P.A. Fielding's Blog
October 2, 2015
Release Dates
Unleashed will be released late November/early December this year.
Reborn will be released in 2016
Will keep you updated :)
Reborn will be released in 2016
Will keep you updated :)
September 24, 2014
Hagatha’s Den
Hello all!
Welcome to my Blog!
I've just added a preview of The Rattler.
Welcome to my Blog!
I've just added a preview of The Rattler.
The Rattler Preview
The Rattler
P. A. Fielding
TR3 2014
First published as an eBook in 2013
by P. A. Fielding
Paperback published in 2014
by P. A. Fielding
The Rattler copyright © 2014 P. A. Fielding
All Rights Reserved
This story is a work of fiction. Any names, locations, or references to historical events are used fictitiously
No reproduction without the agreement of the publisher in writing
Available from Amazon.com and other retail outlets
ISBN:-13: 978-1499568561
ISBN-10: 1499568568
Prologue: The origins of a painting
1
March 13th 1896, Winchester, Hampshire; a single horse-driven carriage approached a hugely impressive 17th century Manor House. “Whoa, whoa, there!” the driver shouted, pulling back on the reins. The horse stopped. Ellwood, a smartly dressed butler, approached the carriage as the door opened, and out stepped Charles, a greying-blonde-haired, bearded, man. “Thank you. If you would like to get my bags,” he said, as he walked with a swagger towards the house.
Ellwood nodded, and proceeded to collect a small, leather handcase from inside. Meanwhile, the driver removed a wooden trunk from the rear of the carriage, and placed it on the floor. Ellwood smiled at him. “Would you mind bringing that indoors?” he asked, pleasantly. The driver wasn’t happy, and reluctantly tipped his cap.
2
Charles entered the parlour, which was packed with luxurious late 18th and early 19th century furnishings. The family had benefitted from the local mills, and the Industrial Revolution had made them rich.
“Uncle Charles!” yelled four year old Violet, as she ran excitedly to greet him. The parents, Frederick and Annie, both immaculately dressed, awaited the arrival of Charles. William, a one year old, sat on an armchair, holding a Georgian silver teether rattler encased in mother-of-pearl. He was well dressed, wearing white trousers, a white shirt, and a bright red jacket.
Charles, the brother of Annie, had been the family’s artist for the past ten years. He was very successful and spent his time travelling around Europe – when he wasn’t in London, painting portraits of politicians and aristocrats.
Charles had set up his painting equipment, his mixed linseed oils and bottles of colours were all around him on the floor. He had started to pencil a portrait of young William on canvas when two gamekeepers entered, accompanied by the sounds of piercing screams. The two men, Ainsworth and Horsley, dragged in an old lady and a man. Hagatha had long, dirty, fingernails, matted black and white hair, deep black eyes, and a high-bridged nose. Charder was gaunt looking and dressed like a tramp. The travellers’ hands had been tied with rope; their limbs were covered in blood, and their clothes torn.
The keepers dropped five rabbits, six pheasants, and two ducks onto the floor in front of them. Frederick looked at the four of them. “Annie, take the children to the Library. Charles, may I suggest tea?”
Their guest felt uncomfortable at this interruption. He hated having to stop the strokes of his right hand. “As you wish,” he replied, as he followed Annie and the children out of the room. Frederick turned towards the gamekeepers. “What is the reason for this intrusion?”
Ainsworth stepped forward. “Sir, they’ve been hunting and stole these,” he answered, pointing at the dead wildlife.
“Very well, do what we always do with poachers,” Frederick replied; he pointed through the window towards the woodland. “Rope them up.”
Suddenly, the two travellers started to wrestle free from the clutches of the gamekeepers, but to no avail. Hagatha got within two feet of Frederick. During the struggle, Charles’s oils crashed to the floor. Hagatha’s bleeding forearm scraped across the top of one red bottle, and a small drop of blood mixed with the contents.
“You harm us, and your family will be doomed. With the power of the sun!” she screamed, as she was dragged backwards by one of the gamekeepers.
Frederick was a kind man to his family and employees, but people crossed him at their peril. What followed was exactly what Frederick had ordered as the couple were taken away and hanged on a pair of Oak trees. Their stiff bodies were left hanging for two full days until they were eventually cut down by fellow travellers. These men, in the complete darkness of night, held back their emotions as they carried the bodies to their waiting family.
3
Five days later, the painting of William had been completed, and sat prominently on the landing. Charles said his goodbyes and travelled back to Kensington. However, all was not well in the Mather household; four servants had been struck down with a bad case of boils, and had left the house. Then, there was an eerie feeling about the place, and people felt that something wasn’t quite right. The strange atmosphere had begun the moment the picture of William had been hung on the wall. It was a marvellous painting and there was no denying that Charles had, indeed, got talent, but there was something about it that made the tiny hairs on the back of the neck stand up.
Frederick was taking his usual morning walk through the grounds, which included a huge lake, when Winston, his gardener, ran quickly towards him. It was clear from his facial expression that all was not well. He stopped, gasping for breath, in front of Frederick.
“Sir, come quick, there’s been an accident!”
“What do you mean?” Frederick replied, anxiously.
Winston pointed towards the lake. The two men ran to the edge, past a white wooden boathouse and some ducks. “There! You see him?” shouted Winston; and there it was, a body, floating, head-down in the water. Frederick gawped at Ainsworth’s stiff body.
“Hurry, let’s get him out! Get the boat.”
The two men ran to the boathouse. As Winston opened one of the double doors, a large, black crow zoomed directly at him before flying off. The building housed a small rowing boat and other sailing equipment as well as gardening gear; it was very dark inside and the only light came from the opened door, which led onto the lake. The wooden roof beams creaked eerily; the noise came from a darkened area to the right of the boat. A strong, gaseous smell hit the pair as they entered.
“Winston, open the door,” ordered Frederick, as he looked around the gloomy interior. Winston opened the door and the light flooded in. Winston saw Horsley’s body as it dangled and gently swayed from side to side, and took a deep breath. He covered his mouth using his right hand and started coughing uncontrollably. Frederick approached the hysterical man.
“What is it?”
Winston simply pointed at the body. Horsley’s clothes were ripped and torn, there were scratch marks on his face, and his eyes had been gouged out. “The work of the crow, no doubt,” said Winston. Frederick approached the hanging man. “Help me cut him down.” He held the body as Winston picked up a pair of garden shears and cut the rope. The body slumped to the floor. The men examined the body. “Do you think Ainsworth did this,” said Winston, “or those bloody travellers, seeking revenge?”
This wasn’t the first time the family had had conflicts with travellers. They mostly stole and poached, and hoped not to get caught before they moved on. Frederick scratched his head several times. He was puzzled. “I can’t comprehend it; we need to get the other body before anyone else sees it,” ordered Frederick.
4
Between them, the men pulled the boat out from the boathouse, launched it, got in, and Winston took the oars. They slowly approached Ainsworth’s sodden body. With speed and urgency they attached a rope to the corpse and Winston began rowing back to the bank where, a few minutes later, they pulled the carcass out of the water. The body was slashed from head to toe. It looked as if a sharp blade had cut through the clothing and sliced into the soft flesh. The neck was red raw as if the body had been hanged prior to being thrown into the lake. Frederick bent down and inspected the body. “We should send for the law.”
1: Keep Schtum
1
A horse-driven police carriage waited outside the house, and the driver seemed engrossed as he read a newspaper. Inside the parlour were Frederick, Winston, and two detectives, Lockhart and Dryden. Ellwood entered. He carried a silver tray, complete with tea and biscuits, which he placed on a small round table for the men. “Thank you,” said Frederick, as the butler poured the tea. Lockhart had a youthful look, and black greasy hair; Dryden was older, bald, and overweight. They were both neatly dressed in sober, dark, three-piece suits, complete with pocket watches on gold chains. “Did the men have any enemies, sir?” asked Lockhart as he drank his tea. “Not as far as I know, apart from the travellers. They’d had a dispute with them several days before,” responded Frederick.
Frederick was a cool man under pressure; none of his body language indicated he had anything to hide. He wasn’t going to let Winston talk freely as he’d probably disclose the fact that the travellers had been hanged. Dryden took over the questioning.
“That’s interesting,” he continued, “what was the problem?”
“They forced the travellers off my land,” was Frederick’s sharp-toned response.
2
It was now late afternoon and Victoria, the cook, had started to prepare the evening meal in the kitchen. Victoria, an overweight lady, had worked for the family since the age of 14. She had been on her own since the kitchen maids had left because of their boils, and she felt the strain.
Shiny brass and copper pots and pans hung around two walls, with cupboards below, and there was a large butcher’s block in the centre of the room. There was a black Range cooker along one wall, and two Butler sinks in front of the window. She walked into the pantry for the vegetables and immediately coughed at the strange smell of rotting vegetables.
“What is that stench?”
The atmosphere was suddenly spine-tingling; the hairs on her neck stood up. As she returned to the kitchen, all of the cupboard doors had been opened as if someone had been looking for something. Her heart started to beat faster and faster as she looked fearfully around. She quickly noticed that every single brass pot and pan from the walls had been stacked neatly on the floor. Victoria rubbed her hands as a cold breeze shot across the room. “Hello? Ellwood?” she panicked, and dropped the vegetables onto floor. There was silence.
She slowly closed the cupboards, and put the pots and pans back in their rightful places; the atmosphere gradually returned to normal and she started to relax. She firmly believed it was a prank by Thomas, the stable boy. “Thomas! I do wish you would stop playing tricks. One of these days Mr Mather is going to catch you in the act,” she muttered. Her mind soon returned to preparing dinner for the family – and again the temperature dropped. “What is happening today? Why is it so cold?” she grumbled as she cut up the vegetables and put on the meat to boil. They were having stew and dumplings.
All was well until a dark mist flashed in front of her eyes. When she looked up, she saw Hagatha opposite her. Victoria screamed; the knife slipped and cut her left hand. Then, the six servant bells on the wall unexpectedly rang frantically; she panicked and rushed, terrified, out of the room.
Victoria, in her haste, bumped into Ellwood in the main hallway. “Victoria! You shouldn’t be running,” he said in a raised voice. It was only then that he saw the blood as it dripped from her hand. “What have you been doing?” he asked, kindly. He took two white handkerchiefs from his pocket and wrapped them around the wound. Victoria hugged him, tearfully.
“I saw her, I saw her,” she stuttered.
“Who did you see? You’re not making sense. I need you to calm down. Now, tell me. What happened?”
“She’s here.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“That traveller woman! In the kitchen.”
Ellwood led her to a small table and chair. “Don’t be silly, wait here and I will have a look.” Victoria nervously watched him walk towards the kitchen. She tightened the makeshift bandage over her bloodied hand.
3
He entered the kitchen. The place was freezing. “It’s certainly cold in here,” he said. The kitchen was, as he expected, empty; the only sound to be heard was the pan as it boiled away merrily on the Range.
When Ellwood returned to the hallway, after he had checked the kitchen and the pantry and moved the pan off the heat, he found Frederick talking to Victoria, who was still shaken by what she had seen and heard.
“What did you see, Ellwood?” asked Frederick.
“Nothing, sir,” he replied.
Frederick addressed Victoria. “You have had quite a shock, and your hand needs attention. Ellwood will take you to town to see the doctor,” he said, caringly. Ellwood nodded his agreement, but was reluctant to leave the family alone under the strange circumstances. “There is no need to worry, Ellwood. We will be fine. Just call at Winston’s and tell him he is required.”
4
Victoria, wrapped in a woollen blanket, sat in a black carriage, anxiously fidgeting as she waited for Ellwood to hitch up the horse. Her wound was still bleeding and she felt faint. She jumped, nervously, as Ellwood appeared at the carriage window. “All ready now,” he said, and climbed aboard. The cook’s nerves had taken a serious battering that night; she struggled to take in what had happened. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get the image of Hagatha out of her mind.
Ellwood slowly trotted the horse down the long and dark lane towards the front gates to where Winston lived alone in a tiny cottage, thankful that the full moon provided some light. Ellwood pulled up the horse, and jumped down from the carriage.
“I won’t keep you long, Victoria.”
“Please don’t linger,” she replied timidly; she wanted to be out of the gates and away – and not return.
The glow from the fire shone faintly through the small, square, mullioned windows. He knocked loudly on the brown, wooden door. “Hurry up, Winston,” he said, knocking again, even louder. The uneasy butler glanced back towards the impatient Victoria, opened the cottage door and walked slowly in. The room was small and cluttered; a log fire was burning in the fireplace and, directly in front of it, in an armchair, sat Winston. “Winston, did you not hear me knocking? God it’s warm in here.” The gardener said nothing; he remained still. Ellwood tentatively approached him and tapped him on his left shoulder. “Winston, you are required at the Manor House.” The gardener remained silent. Ellwood crouched down and turned to face the sleeping man. Winston wasn’t asleep – nor was he alive!
“Bastards! Who is doing this?” Ellwood yelled, as his eyes scanned the tiny room. The gardener had been stabbed several times in the chest, his eyes gouged out, and his neck had red rope marks. The cottage went icy cold. He hugged his shoulders. “I know you’re here? I command you to show your selves.” He waited. No response. “You cowards!” he roared.
Victoria watched him as he came out of the cottage and walked towards her. “I heard shouting. Where’s Winston?” she asked nervously. “There’s been an accident, but don’t worry. I must get you to the doctor.” The butler guided the horse out of the gate and towards the village. He started to worry about the Mather family being on their own given the recent murders. He knew that the travellers were to blame for frightening the cook, and for the brutal killings of his colleagues. They were taking their revenge before they moved on to another part of the country.
5
Meanwhile, back at the Manor House all was not well. Annie had put the children to bed, read them a bedtime story, and then re-joined her husband in the parlour. “Has Winston not arrived?” she asked. Frederick stood in front of the fire. “No, still waiting my dear,” he replied. What happened next shocked and stunned them. The Manor was plunged into darkness. Four loud thuds came from the ceiling above. “My God!” exclaimed Frederick, “the children.”
He frantically lit some candles, using a taper from the fire, and handed one to his wife. “Stay here,” he commanded. Annie, ashen-faced and shaking, nodded her head and sat down on the edge of the plush sofa. Frederick left the room silently and walked purposefully into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar. He held the candle firmly aloft.
An icy-chill took his breath away. He glanced apprehensively around the hall; there was nothing there. He froze. To his horror he physically could not move. It was as if he had been nailed to the floor. Two further bangs from the ceiling caused him to look up and, to his shock and disbelief, he saw the bodies of the two travellers – swaying slowly. He rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t take in what he was seeing. “How can this be? What is happening – am I dreaming?” he desperately asked. Suddenly, Hagatha flew at him like Concord – with perfect lines, her hands pointing directly at him, like an arrow. He fell to his knees. The parlour door slammed shut. Annie screamed.
“What’s happening?” cried Annie, as she jumped up from the sofa. Frederick shook his head, staggered to his feet, and ran back to the door. It was jammed. As he desperately tried to pull open the door, he heard whispers all around him and, to his horror, he saw menacing shadows as they emerged from the walls and floated up the stairs – towards the sleeping children.
“The children, the children,” said one voice.
“Hurry,” said another, “we must find the children.”
Frederick dashed towards the stairs, and ran up them two at a time. He reached the first floor landing, which led to the west wing’s long corridor where the children’s bedrooms were situated. The ghostly figure of Charder materialised in front of him, and knocked the candle out of Frederick’s trembling hand. A fire quickly started, and blocked the distressed father’s entry to the children’s rooms. He panicked.
“Bastards!” he screamed, as the fire quickly took hold. The traveller stood in front of him and smirked as he blocked the man’s path. Frederick ran as fast as he could back towards the east wing, darted into a bedroom and quickly snatched a heavy bed-covering and a poker. With the bed-cover over his head, and the poker in his right hand, he charged through the ghostly image towards William’s room.
Without warning the door flew open towards him. The desperate father collided with it at speed and the poker pierced his chest. He staggered backwards, and the bed-cover fell from his head. He could see that William’s bed was empty. He turned quickly to Violet’s room opposite, threw open the door, and saw that her bed, too, was empty. “William! Violet!” he bellowed fiercely, as he coughed up blood.
6
The Manor was a blazing inferno when Ellwood and Victoria returned, accompanied by the detectives, Lockhart and Dryden. The fire was eventually extinguished, with the help of the estate workers who used water from the lake. It wasn’t until the next morning that the burned remains of Annie and Frederick were found. Of the children there was no sign.
The only item to survive the blaze was Charles’s painting of young William. Somehow it had fallen behind a large, oak cabinet, which had protected it from the flames.
2: Tracking a painting
1
The dawn of a new century; March 1900. Four years had passed since the fire at the Manor, and Charles was sitting in his studio in Kensington, London, pencilling a young, attractive lady reclining on a sofa. Deep in concentration, his right hand quickly sketched her body onto canvas. There were many fine paintings in his studio, but the one of which he was particularly proud was that of young William.
The painting had only been hung that very morning. It had remained sealed in a wooden chest since the horrendous fire four years ago but Charles had had an urge to look at it once more. He decided it was time for it to be displayed again. Charles hadn’t given up hope of finding his niece and nephew during that time, but the loss of all his family had hit the man hard. Nothing in his life was the same anymore. Painting remained his passion, and was the only thing that kept him waking up every morning.
Detectives Lockhart and Dryden had headed the investigation, but the trail had gone cold. The children had simply vanished. The events of that night had affected everyone who worked for the Mather family. The housemaids tragically died from their infections, and Victoria and Ellwood were the only survivors. The butler joined Charles’s staff at his home, and Victoria moved into central London to work for a new family.
Charles’s property consisted of three floors; the ground floor was a gallery, displaying some of the artist’s work, the first floor was his studio – a spacious room filled with natural light, and the second floor had a small parlour, a bedroom, and a tiny cupboard room housing a tin bath. This floor was convenient if it was too late for Charles to travel to his home.
2
Ellwood met the young lady as she left the studio. “Good afternoon,” he said, “how is he today?”
“Oh,” she replied, solemnly, “he is his normal, quiet self.”
The butler locked the front door behind her, and went up to the studio where Charles was finishing off the groundwork for his latest masterpiece. He immediately saw the portrait of young William – and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he gazed at it. “I see you have decided to hang it,” he said, as he turned towards Charles. The artist briefly stopped mixing his oils to look at Ellwood. “It can’t remain in the chest forever,” he said, sadly. He glanced at the painting, “I will see him again one day.”
Ellwood felt strange – he did not know why, but came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the painting. No one could understand, or explain, how it ever survived the Manor’s fire, but Charles felt it was lucky and that God wanted him to have it. Ellwood, on the other hand, quietly disagreed. He associated it with bad luck and death; after all their entire worlds had fallen apart as soon as the portrait was hung on the landing.
“Don’t you think it will bring back bad memories?”
“No,” responded Charles, “and I think it will look grand hanging at the house.”
Charles, like his fellow artists and many famous writers, lived in Chelsea, in a luxurious residence in Foulis Terrace, Kensington. He said to Ellwood as he started to apply colour to the canvas, “I’d like you to take it home with you tonight when you leave. I shall be going straight to the Station.” Charles was going to Bristol on a painting holiday for three weeks. Due to the advancement in Britain’s rail network, steam trains were now capable of speeds of sixty miles per hour. He would be there in a matter of hours.
3
A few hours had passed. Charles had left for the Station, and Ellwood was alone, tidying up the studio. A loud bang was heard from the rooms upstairs. “Who is it this time?” he said, making his way towards the stairs. Charles had a habit of letting any of his friends, or sometimes a mistress, or a model he’d taken a fancy to, use the flat. Ellwood reached the landing. The top floor was, unusually, freezing cold; every breath was visible. He rubbed his shoulders before he slowly approached the parlour’s door. Ellwood could hear someone moving about inside. “Hello? Catherine, is that you? I didn’t hear you come in.” Catherine was a model Charles had recently befriended.
He entered the pleasantly decorated room. It was empty. He then heard someone pacing around the bedroom. “Catherine!” he shouted, “answer me!” The smouldering logs on the fire unexpectedly burst into flames, startling him somewhat. “What is going on? Catherine?” Silence. He braced himself, quietly approached the bedroom door and, slowly, opened it. The footsteps stopped as soon as he entered the room. Inside were a double bed and some antique furniture. Ellwood once again rubbed his shoulders as he walked thoughtfully around the room.
“What is happening?” As he spoke, he felt razor-sharp fingernails digging into his back, piecing the skin through his jacket. Then he was pushed violently from behind, forcing him to fall face-down on the bed. “Bloody Norah,” he exclaimed, angrily. As he turned, his attacker came into view. To his amazement, Hagatha stood unnervingly in the doorway. She stared at him, eerily, her lifeless, black eyes seeming to bore into him. She glowered at the former Mather family butler for a few seconds before she turned and slid effortlessly into the parlour.
Ellwood, in disbelief, quickly got up and followed her. The ghostly figure lunged towards the fire and extinguished it – and disappeared. He stood there, and stared at the charred logs. This was the first time he’d seen the apparition for himself. He had only one thought: Victoria. May God be with you.
4
The butler knew he had to get rid of that damned painting; he believed it was cursed by Hagatha. He ran downstairs, as fast as he could, into the studio. The room was quiet and still. He quickly picked up a small, wooden crate from the floor and placed it on a nearby table. He hastily removed the portrait of the child from the wall, wrapped it carefully and securely in sacking, and placed it in the crate. He put on his hat and coat, picked up the crate, and made his way to the front door, which he unlocked.
As he went out into the busy street, a hand gently touched his shoulder; he was so nervous he almost jumped out of his skin. “Sorry, Sydney, it’s only me,” said Catherine, Charles’s young, blonde, model friend – a real piece of eye candy. Ellwood turned towards her, apologising as he did so. “That’s alright, my dear. If you’ll excuse me I’m in a bit of a hurry, but I shall be back shortly.”
He tipped his hat, courteously, and continued on his way, hoping that there would not be any nasty surprises for Catherine as she entered the building.
5
Ellwood had to get rid of the painting. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it, but it had to go. He was on his way to the Strand, Westminster. He walked past the hugely impressive, six pillared Lyceum Theatre, where Shakespeare’s Hamlet was being performed, and walked into 13 Wellington Street, which housed Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, the auction house. He felt that the only way he could get rid of the curse was to remove the painting from the family’s ownership. If he could break the connection between them and the portrait, surely it would be over.
A reassured man soon left the auction house and headed back towards Charles’s studio.
6
On the day that Charles had unpacked William’s painting, things were happening to the former cook. The location was Whitechapel. The streets were busy, and horse-drawn carriages were travelling noisily over the cobbles. Victoria was running, breathlessly, down the street, as fast as she could manage; her heart felt as if it was about to break the skin. She collided with a gentleman, paused, stuttered an apology, and then ran on again, into the path of some carriages, startling the horses. “Get out the way!” yelled a driver. As she ran and ran, she periodically glanced backwards, evermore distressed. With fear visible in her eyes, bright red cheeks, and lungs working overtime, one thing was certain – she was running for her life.
Victoria turned into a dark alleyway, disturbing a couple of prostitutes and their clientele. She ran on, round a corner, tripped over a chamber pot left outside a doorway, and fell, breaking her leg and arm as she did so. Smashed bones pierced her skin, and blood filled the gaps between the cobbles. Victoria’s eyes twitched as her attacker finally caught up. It was Hagatha. She tried to scramble away, but, with one stare from Hagatha’s black eerie eyes, Victoria was paralysed.
The ghostly figure came closer and closer. This was the end and Victoria knew it.
7
Two young boys discovered Victoria’s body the next morning, and the police were quickly summoned. Detectives Lockhart and Dryden arrived in a police-carriage. They stepped out and pushed their way through the crowds mingling around the entrance to the alleyway. “He’s back! Jack’s back!” shouted a man in the crowd, but the detectives ignored his cries as they walked to where the body lay. “Could it be? It’s been nine years – do you think The Ripper has started again?” whispered Lockhart. “We will find out soon enough,” replied Dryden. The locals looked on in enthusiasm and morbid anticipation. Some watched from the upper windows, and others crowded into the alleyway. “You there, move out of the way!” shouted a woman from an overhanging window, as the policemen tried to cover Victoria’s remains with sheets. “We want to see!”
Dryden approached the victim’s body. The clothes were blood-stained, throat slashed, and both eyes gouged out. “This is not Jack’s work,” he said, as he knelt over the body. Lockhart saw the crushed limbs and the blood, and he looked, thoughtfully, down the alley. “I agree,” he said, “and, given the broken bones, she must’ve been running from her attacker and fell.”
“Maybe it’s the work of the Manor Murderer?” Lockhart turned to the policemen. “Get the body photographed and remove it.”
The Rattler
P. A. Fielding
TR3 2014
First published as an eBook in 2013
by P. A. Fielding
Paperback published in 2014
by P. A. Fielding
The Rattler copyright © 2014 P. A. Fielding
All Rights Reserved
This story is a work of fiction. Any names, locations, or references to historical events are used fictitiously
No reproduction without the agreement of the publisher in writing
Available from Amazon.com and other retail outlets
ISBN:-13: 978-1499568561
ISBN-10: 1499568568
Prologue: The origins of a painting
1
March 13th 1896, Winchester, Hampshire; a single horse-driven carriage approached a hugely impressive 17th century Manor House. “Whoa, whoa, there!” the driver shouted, pulling back on the reins. The horse stopped. Ellwood, a smartly dressed butler, approached the carriage as the door opened, and out stepped Charles, a greying-blonde-haired, bearded, man. “Thank you. If you would like to get my bags,” he said, as he walked with a swagger towards the house.
Ellwood nodded, and proceeded to collect a small, leather handcase from inside. Meanwhile, the driver removed a wooden trunk from the rear of the carriage, and placed it on the floor. Ellwood smiled at him. “Would you mind bringing that indoors?” he asked, pleasantly. The driver wasn’t happy, and reluctantly tipped his cap.
2
Charles entered the parlour, which was packed with luxurious late 18th and early 19th century furnishings. The family had benefitted from the local mills, and the Industrial Revolution had made them rich.
“Uncle Charles!” yelled four year old Violet, as she ran excitedly to greet him. The parents, Frederick and Annie, both immaculately dressed, awaited the arrival of Charles. William, a one year old, sat on an armchair, holding a Georgian silver teether rattler encased in mother-of-pearl. He was well dressed, wearing white trousers, a white shirt, and a bright red jacket.
Charles, the brother of Annie, had been the family’s artist for the past ten years. He was very successful and spent his time travelling around Europe – when he wasn’t in London, painting portraits of politicians and aristocrats.
Charles had set up his painting equipment, his mixed linseed oils and bottles of colours were all around him on the floor. He had started to pencil a portrait of young William on canvas when two gamekeepers entered, accompanied by the sounds of piercing screams. The two men, Ainsworth and Horsley, dragged in an old lady and a man. Hagatha had long, dirty, fingernails, matted black and white hair, deep black eyes, and a high-bridged nose. Charder was gaunt looking and dressed like a tramp. The travellers’ hands had been tied with rope; their limbs were covered in blood, and their clothes torn.
The keepers dropped five rabbits, six pheasants, and two ducks onto the floor in front of them. Frederick looked at the four of them. “Annie, take the children to the Library. Charles, may I suggest tea?”
Their guest felt uncomfortable at this interruption. He hated having to stop the strokes of his right hand. “As you wish,” he replied, as he followed Annie and the children out of the room. Frederick turned towards the gamekeepers. “What is the reason for this intrusion?”
Ainsworth stepped forward. “Sir, they’ve been hunting and stole these,” he answered, pointing at the dead wildlife.
“Very well, do what we always do with poachers,” Frederick replied; he pointed through the window towards the woodland. “Rope them up.”
Suddenly, the two travellers started to wrestle free from the clutches of the gamekeepers, but to no avail. Hagatha got within two feet of Frederick. During the struggle, Charles’s oils crashed to the floor. Hagatha’s bleeding forearm scraped across the top of one red bottle, and a small drop of blood mixed with the contents.
“You harm us, and your family will be doomed. With the power of the sun!” she screamed, as she was dragged backwards by one of the gamekeepers.
Frederick was a kind man to his family and employees, but people crossed him at their peril. What followed was exactly what Frederick had ordered as the couple were taken away and hanged on a pair of Oak trees. Their stiff bodies were left hanging for two full days until they were eventually cut down by fellow travellers. These men, in the complete darkness of night, held back their emotions as they carried the bodies to their waiting family.
3
Five days later, the painting of William had been completed, and sat prominently on the landing. Charles said his goodbyes and travelled back to Kensington. However, all was not well in the Mather household; four servants had been struck down with a bad case of boils, and had left the house. Then, there was an eerie feeling about the place, and people felt that something wasn’t quite right. The strange atmosphere had begun the moment the picture of William had been hung on the wall. It was a marvellous painting and there was no denying that Charles had, indeed, got talent, but there was something about it that made the tiny hairs on the back of the neck stand up.
Frederick was taking his usual morning walk through the grounds, which included a huge lake, when Winston, his gardener, ran quickly towards him. It was clear from his facial expression that all was not well. He stopped, gasping for breath, in front of Frederick.
“Sir, come quick, there’s been an accident!”
“What do you mean?” Frederick replied, anxiously.
Winston pointed towards the lake. The two men ran to the edge, past a white wooden boathouse and some ducks. “There! You see him?” shouted Winston; and there it was, a body, floating, head-down in the water. Frederick gawped at Ainsworth’s stiff body.
“Hurry, let’s get him out! Get the boat.”
The two men ran to the boathouse. As Winston opened one of the double doors, a large, black crow zoomed directly at him before flying off. The building housed a small rowing boat and other sailing equipment as well as gardening gear; it was very dark inside and the only light came from the opened door, which led onto the lake. The wooden roof beams creaked eerily; the noise came from a darkened area to the right of the boat. A strong, gaseous smell hit the pair as they entered.
“Winston, open the door,” ordered Frederick, as he looked around the gloomy interior. Winston opened the door and the light flooded in. Winston saw Horsley’s body as it dangled and gently swayed from side to side, and took a deep breath. He covered his mouth using his right hand and started coughing uncontrollably. Frederick approached the hysterical man.
“What is it?”
Winston simply pointed at the body. Horsley’s clothes were ripped and torn, there were scratch marks on his face, and his eyes had been gouged out. “The work of the crow, no doubt,” said Winston. Frederick approached the hanging man. “Help me cut him down.” He held the body as Winston picked up a pair of garden shears and cut the rope. The body slumped to the floor. The men examined the body. “Do you think Ainsworth did this,” said Winston, “or those bloody travellers, seeking revenge?”
This wasn’t the first time the family had had conflicts with travellers. They mostly stole and poached, and hoped not to get caught before they moved on. Frederick scratched his head several times. He was puzzled. “I can’t comprehend it; we need to get the other body before anyone else sees it,” ordered Frederick.
4
Between them, the men pulled the boat out from the boathouse, launched it, got in, and Winston took the oars. They slowly approached Ainsworth’s sodden body. With speed and urgency they attached a rope to the corpse and Winston began rowing back to the bank where, a few minutes later, they pulled the carcass out of the water. The body was slashed from head to toe. It looked as if a sharp blade had cut through the clothing and sliced into the soft flesh. The neck was red raw as if the body had been hanged prior to being thrown into the lake. Frederick bent down and inspected the body. “We should send for the law.”
1: Keep Schtum
1
A horse-driven police carriage waited outside the house, and the driver seemed engrossed as he read a newspaper. Inside the parlour were Frederick, Winston, and two detectives, Lockhart and Dryden. Ellwood entered. He carried a silver tray, complete with tea and biscuits, which he placed on a small round table for the men. “Thank you,” said Frederick, as the butler poured the tea. Lockhart had a youthful look, and black greasy hair; Dryden was older, bald, and overweight. They were both neatly dressed in sober, dark, three-piece suits, complete with pocket watches on gold chains. “Did the men have any enemies, sir?” asked Lockhart as he drank his tea. “Not as far as I know, apart from the travellers. They’d had a dispute with them several days before,” responded Frederick.
Frederick was a cool man under pressure; none of his body language indicated he had anything to hide. He wasn’t going to let Winston talk freely as he’d probably disclose the fact that the travellers had been hanged. Dryden took over the questioning.
“That’s interesting,” he continued, “what was the problem?”
“They forced the travellers off my land,” was Frederick’s sharp-toned response.
2
It was now late afternoon and Victoria, the cook, had started to prepare the evening meal in the kitchen. Victoria, an overweight lady, had worked for the family since the age of 14. She had been on her own since the kitchen maids had left because of their boils, and she felt the strain.
Shiny brass and copper pots and pans hung around two walls, with cupboards below, and there was a large butcher’s block in the centre of the room. There was a black Range cooker along one wall, and two Butler sinks in front of the window. She walked into the pantry for the vegetables and immediately coughed at the strange smell of rotting vegetables.
“What is that stench?”
The atmosphere was suddenly spine-tingling; the hairs on her neck stood up. As she returned to the kitchen, all of the cupboard doors had been opened as if someone had been looking for something. Her heart started to beat faster and faster as she looked fearfully around. She quickly noticed that every single brass pot and pan from the walls had been stacked neatly on the floor. Victoria rubbed her hands as a cold breeze shot across the room. “Hello? Ellwood?” she panicked, and dropped the vegetables onto floor. There was silence.
She slowly closed the cupboards, and put the pots and pans back in their rightful places; the atmosphere gradually returned to normal and she started to relax. She firmly believed it was a prank by Thomas, the stable boy. “Thomas! I do wish you would stop playing tricks. One of these days Mr Mather is going to catch you in the act,” she muttered. Her mind soon returned to preparing dinner for the family – and again the temperature dropped. “What is happening today? Why is it so cold?” she grumbled as she cut up the vegetables and put on the meat to boil. They were having stew and dumplings.
All was well until a dark mist flashed in front of her eyes. When she looked up, she saw Hagatha opposite her. Victoria screamed; the knife slipped and cut her left hand. Then, the six servant bells on the wall unexpectedly rang frantically; she panicked and rushed, terrified, out of the room.
Victoria, in her haste, bumped into Ellwood in the main hallway. “Victoria! You shouldn’t be running,” he said in a raised voice. It was only then that he saw the blood as it dripped from her hand. “What have you been doing?” he asked, kindly. He took two white handkerchiefs from his pocket and wrapped them around the wound. Victoria hugged him, tearfully.
“I saw her, I saw her,” she stuttered.
“Who did you see? You’re not making sense. I need you to calm down. Now, tell me. What happened?”
“She’s here.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“That traveller woman! In the kitchen.”
Ellwood led her to a small table and chair. “Don’t be silly, wait here and I will have a look.” Victoria nervously watched him walk towards the kitchen. She tightened the makeshift bandage over her bloodied hand.
3
He entered the kitchen. The place was freezing. “It’s certainly cold in here,” he said. The kitchen was, as he expected, empty; the only sound to be heard was the pan as it boiled away merrily on the Range.
When Ellwood returned to the hallway, after he had checked the kitchen and the pantry and moved the pan off the heat, he found Frederick talking to Victoria, who was still shaken by what she had seen and heard.
“What did you see, Ellwood?” asked Frederick.
“Nothing, sir,” he replied.
Frederick addressed Victoria. “You have had quite a shock, and your hand needs attention. Ellwood will take you to town to see the doctor,” he said, caringly. Ellwood nodded his agreement, but was reluctant to leave the family alone under the strange circumstances. “There is no need to worry, Ellwood. We will be fine. Just call at Winston’s and tell him he is required.”
4
Victoria, wrapped in a woollen blanket, sat in a black carriage, anxiously fidgeting as she waited for Ellwood to hitch up the horse. Her wound was still bleeding and she felt faint. She jumped, nervously, as Ellwood appeared at the carriage window. “All ready now,” he said, and climbed aboard. The cook’s nerves had taken a serious battering that night; she struggled to take in what had happened. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get the image of Hagatha out of her mind.
Ellwood slowly trotted the horse down the long and dark lane towards the front gates to where Winston lived alone in a tiny cottage, thankful that the full moon provided some light. Ellwood pulled up the horse, and jumped down from the carriage.
“I won’t keep you long, Victoria.”
“Please don’t linger,” she replied timidly; she wanted to be out of the gates and away – and not return.
The glow from the fire shone faintly through the small, square, mullioned windows. He knocked loudly on the brown, wooden door. “Hurry up, Winston,” he said, knocking again, even louder. The uneasy butler glanced back towards the impatient Victoria, opened the cottage door and walked slowly in. The room was small and cluttered; a log fire was burning in the fireplace and, directly in front of it, in an armchair, sat Winston. “Winston, did you not hear me knocking? God it’s warm in here.” The gardener said nothing; he remained still. Ellwood tentatively approached him and tapped him on his left shoulder. “Winston, you are required at the Manor House.” The gardener remained silent. Ellwood crouched down and turned to face the sleeping man. Winston wasn’t asleep – nor was he alive!
“Bastards! Who is doing this?” Ellwood yelled, as his eyes scanned the tiny room. The gardener had been stabbed several times in the chest, his eyes gouged out, and his neck had red rope marks. The cottage went icy cold. He hugged his shoulders. “I know you’re here? I command you to show your selves.” He waited. No response. “You cowards!” he roared.
Victoria watched him as he came out of the cottage and walked towards her. “I heard shouting. Where’s Winston?” she asked nervously. “There’s been an accident, but don’t worry. I must get you to the doctor.” The butler guided the horse out of the gate and towards the village. He started to worry about the Mather family being on their own given the recent murders. He knew that the travellers were to blame for frightening the cook, and for the brutal killings of his colleagues. They were taking their revenge before they moved on to another part of the country.
5
Meanwhile, back at the Manor House all was not well. Annie had put the children to bed, read them a bedtime story, and then re-joined her husband in the parlour. “Has Winston not arrived?” she asked. Frederick stood in front of the fire. “No, still waiting my dear,” he replied. What happened next shocked and stunned them. The Manor was plunged into darkness. Four loud thuds came from the ceiling above. “My God!” exclaimed Frederick, “the children.”
He frantically lit some candles, using a taper from the fire, and handed one to his wife. “Stay here,” he commanded. Annie, ashen-faced and shaking, nodded her head and sat down on the edge of the plush sofa. Frederick left the room silently and walked purposefully into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar. He held the candle firmly aloft.
An icy-chill took his breath away. He glanced apprehensively around the hall; there was nothing there. He froze. To his horror he physically could not move. It was as if he had been nailed to the floor. Two further bangs from the ceiling caused him to look up and, to his shock and disbelief, he saw the bodies of the two travellers – swaying slowly. He rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t take in what he was seeing. “How can this be? What is happening – am I dreaming?” he desperately asked. Suddenly, Hagatha flew at him like Concord – with perfect lines, her hands pointing directly at him, like an arrow. He fell to his knees. The parlour door slammed shut. Annie screamed.
“What’s happening?” cried Annie, as she jumped up from the sofa. Frederick shook his head, staggered to his feet, and ran back to the door. It was jammed. As he desperately tried to pull open the door, he heard whispers all around him and, to his horror, he saw menacing shadows as they emerged from the walls and floated up the stairs – towards the sleeping children.
“The children, the children,” said one voice.
“Hurry,” said another, “we must find the children.”
Frederick dashed towards the stairs, and ran up them two at a time. He reached the first floor landing, which led to the west wing’s long corridor where the children’s bedrooms were situated. The ghostly figure of Charder materialised in front of him, and knocked the candle out of Frederick’s trembling hand. A fire quickly started, and blocked the distressed father’s entry to the children’s rooms. He panicked.
“Bastards!” he screamed, as the fire quickly took hold. The traveller stood in front of him and smirked as he blocked the man’s path. Frederick ran as fast as he could back towards the east wing, darted into a bedroom and quickly snatched a heavy bed-covering and a poker. With the bed-cover over his head, and the poker in his right hand, he charged through the ghostly image towards William’s room.
Without warning the door flew open towards him. The desperate father collided with it at speed and the poker pierced his chest. He staggered backwards, and the bed-cover fell from his head. He could see that William’s bed was empty. He turned quickly to Violet’s room opposite, threw open the door, and saw that her bed, too, was empty. “William! Violet!” he bellowed fiercely, as he coughed up blood.
6
The Manor was a blazing inferno when Ellwood and Victoria returned, accompanied by the detectives, Lockhart and Dryden. The fire was eventually extinguished, with the help of the estate workers who used water from the lake. It wasn’t until the next morning that the burned remains of Annie and Frederick were found. Of the children there was no sign.
The only item to survive the blaze was Charles’s painting of young William. Somehow it had fallen behind a large, oak cabinet, which had protected it from the flames.
2: Tracking a painting
1
The dawn of a new century; March 1900. Four years had passed since the fire at the Manor, and Charles was sitting in his studio in Kensington, London, pencilling a young, attractive lady reclining on a sofa. Deep in concentration, his right hand quickly sketched her body onto canvas. There were many fine paintings in his studio, but the one of which he was particularly proud was that of young William.
The painting had only been hung that very morning. It had remained sealed in a wooden chest since the horrendous fire four years ago but Charles had had an urge to look at it once more. He decided it was time for it to be displayed again. Charles hadn’t given up hope of finding his niece and nephew during that time, but the loss of all his family had hit the man hard. Nothing in his life was the same anymore. Painting remained his passion, and was the only thing that kept him waking up every morning.
Detectives Lockhart and Dryden had headed the investigation, but the trail had gone cold. The children had simply vanished. The events of that night had affected everyone who worked for the Mather family. The housemaids tragically died from their infections, and Victoria and Ellwood were the only survivors. The butler joined Charles’s staff at his home, and Victoria moved into central London to work for a new family.
Charles’s property consisted of three floors; the ground floor was a gallery, displaying some of the artist’s work, the first floor was his studio – a spacious room filled with natural light, and the second floor had a small parlour, a bedroom, and a tiny cupboard room housing a tin bath. This floor was convenient if it was too late for Charles to travel to his home.
2
Ellwood met the young lady as she left the studio. “Good afternoon,” he said, “how is he today?”
“Oh,” she replied, solemnly, “he is his normal, quiet self.”
The butler locked the front door behind her, and went up to the studio where Charles was finishing off the groundwork for his latest masterpiece. He immediately saw the portrait of young William – and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he gazed at it. “I see you have decided to hang it,” he said, as he turned towards Charles. The artist briefly stopped mixing his oils to look at Ellwood. “It can’t remain in the chest forever,” he said, sadly. He glanced at the painting, “I will see him again one day.”
Ellwood felt strange – he did not know why, but came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the painting. No one could understand, or explain, how it ever survived the Manor’s fire, but Charles felt it was lucky and that God wanted him to have it. Ellwood, on the other hand, quietly disagreed. He associated it with bad luck and death; after all their entire worlds had fallen apart as soon as the portrait was hung on the landing.
“Don’t you think it will bring back bad memories?”
“No,” responded Charles, “and I think it will look grand hanging at the house.”
Charles, like his fellow artists and many famous writers, lived in Chelsea, in a luxurious residence in Foulis Terrace, Kensington. He said to Ellwood as he started to apply colour to the canvas, “I’d like you to take it home with you tonight when you leave. I shall be going straight to the Station.” Charles was going to Bristol on a painting holiday for three weeks. Due to the advancement in Britain’s rail network, steam trains were now capable of speeds of sixty miles per hour. He would be there in a matter of hours.
3
A few hours had passed. Charles had left for the Station, and Ellwood was alone, tidying up the studio. A loud bang was heard from the rooms upstairs. “Who is it this time?” he said, making his way towards the stairs. Charles had a habit of letting any of his friends, or sometimes a mistress, or a model he’d taken a fancy to, use the flat. Ellwood reached the landing. The top floor was, unusually, freezing cold; every breath was visible. He rubbed his shoulders before he slowly approached the parlour’s door. Ellwood could hear someone moving about inside. “Hello? Catherine, is that you? I didn’t hear you come in.” Catherine was a model Charles had recently befriended.
He entered the pleasantly decorated room. It was empty. He then heard someone pacing around the bedroom. “Catherine!” he shouted, “answer me!” The smouldering logs on the fire unexpectedly burst into flames, startling him somewhat. “What is going on? Catherine?” Silence. He braced himself, quietly approached the bedroom door and, slowly, opened it. The footsteps stopped as soon as he entered the room. Inside were a double bed and some antique furniture. Ellwood once again rubbed his shoulders as he walked thoughtfully around the room.
“What is happening?” As he spoke, he felt razor-sharp fingernails digging into his back, piecing the skin through his jacket. Then he was pushed violently from behind, forcing him to fall face-down on the bed. “Bloody Norah,” he exclaimed, angrily. As he turned, his attacker came into view. To his amazement, Hagatha stood unnervingly in the doorway. She stared at him, eerily, her lifeless, black eyes seeming to bore into him. She glowered at the former Mather family butler for a few seconds before she turned and slid effortlessly into the parlour.
Ellwood, in disbelief, quickly got up and followed her. The ghostly figure lunged towards the fire and extinguished it – and disappeared. He stood there, and stared at the charred logs. This was the first time he’d seen the apparition for himself. He had only one thought: Victoria. May God be with you.
4
The butler knew he had to get rid of that damned painting; he believed it was cursed by Hagatha. He ran downstairs, as fast as he could, into the studio. The room was quiet and still. He quickly picked up a small, wooden crate from the floor and placed it on a nearby table. He hastily removed the portrait of the child from the wall, wrapped it carefully and securely in sacking, and placed it in the crate. He put on his hat and coat, picked up the crate, and made his way to the front door, which he unlocked.
As he went out into the busy street, a hand gently touched his shoulder; he was so nervous he almost jumped out of his skin. “Sorry, Sydney, it’s only me,” said Catherine, Charles’s young, blonde, model friend – a real piece of eye candy. Ellwood turned towards her, apologising as he did so. “That’s alright, my dear. If you’ll excuse me I’m in a bit of a hurry, but I shall be back shortly.”
He tipped his hat, courteously, and continued on his way, hoping that there would not be any nasty surprises for Catherine as she entered the building.
5
Ellwood had to get rid of the painting. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it, but it had to go. He was on his way to the Strand, Westminster. He walked past the hugely impressive, six pillared Lyceum Theatre, where Shakespeare’s Hamlet was being performed, and walked into 13 Wellington Street, which housed Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, the auction house. He felt that the only way he could get rid of the curse was to remove the painting from the family’s ownership. If he could break the connection between them and the portrait, surely it would be over.
A reassured man soon left the auction house and headed back towards Charles’s studio.
6
On the day that Charles had unpacked William’s painting, things were happening to the former cook. The location was Whitechapel. The streets were busy, and horse-drawn carriages were travelling noisily over the cobbles. Victoria was running, breathlessly, down the street, as fast as she could manage; her heart felt as if it was about to break the skin. She collided with a gentleman, paused, stuttered an apology, and then ran on again, into the path of some carriages, startling the horses. “Get out the way!” yelled a driver. As she ran and ran, she periodically glanced backwards, evermore distressed. With fear visible in her eyes, bright red cheeks, and lungs working overtime, one thing was certain – she was running for her life.
Victoria turned into a dark alleyway, disturbing a couple of prostitutes and their clientele. She ran on, round a corner, tripped over a chamber pot left outside a doorway, and fell, breaking her leg and arm as she did so. Smashed bones pierced her skin, and blood filled the gaps between the cobbles. Victoria’s eyes twitched as her attacker finally caught up. It was Hagatha. She tried to scramble away, but, with one stare from Hagatha’s black eerie eyes, Victoria was paralysed.
The ghostly figure came closer and closer. This was the end and Victoria knew it.
7
Two young boys discovered Victoria’s body the next morning, and the police were quickly summoned. Detectives Lockhart and Dryden arrived in a police-carriage. They stepped out and pushed their way through the crowds mingling around the entrance to the alleyway. “He’s back! Jack’s back!” shouted a man in the crowd, but the detectives ignored his cries as they walked to where the body lay. “Could it be? It’s been nine years – do you think The Ripper has started again?” whispered Lockhart. “We will find out soon enough,” replied Dryden. The locals looked on in enthusiasm and morbid anticipation. Some watched from the upper windows, and others crowded into the alleyway. “You there, move out of the way!” shouted a woman from an overhanging window, as the policemen tried to cover Victoria’s remains with sheets. “We want to see!”
Dryden approached the victim’s body. The clothes were blood-stained, throat slashed, and both eyes gouged out. “This is not Jack’s work,” he said, as he knelt over the body. Lockhart saw the crushed limbs and the blood, and he looked, thoughtfully, down the alley. “I agree,” he said, “and, given the broken bones, she must’ve been running from her attacker and fell.”
“Maybe it’s the work of the Manor Murderer?” Lockhart turned to the policemen. “Get the body photographed and remove it.”
The Rattler
