A GOOD DEED, by Annette Siketa
Copyright © 2017 Annette Siketa.
No part of this book may be manipulated, transmitted, or altered by any method or manner whatsoever. All rights reserved.
A Good Deed
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A Good Deed
England, 1894
She was known in the village as Miss Margaret. Few knew her surname and even fewer cared, for with her sharp tongue, cold heart, long skinny fingers and frizzled white hair, many were convinced she was a witch.
Miss Margaret had lived in the two room stone cottage near the cliffs for most of her adult life. She had no friends or family to speak of, and local gossip claimed that, although she was of noble stock, she had been ‘born on the wrong side of the blanket’. Her only known relative was a grandniece, Lily, with whom she had not spoken in years, and her nearest neighbours were Elizabeth and Jack Barnet, who owned a small dairy farm.
Elizabeth was passing the cottage on her way to market when she saw Miss Margaret working in her yard. The first autumn chill was nipping the air, and the old woman looked more bent and feeble than usual.
"Good morning, Miss Margaret. Tis rather cold today. The weather is changing and not for the better. You ought to have a lass to look after you in the coming months. I don’t know what we’d do without our little maid, Sally."
"I don't need anyone, thank you very much."
"Suppose you took a tumble, or when the really bad weather sets in, you fell ill and couldn’t get out of bed. Who would fetch and carry for you? Surely it would be wise to have a serving girl stay with you, at least until the spring."
"And pay her for the privilege."
Elizabeth Barnet was kind at heart. She had a soft spot for the elderly, and often gave them eggs and milk, meat too when it was available. Unfortunately, she was also prone to shrewishness and bouts of melancholy mischief.
“How about Mary, Lily's eldest girl?” she suggested, her tongue in her cheek. “She's a good worker, knows her place, and is pleasant in manner."
Miss Margaret looked at her contemptuously. “I will not have that hussy nor any of her spawn in my house! As far as I’m concerned, my grandniece does not exist. Good day to you!”
Elizabeth grinned as she walked away, the sound of the slamming cottage door reverberating in her ears. A few days later however, she began to wonder if her mischief had not in some way backfired. The days and nights had been growing colder, and whilst this would account for Miss Margaret not being in her yard, it didn’t explain why her chimney was smokeless.
“Jack,” she said when her husband returned from tending a suppurating pig, “I am rather worried about Miss Margaret.”
“Well, if you are,” he said as he sat on a little bench outside the front door, “you’re the only one who is.”
“Be serious. I think there’s something wrong. I haven’t seen her in days, and the cottage looks deserted. Perhaps we should pay her a visit. I’ll take her some fresh eggs as an excuse.”
Jack sighed heavily as he removed his gore-flecked boots. "Oh, alright then. Just let me change my clothes. I might keep pigs, but I’ll not have her accuse me of being one. I doubt she’s ever done a hard days work in her life. Miserable old…”
“Jack!”
Half an hour later, Elizabeth and Jack were standing outside the cottage. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He tried again. “Hello? Miss Margaret! Are you in there?” Silence.
“Try the handle,” whispered Elizabeth. It was unlocked. They looked at each other and by silent consent, Jack opened the door.
The interior was typical of most small cottages in the area - a large kitchen with a single bedroom off to the side. What was not typical however, was the sparse ness. Apart from a scrubbed table, two wooden chairs, a large cupboard and a shabby chair by the fire, there was very little else.
Having never been invited inside, Elizabeth was surprised by the lack of possessions. She had always imagined it to be prim and proper, just like its owner. She went across and inspected the hearth, and though there were ashes in the grate, they were stone cold.
“I don’t like this,” she said with a shiver.
Jack pointed to the closed bedroom door. "I reckon she’s in there, and judging by the smell…”
Elizabeth clamped a hand over her mouth. She had seen plenty of dead cows in her time, the grotesque remains of a lamb that had been mauled by wild dogs, and chickens that had been pecked to death by its brethren, but never a dead body.
Jack opened the bedroom door. One look was enough. "Yep, dead as a dried sardine."
Elizabeth stared in fascinated horror at the putrefying corpse on the bed. "What do we do now?" she asked.
Jack considered for a moment. "Well, with nobody to take care of things, I guess it falls to us. We should look for any documents and letters. We should also make an inventory of anything valuable. Once it gets out that she’s dead, the cottage will be prey to thieves."
"Do you think we ought? She won’t like us poking around."
“For goodness sake, Elizabeth, she’s dead. Besides, unlike her, I have a conscience. Who else is going to take care of things?”
“Yes, but what about her…” Elizabeth lowered her voice, “…her ghost?”
“Stuff and nonsense!” The last thing he wanted was to pander to a corpse. “See if you can find the candles, it’ll be dark soon.”
Elizabeth returned to the kitchen and began to search. “Look at this,” she said a few minutes later. In her palm were three candle stumps. They were so tiny that the wick had almost burnt through. “And yet I found two boxes of new ones at the back of the cupboard.”
“If you think that’s odd, take a look in there.” He pointed to an old oak chest in the corner, the lid propped against the wall.
Elizabeth lit a new candle and peered inside the chest. Instantly, the feeble light was reflected in a mound of shining silver. There was a tea service, a salver, a punch bowl, two fruit platters, and at least four pairs of tongs. She extracted an exquisitely engraved spoon and held it close to the candle.
“Oh, Jack,” she said in an awe struck whisper, “this is real silver. It must be worth a fortune. And look at the sheets and pillowcases underneath. I’d swear they’ve never been used.”
She turned her head and scrutinised the bed, averting her gaze from the dead woman’s eyes. Not only were they open, but they seemed to be staring at her accusingly. What linen could be seen was grey with age and had obviously been repaired many times.
Jack looked around the dingy room. “Best find pen and paper and then…” He broke off when he heard Elizabeth gasp. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice a little jittery. He too had noticed the dead woman’s peculiar stare.
Still squatting in front of the chest, Elizabeth now had the lid of the teapot in her hand. “Jack…it’s full of money…lots of money, silver coins and a small roll of bank notes.”
He lifted the pot out of the chest, and as he ran the coins through his hands, several fell to the floor. “I could re-stock the farm with this,” he said, his tone a mixture of bitterness and envy. "I suppose it will all go to Lily, but even so, I can’t help wishing it was mine."
“That poor girl. Orphaned when she was no more than a babe, and then to be thrown out when she was 16 because she attended a dance against Margaret’s orders. Fancy her thinking that music and dancing were the devil’s work.”
“You can’t condemn her piety,” said Jack, glancing at the dead woman and her glassy-eyed stare. “Still, it did cause her to have some queer
notions.”
“She never cared tuppence for Lily. Worked her day and night, filling her head with all that religious rubbish, and then turning on her when the poor lass wanted a bit of fun. If it hadn’t been for Tom Smiggins, goodness knows what would have happened to the girl.”
“Lily was very lucky. Tom is a good man and a fine carpenter.”
Elizabeth jerked a thumb at the corpse. “She would never have said so. She didn’t even attend their wedding.” Her vein of shrewishness now rose to the fore. “And I’ll tell you something else, Jack Barnet, she’s not getting wrapped in one of those new sheets. The one on the bed will do.”
“But they now belong to Lily. Surely it’s her decision.”
“No, it isn’t. The last thing Miss Margaret said to me was, ‘As far as I’m concerned, my grandniece does not exist’.”
Jack frowned. "Are you sure?"
“Don’t you call me a liar, Jack Barnet!”
“I’m not, but a Judge might.”
“Find a Bible and I’ll swear on it.”
“In that case,” he said, clutching the teapot just that little bit tighter, “we have little choice but to abide by her wishes.”
“I suppose we’ll have to pay for the funeral.” Her voice was full of self-justification as she added, “And I think we’re entitled to some recompense for all the eggs and milk we’ve given her. I thought she couldn’t afford to pay for them, and all the time she was hoarding money.”
The funeral was duly held, followed by a small wake at the farm, where the Barnets were lauded for their Christian charity. However, there was one awkward moment when Lily inquired as to her great aunt’s belongings.
“I’ve tried several times to patch things up over the years,” she said to Elizabeth. “I had hoped that old age would cause her to relent a little, at least enough to see the children.”
“I’m sorry my dear. I know how painful this must be, but her final words were most explicit. You were not to inherit anything. We have ordered a decent headstone, of course. I just hope you won’t be ashamed of our choice. It was the best we could…erm…” Elizabeth’s eyes were downcast as she finished, “…afford.”
Lily left the funeral several shillings lighter. The alleged ‘decent’ headstone was a piece of white marble with a barely visible crack running through it. Miss Margaret’s particulars and two lines from a poem – a very short poem – were to be engraved at two pence a letter.
At length, the mourners took their departure and the Barnets were left alone. "It was a nice service," said Jack, sipping a glass of neat gin.
"We couldn’t have done much better by her."
“A good deed brings its own reward." They filled their glasses and drank a toast, man and wife brimming with self-righteousness.
Being farming folk, the Barnets and their maid Sally were wont to retire early, and the night of the funeral was no exception. The moon was high when Elizabeth suddenly woke up. She tugged at Jack’s arm but he was already awake. They listened intensely, not daring to breathe. Somebody was moving around in the kitchen.
"Perhaps it’s Sally," he whispered.
"Don’t be daft. Her room is over there. She can't get to the kitchen without passing through here." The Barnet farmhouse was one of the few two-storey residences in the district, and the noise had come from downstairs.
The sound of a crashing drawer settled the issue, and walking on tiptoe, avoiding the boards they knew to creak, they descended the stairs. Reaching the open doorway at the bottom, they peered timorously into the kitchen.
Moonlight was pouring in through the broad, low window, highlighting a ghostly figure wrapped in a faded white shroud. She was rifling through the cupboards and drawers, and there was no mistaking the glassy-eyes or the pursed lips. It was Miss Margaret.
Terrified, the Barnets watched as she went to a cupboard, retrieved the teapot and spoons, and then stand at the kitchen table. With lips moving silently, she counted the spoons, and then one by one, she removed the coins from the teapot and rolled them across the table. They stopped at the edge, as though held in place by an invisible barrier, and then inexplicably fell flat.
And then a cloud obscured the moon and the kitchen was plunged into darkness. The Barnets turned and fled up the stairs, bolted the door and jumped into bed. Clutching each other as though their lives depended on it, neither slept til dawn, kept awake by abject fear and the sound of rolling coins.
They were roused by Sally when she passed through their room, and although Jack barely had an hour’s sleep under his belt, he would not allow her to descend alone. As before, he crept downstairs and peered around the door. Nothing was out of place.
But their relief was short-lived, for when they went to bed that night, the clock had barely struck midnight when the ghostly Miss Margaret returned.
Only by day was the terror relieved, and after three nights of relentless rolling coins, what with their pallid faces and the dark circles around their eyes, the Barnets looked near to corpses themselves.
"Jack, we can’t go on like this. She might come upstairs and pull these sheets off the bed while we sleep."
"I think," said Jack sorrowfully, "that we'll have to dispose of 'em, along with everything else."
"How? We can’t give them to Lily without telling her the truth."
“True. Seems to me it’s Miss Margaret who wants them back. So, we’ll go to the churchyard late tonight and put them on her grave.”
“On her grave? But, Jack, what if someone steals them?”
Jack shrugged. “Not our problem. We will return them. Anything after that is her business.”
The night was dark and stormy, and scudding clouds intermittently blocked the quarter moon. Jack and Elizabeth placed all the items, including the linen, on Miss Margaret’s grave, and then retreated to the porch of the church.
Jack pointed to a low stone wall to his left. “That’s Tom’s workshop over there. I wonder how he feels having her literally in his backyard?”
“How do we tell her the stuff is there?” asked Elizabeth, shivering with cold and not a little fright.
Jack produced a bottle of gin, grateful that, under the circumstances, he had paid for it with his own money. "I reckon we'll watch and wait for a while.”
Elizabeth could clearly see the shining silver in the diffused light. "And to think, we actually paid for her funeral. Ungrateful wretch. What was the final cost?"
"Including the wake, Three pounds seven shillings and sixpence."
Jack was about to take a swig of gin when a gust of wind caught one of the sheets. It rose up, unfurled in the air, and flapped like the sail of a ghost ship. Thrusting the bottle into Elizabeth’s trembling hands, he ran to the grave and snatched at the sheet, rolling it into a ball. The next grave along was bordered with whitewashed stones. Jack said a quick prayer of forgiveness, muttered an apology to the occupant, and used the stones to weigh down the sheets.
He patted the white marble headstone. “Nice try,” he mumbled, and returned to Elizabeth.
“I…I thought it was her,” she stammered, holding out the bottle.
“So did I,” he replied, taking a stiff drink.
Elizabeth suddenly grabbed his arm. A white hand had come out of the grave. It tossed the restraining stones aside, and reaching for the sheets, pulled them underground. They disappeared as if they had been sucked down by a whirlpool.
And then two hands came out of the grave. They stuffed the silverware into a pillowcase, and then with consummate ease, threw it into the carpenter’s yard.
“She wants Lily to have it,” said Elizabeth in amazement.
“On the contrary,” said Jack, “it’s us she doesn’t want to have it. Well, we’ve done our duty. Let’s get out of here.”
But the night was not over yet. Upon arriving home, Elizabeth was about to light a candle when someone blew out the match. The kitchen suddenly
brightened as Miss Margaret’s ghost appeared. She went to a drawer and yanked it open, and after rummaging through the contents, held up a pair of silver tongs.
“It was an innocent mistake,” cried Elizabeth in a terrified voice. “I forgot it was there.”
Miss Margaret slapped a handful of coins onto the table, and giving the Barnets a look of utter contempt, walked through the window.
“Exactly three pounds seven shillings and sixpence,” said Jack, counting the money.
“The miserable harridan,” said Elizabeth scornfully. “And after everything we did for her!”
A little something extra
Chapter One - The Problem