedroom, trying to bring the fever down. Cecil and I remained in the parlour, where he offloaded his papers on the little table.
Bit by bit we worked through what we had. From time to time Rose would emerge from the bedroom carrying a bowl of linens. ‘There’s no sign of any improvement,’ she said, ‘but Octavia’s condition has stabilized, and that’s a blessing.’
I wondered if Cecil knew of our engagement, and reckoned that my father would most certainly have said nothing to him about us. So I told him, adding ‘My father doesn’t approve.’
‘I expect not, sir. He’s not the sort of man to approve of much.’ Then he added. ‘It’s not that I wish to seem disloyal, for your father has kept us going, especially since the war started.’
We bent our heads back to the documents. Bit by bit we disentangled the story of Hallinhag House and its grounds.
William (who had registered the proofs of succession to the baronetcy within three days of his father’s death and was now Sir William Lancaster, just as my father holds the baronetcy today) established a growing business selling port to the gentry. His bottles could be found in the salons of every club in Pall Mall, and at one point he started to supply the Great Hall at Hampton Court Palace. The King took a great liking for port and ordered it in barrels for his own use and that of his favoured courtiers.
In 1755, Sir William had his Portuguese secretary write to his agent in Oporto, a man called Luis Carvalho.
Exmo. Senhor Luis,
The children have arrived and we find them to be in good condition. They speak passable English, which I muft owe to Yr credit, and their names are Adão, Clara, Helena, Margarida; but I have told them that they muft use English names from now on: Adam, Clare, Helen and Margaret. They will make fine, uncomplaining servants and useful interlocutors with the Brazilians, once they have enough English for it. If they do not, by God! I shall beat it into them. The little girls are pretty enough, and I know that Lord L— and Sir William B— may like to have a discussion with them.
Last night we held a séance, in the course which each of the children in turn communicated with the dead. Some of the voices were in Portuguefe, others in Englifh, and one in French. I heard them diftinctly and was sure the children were not weaving a falsehood by adopting unnatural voices. For example, several of the male voices were emitted by the boy, who naturally has a child’s voice and cannot achieve the deep register of thefe ghofts, nor speak of the things he is given to speak of.
Let me know if you have other children like thefe. I have friends who also wish to commune with those who have passed on. It is early days, but I affure you thefe children may be the greatest crop yet of the Douro valley. I shall start them for Hallinhag tomorrow, and mean to keep them there for the season. I may bring them to London in due course, for there are several gentlemen in the City that will have of them whereof they know or may discover, for there are as many churchyards and crypts in the metropolis as there are in the entire country combined. There are burial places for kings and queens. Who would not wish to speak with the phantom of Henry or Richard or Mr Cromwell?
Pleafe let me have the ufual barrels by return. If you have anything of an oddity, of wines of which we have not tasted, please convey them.
De V.Exa.
Sir William Lancaster Bart
We worked our way through bills of lading, receipts for barrels and bottles of all sizes, orders for material for new offices in High Holborn, and the architect’s plans for Hallinhag House. Here we found the missing attic: the plan showed a large space that ran from one side of the house to the other and from front to back. ‘I wonder how we’d find it,’ I said to Cecil.
‘You would need to make measurements,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s well concealed.’
I made a note to find some way to check this, perhaps from outside.
It seems the family business was in part made possible by the presence of African slaves. In 1750, Luis Salgado, ‘uma pessoa de grande importância’, wrote to Sir William to explain that instructions had been given for the dispatch to Oporto of six slaves from Benguela and Cabinda, Portuguese colonies in Africa, near Kongo. They helped work the vineyards. Salgado explained that they would last about six months, and that he would supply replacements as soon as they were needed.
There were letters from aristocrats in this country and abroad. At first we thought them part of an elaborate game, but there were too many of them to persuade us for long that that was the case. One ran as follows:
My Dear Sir William,
I wish to thank You, good Sir, for the wit and elegance with which You coordinated the séance last week. I confess myself to have been of a fkeptical bent and that I was solely persuaded to attend the reading by my Lord the Earl of Dunlop, by whose recommendation I and feveral of my acquaintance have fought guidance in that quarter. What the children reported from the ghosts was most uncanny, for my late father did often speak in such terms, and there were matters that I had heard before only from my mother. On my return home I related to her what I had been told and she burft into weeping, for she said it was like having my father to home again and in his old chair. I have returned to the graveyard what was taken from it, but can as easily disinter those same remains should we need further news from beyond the grave. It is a long journey to your country home, but it has been a most worthwhile undertaking. Nevertheless, I did find it disagreeable to travel so far with my father in the coach beside me. In future, I may carry him in a cart of some kind behind us.
My sincerest good wishes.
Lord Trevor
We could stomach no more. Cecil retired, exhausted, and I went to sit with my sister.
Octavia died as the clock in our room struck midnight. It was dark outside and the night lay huddled beneath falling sheets of snow. I had left the curtains folded back, ignoring the blackout. No planets passed tonight, no moon came down like a silver disc to kiss the lake, and no stars crackled in the frozen sky like shards of ice. I had been left alone with her. I watched her for an hour or more, my hand in hers, cooling her fever with a facecloth that had been dipped in cold water. I sat with my head close to hers, listening to her breathing. It was raw and racked with tiny sobs. She was very still for a long time, and sometimes I thought she was gone. Then I would hear her breathing and see her chest rise and fall. Then, quite suddenly, her body flexed itself, lifting her up several inches, then moving back to the bed again. And I heard her speak in barely audible tones, but clear enough for me to hear.
‘I . . . can hear . . . them whispering,’ she said. ‘The children . . . like . . . they did . . . before. Whispering to me . . . to join them . . . I don’t want . . . to go . . . but they are . . . forcing me . . .’
She grew silent, but when I listened I could hear them whispering to her, in low tones that I couldn’t understand. And that was when she died, on a single breath, while her eyes were closed in darkness and her hand went limp in mine. The heat began to leave her body as if it had never been there.
Thursday, 9 January
Dr Raverat and the Reverend Braithwaite were in the kitchen, sitting with Rose and Jeanie. I fetched them in and said I thought she had stopped breathing. The doctor looked for her pulse and placed a mirror above her lips, and when he had done he pronounced her dead.
I didn’t know where to look for grief. It was not in my heart. Death had come as too great a shock. I didn’t even know what had killed her, whether it was leprosy or this new, unidentified disease. The ambulance had never come, nor the medicines that might have saved her tiny life. She had passed from life to death as silently as she had lived. Octavia was precious to me beyond words, but I still lay awake some nights with the noises of the Battle of Dakar ringing in my mind. I had seen thousands of men lost at sea, and now I had too little grief in me to mourn my only sister.
Dr Raverat took me aside.
‘Dominic, we have a problem. We can’t leave Octavia here for long. I would normally have taken her to the mortuary in Barrow, or asked them to fetch her. We need to have a post-mortem, to see if we can get any answers to the question of how she died. But that seems impossible for the present. I don’t want to put her in some barn or outbuilding – that would be too undignified. Would your family mind if I asked Oliver Braithwaite if she could be moved to the church in the morning?’
The vicar was very keen to open St Peter’s and place her in front of the altar straight away, given the events leading up to her death, but he didn’t think we’d make it that far.
‘What about Donald McIntyre’s little motor launch?’ I asked. ‘It’s still moored near the jetty, isn’t it?’
Oliver nodded.
‘But we’ll have to wake him up,’ I thought aloud. ‘And he’s very fussy about letting other people use his boat.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ he replied, ‘and I’ll come with you to the church. Will you be all right for the journey? It’s several degrees below freezing.’
‘Has the snow stopped? We’ll have to run as close to the shore as possible. Come back when you have the matter in hand.’
He left, wrapping himself against the wind. I knew it would be even colder on the lake.
Rose had set about washing Octavia and dressing her in her best nightdress. About half-way through, she stopped and asked Dr Raverat to come across.
‘Doctor,’ she said, ‘something’s wrong.’
‘I can’t see anything.’
‘It’s what’s not there, sir. The leprosy scarring. I can’t see any sign of it.’
He put his spectacles on and looked closely. Rose was right: the marks of leprosy had gone.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then the door opened, bringing with it a light flurry of snow. The Reverend Braithwaite came in, stamping his feet and clapping his hands hard together. We let him go to the fire, where he stood for a little while.