The Favour, by Annette Siketa
Copyright 2017 by Annette Siketa
No part of this book may be reproduced or manipulated in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the author.
The Favour
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The Favour
England, 1921
According to the law, sequestration is a private or civil writ that authorizes the seizure of property for an unpaid debt. Further, that the person issuing the writ can retain the property until the debt is paid. In simpler terms, it is a legal form of ransom.
But what happens if the property remains unclaimed? To whom does it belong if the original owner dies? This was the problem confronting me as I lay dying in my bed. Moreover, it was a problem I ‘inherited’ some 56 years ago, and which has haunted the dark recess of my mind ever since.
At 82 years of age, I can be forgiven for fearing imaginary dangers. But my story is so strange that even now, years after the event, unexpected sounds set my teeth on edge. Moreover, with failing eyesight, objects which I can ill distinguish in the evening shadows, make my blood run cold.
It happened in July 1827. I was on leave from my regiment and staying in a guesthouse in Brighton. I was strolling along the foreshore one morning, when I saw a man I thought I recognized. Then, as we drew closer, shocked recognition caused me to stop.
I had been particularly fond of Percy Kingston. His family pile, known as Broadside, was one of those rambling country estates with a plentiful supply of woods and game. The society of Brighton had never held much interest for us, and so we had spent many a fine afternoon riding or fishing.
Now however, instead of being a man in his prime, the passage of time had ravished him savagely. His once rich black hair was almost white, and his gaunt features spoke of great misery. It was also clear that he was gravely ill.
I had not seen him since before his wedding some three years earlier. Duty had taken me out of the country for some considerable time, and as a consequence, I had not witnessed his happiness when he had met and married Isabella.
We renewed our acquaintanceship, and I was surprised to learn that he was living in a hotel. Naturally I was curious and concerned, so after repairing to his hotel, where a stiff brandy steadied his nerve, he told his story.
Isabella had died a year after the marriage. The terrible event had broken his spirit, and unable to stand the memory of their connubial bliss, he had vacated Broadside in favour of the hotel, where he has remained ever since.
I was appalled when he confessed that he had frequently contemplated suicide. “But, my dear fellow, why didn’t you contact me? You know I would do anything for you.”
He slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing anyone can do…except…” He paused and looked at me earnestly. “Did you mean what you just said?”
“Of course.”
"Would you go to Broadside and retrieve some documents for me? They are so private and confidential that I will not trust their acquisition to a stranger.”
“Family papers?” He nodded. “Nothing easier,” said I confidently. Broadside was less than 15 miles from Brighton, and I could make the journey on horseback in a day. “Where are the papers?”
“After Isabella’s death, I could not bear the thought of anyone entering our room, so I locked the papers in a desk.”
“Are you sure they’re still there?”
“They are of no interest to anyone but myself. Besides, I hired a man named Churchill and his wife to look after the place. If you would excuse me for a few minutes, I will fetch the keys and write him a note,” and as he walked away, I was pleased to see that a spark had returned to his eyes.
I ordered sandwiches and two dishes of tea. Being unmarried, it was impossible for me to fully understand his depth of suffering. But on one point I was absolutely convinced. Percy and Isabella had loved each other with such intensity, it was as if their hearts’ had beat as one.
My confidence in his recovery was short lived, for I saw at once when he entered the parlour that deep melancholy had returned. He explained that the thought of me visiting the room where death had shattered his happiness, had upset him.
He named the documents he wanted and then added, "They are in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. There is also a packet of letters tied with white ribbon. I trust you won’t read them?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said rather sharply, hurt that my integrity had been questioned.
He sank back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Forgive me, my old friend. I still suffer much. The politeness and proprieties of life have no value for me.”
I left shortly thereafter, galloping over sweet smelling grass and lush buttercup meadows. The sky was clear, the sunshine warm, and I remembered the route as though I’d travelled it only yesterday.
I also remembered a shortcut through a pretty grove of trees. It was now a thick and overgrown forest, and if I didn’t want to get clobbered by low branches, I had no choice but to slow down.
As I set my horse to walking pace, leaves softly brushed my face, and somewhat childishly, I tried to catch one between my teeth. Perhaps it was the glorious weather, or the invigorating ride, or the fact that I was helping a friend, but whatever the cause, rarely had I felt so alive.
As I neared the house, I extracted the letter for Churchill from my pocket, and saw that it was sealed. I was rather annoyed at this. Did Percy not trust me after all? I shook my head. I was being over-sensitive. No doubt he had sealed it from habit.
And then Broadside came into view and my buoyant spirit plummeted. The house mirrored its absentee owner – forlorn and dejected, and the once pristine flowerbeds were nothing but tangled weeds.
A man in his 60’s came out from a side-door. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Curb your tongue! Do you always speak to your betters with such unpleasantness? If you use your eyes instead of your mouth, you will see that I am holding a letter. Its for you, from your master.”
I dismounted and gave him the letter. He read it carefully, and then to my annoyance, looked at me suspiciously. "So, you are to enter their old room?”
"Are you questioning your orders?”
"Please excuse me, sir, its just that the room has not been opened since the tragedy. I don’t even know where the key is.”
“Fortunately, I do. Did you know Mrs Kingston?”
“No, sir. My wife and I were hired the day after the funeral. The poor lamb didn’t live long enough to have her portrait painted, but she was very beautiful by all accounts, even though she was a foreigner.”
“A foreigner?”
“Yes, sir. She was Spanish. The former butler, Mr Vickers, paid us a visit about a year after the funeral. He described her hair as ‘black as night’.”
My level of curiosity was rising fast. “I know Mr Vickers as it happens. Does he live locally?”
“No, sir. He’d inherited a small sheep station in Australia, and was coming to see the master to say ‘goodbye’.”
“Pity. I would have liked to ask him a few questions. What about all the other servants?”
“I didn’t know too many of ‘em. I believe the cook past away, but that’s about all.” He gathered his manners and straightened his shoulders. “Would you like refreshments, sir?”
“No, thank you. I have a fair ride ahead of me and Mr Kingston is awaiting my return.”
“Yes, sir. If you would follow me.”
I could have told him not to bother. I was so familiar with the house that even blindfolded, I could have found my way around.
However, rather than disillusioning the chap, I let him do his job. As it transpired, I was a little too sure of myself, for the room he presently indicated was not where I’d expected the marital chamber to be.
“Thank you,” said I, the keys now in my hand. “You will not be required unless I ring for you.”
I waited until he moved away and then unlocked the door. The room was so dingy that at first, I could not distinguish anything of note. It also had the stale odour peculiar to abandoned rooms. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust and then stepped inside.
It was a large room and finely furnished, with the four-poster bed dominant. It was made up as though ready for sleep. Indeed, one of the pillows bore a distinct imprint, as if someone had just been resting on it. This puzzled me for a moment, and then the answer came – a cat, or perhaps even a large rat. Humans might not have been able to get into the room, but four legged creatures were another matter.
I crossed the room and pulled back a curtain. The window was thick with dust and cobwebs, and the sash cords were so frail that any movement might cause their disintegration. As my eyes had now fully adjusted to the light, I brushed my hands and moved to the desk.
I sat in the chair and unlocked the relevant drawer. It was full to overflowing, so that the two packets of letters virtually sprang into my hand.
I was in the process of searching for the documents, straining my eyes to decipher the inscriptions, when I heard a slight rustling noise. I took no notice, thinking a draft from the exposed window had moved the curtain. But a minute later there was another sound. It was so faint as to be almost inaudible, and yet it caused my skin to crawl. I shook my head. It was foolish to be moved thus. Then, just as I found the requested papers, someone behind me let out a sigh.
I jumped to my feet and turned around. Such was my shock that I almost toppled backwards. I do not believe in ghosts, and yet there she was - tall, pretty, and dressed entirely in white. Nobody who has not experienced such a fright can understand the gruesome terror. The soul melts, the heart seems to stop, and the body becomes as limp as a sponge.
“It is most fortunate you are here. Now you can help me.”
Her voice was soft with the hint of an accent, and it flashed through my mind that she was Isabella. I cannot state in all honesty that I regained self-control, but pride and military training helped me to maintain a semblance of composure.
“Gladly,” I said hoarsely.
She sat in the chair I had just vacated, and seemingly out of thin air, produced a tortoise-shell comb. “Please, comb my hair. If love means anything to you, comb my hair. It is the only thing that will set us free.”
Her thick black hair cascaded over the back of the chair. But, rather than smooth, even sensual, it felt cold and slippery, and I was strongly reminded of slithering snakes. Nevertheless, I gritted my teeth and persisted, and not having the expertise of a lady’s maid, I could do nothing more than fashion it into a plat.
She seemed happy with my effort as she retrieved the comb. “Thank you,” she said with a gracious inclination of her head. Then, without a backward glance, she stood up and walked through the wall.
I was out of the house in seconds, though how I had the presence of mind to lock the drawer and bedroom door behind me, I will never know. To my eternal relief, my horse was standing where I’d left him. I mounted in one leap and left at a gallop, not stopping until I reached the guesthouse in Brighton. The horse and I were bathed in sweat, and still terrified out of my wits, I could do nothing more than throw the reins to the resident groom.
I flew to my room and locked the door, jamming a chair under the handle. By now it was late afternoon, and as my room faced the sea, it should have been warm from the descending sun. Yet I put a match to the kindling in the grate, for I was shaking and feverish with cold.
A nip of whiskey from a flask and a full pipe of tobacco calmed my nerves somewhat so that a semblance of rationality returned. Had I been hallucinating? Perhaps I had suffered one of those temporary brain disorders that give rise to so-called ‘supernatural’ events.
I had almost convinced myself that it had been a bizarre illusion, when I happened to look down at my jacket. Caught around the buttons were several long black hairs. I peeled them away with trembling hands and threw them into the fire. They crackled and flared disproportionately, and for a split second, the flames turned bright blue.
I was too perturbed to visit my friend. Besides, I needed to think what, if anything, I should tell him. In the interim, I sent him a message stating that I had secured the papers, but that ill health delayed delivery until the following day.
They say a good night’s sleep will cure just about anything. Perhaps when it is aided by a substantial dinner and a bottle of claret, they are right, for the next morning, I awoke considerably refreshed. More for the sake of kindness than ridicule on my part, I had decided to say nothing to Percy about my encounter. The poor man had already suffered enough, and no good could be derived from adding to his misery.
My concern and effort were in vain. Upon arriving at his hotel, I was informed that he had gone out the previous evening and not returned. Naturally I informed the authorities, but only a cursory search was made, the conclusion being that in his current mental state, which truth compelled me to reveal, he had committed suicide.
This assumption gained more credence when a Will was found in his room. Dated the previous day, apart from some minor bequests, he had left Broadside to me. This did not immediately register, for amongst his possessions was a tortoise-shell comb. Did he commit suicide? Even after all these years I am still not convinced. However, I think for the sake of my soul, I shall leave instructions for the letters to be placed in my coffin.
A little something extra
Chapter One - The Problem