It was as I approached the attic stairs that I heard the sounds, and cold fear closed round my heart, for I had heard those sounds before – I had heard them on the night the children tried to hang Esther Breadspear. It was the sound of her heels drumming against the walls as she twisted and struggled and half strangled to death.
I called out, ‘Hello? Is someone here?’
The rhythmic sounds increased – they became frenzied. I said, ‘Esther?’ and the old house picked up the word and spun it mockingly around my head.
There was faint candlelight now, and as I stepped on to the attic floor, I saw the shadow that danced grotesquely against the wall. I knew it at once for what it was. And I knew who it was who danced and struggled. Not Esther, this time – not even a poor sad remnant of her – but a living person. A human being who could no longer live with the knowledge of what he had done – that he had burned another human creature alive and in the wake of that, two small girls had also died. A man who had come to the place where it happened, to end his own life.
John Hurst, hanging by candlelight from the same roof beam where the children had tried to hang Esther, writhing and squirming, and slowly strangling to death.
I tried to get him down – I really did. I climbed on to the table – the very table he himself had used when trying to free Esther – and I tore my fingernails to bleeding shreds in an attempt to loosen the rope.
But the rope was too thick and the knots too firm. As for lifting him – he was a well-built man, tall and muscular, and I am well beyond my youth. I climbed down and I ran all the way down to the sculleries, my heart pounding, praying to find a knife. But there was nothing. When Deadlight Hall was closed, its contents were cleared out, and there was nothing anywhere that I could use.
He is not yet dead. I am sitting here, in the small room where once I kept watch on Esther, writing in my old journal, and he still struggles and writhes in front of me.
A moment ago the momentum of his frantic struggles brought his body jerking around to face me, and the blood-flecked eyes stared into mine.
I cannot do anything for him, but I shall stay here with him until he dies. I do not know if he realizes I am here, but I shall not leave him.
Later
It is over at last. He is dead. I shall not cry, for tears are of no use to anyone.
I shall never know whether he killed himself from remorse or as atonement for what happened to Esther Breadspear and the Mabbley girls, or whether …
Or whether the rest of the children were watching him, and followed him out here – perhaps even lured him here with some message. And once he was here, they killed him – either to stop him from incriminating them, or because of what happened to Rosie and Daisy.
There is one more thing I can do for him, though. I can make sure that his death is regarded as suicide, and that if the children were his killers, they are not suspected. This, I know, is what he would want, especially for his son, Douglas, who will live on in the area.
There is so much shame surrounding a suicide, but I do not think that John – I will call him by the name I always used for him in my mind – I do not think that John will care for that.
So I have written a note purporting to come from him – I think I have made a fair job of forging his hand, and I do not think it will be questioned.
I have not referred to any of the deaths, of course – Polly Mabbley’s cottage is shut up, and as far as anyone hereabouts knows, she and her two daughters went off to London one night, as she had so often said they would. People can continue to believe that.
In the note I have simply said it is impossible to face the burden of debt any longer, and for that reason, he is ending his life. I have no idea of his financial situation, but I feel this is as acceptable a reason as any. I shall place the note in the pocket of his coat. It may be a while before the body is found, but I cannot help that. It will be found in the end, and the note with it.