Page 5 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

In the end, the decision was an easy one.

Edward caught the morning train from Liverpool Street to Norwich Thorpe and changed lines to Cromer.

He then procured a lift on a brewery waggon that was delivering kegs of beer to the Sailmaker’s Arms in Thistlewick Tye, to complete the last leg of his journey.

It was an uncomfortable ride, sitting up the front next to the driver, but he was finally deposited in the village centre, with the old man advising him to take plenty of walks along the cliffs to get the full benefits of the fresh, salty, ozone-rich air, and to indulge in some winter sea bathing.

Like most people, he’d taken one look at Edward and worried for his health.

But it was not the season for brave dashes into the North Sea.

There was a biting autumnal wind and Edward turned up the collar on his emerald green frock coat as he stepped down from the waggon, collected his baggage and donned his matching top hat.

The cliff walks he might partake of, if time allowed, but the sea bathing, he most definitely would not.

Edward took stock of his surroundings. He plunged the end of his walking cane into the soft turf of the large grassy area that stretched before him, but decided to stick to the meandering path, not wanting to soil his fine leather shoes. The orphanage fund looked after him well.

The view was so delightfully green, but stippled this time of year with the emerging colours of earth and fire, as the trees began to shed their leaves.

He’d been led to believe that Norfolk was a flat county but a high ridge of land was visible in the distance to the east. There was so much sky in this part of the world, whereas in London he had to force his head up to find it as he wove between the tall buildings and lofty plane trees.

Here, Edward felt, the world went on forever, especially when he spun further to the left and got his first glimpse of the sea.

A thick dark line on the horizon divided the calm blue heavens above from the ever-moving grey waters below.

His vision may not be sharp with regards to details, but the sense of space before him took his breath away.

He approached the cliff edge, wary that there was a drop of perhaps three hundred feet to the beach, and no effective barrier to prevent a fall.

At one point, a post-and-rail fence had evidently run along the top, but it dipped and sagged where the land had dropped away, and sections of it were missing altogether.

To his right, he could see a swathe of dead thistle heads, the spiky silhouettes of the stems visible against the sky.

It would surely have been a blanket of purple splendour in the late summer and clearly where the village had got its unusual name.

He was about to pull back and head for his cousin’s house, when he saw the small blur of a figure scuttling across the wide expanse of flat sand beneath the cliffs.

Likely a woman from the way she moved, she was wearing a heavy woollen hooded cloak, which obscured her face.

Perhaps she sensed him because she paused and tipped her head up to the clifftops, before quickly dropping it back down and continuing along the shoreline.

He turned away from the sea and towards the village.

The driver had told him that Thistlewick House was at the end of Copperpenny Lane, and he soon found a weathered wooden sign for the correct road.

He followed the sandy track for a quarter of a mile until he saw a large mid-century brick-and-flint house set in a sizeable parcel of land.

Emma’s father had been a gentleman of independent means and had built the house upon his marriage.

A square box of a building with, Edward guessed, perhaps six bedrooms. It was large enough for a well-to-do family and a handful of staff, but not as large as the Shaw family home that his cousin had inherited and subsequently lost to creditors.

Edward pulled at the rope to sound the doorbell, which was promptly answered by the housekeeper, and gave his name.

As he stepped into the hallway, Barnabas appeared from a doorway to the left.

The man had gained weight, he noticed. Marital bliss had certainly led to him piling on the pounds, whereas Edward’s loneliness had always kept him slim.

The two men studied each other and it took him a moment to notice the defeated posture and dark circles under his cousin’s eyes.

Barnabas dropped his gaze to the floor and turned to step back into the room he’d appeared from.

‘You’re too damn late, Blackmore,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘She’s dead.’

* * *

Relieved of his coat and travelling bag, Edward followed Barnabas into the drawing room and attempted to warm his hands in front of the open fire.

His mind was racing – how could Emma be dead?

She was such a force of nature and far too young to have passed away – somewhere in her thirties, like himself.

He felt his stomach churn at this unexpected and devastating news.

His cousin gestured for him to take a seat, lingering by the mantelpiece and sizing up Edward with accusatory eyes. His grief was visibly weighing his shoulders down, like an overcoat of iron.

For the first few minutes, both men remained silent. All Edward could think about was her sweet face – how she’d looked at him back then, and how she’d made him feel. The knowledge that light had been extinguished was devastating.

Finally, his cousin spoke.

‘I appreciate that you owe me nothing, and I had absolutely no right to ask anything of you, but I’d hoped the money might have been an enticement.

We were both always driven by the pursuit of wealth as young men and, what with your father’s unexpected legacy…

’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, or perhaps decided it would be unwise to do so.

Edward scowled. ‘I came for Emma, even though I admit the temptation to reclaim some of the money you stole from me was a factor. However, you must see from my clothes, and know from what you read about me in the newspapers, that I have sufficient means. What you so cruelly took from me, I have accrued for myself.’

Barnabas shook his head. ‘Well, you didn’t come soon enough.

She’s lying in a casket in the drawing room, stone cold and stiff.

The clocks have been stopped, the mirrors covered – more important than ever if there are indeed rogue spirits floating about – and my life is over.

But then maybe, that was always your plan.

Leave it long enough for her to pass away and then arrive in time to gloat. ’

‘You know I was fond of Emma. I’d not have wished her dead.

’ Edward tried to hide his building emotions; horror at the revelation she was gone, anger at the subsequent accusation.

Hadn’t his father always said he was too sensitive?

One of the many reasons he’d been such a disappointment to the man. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Were my letters not clear enough? She was possessed by an evil spirit.’

‘Details, man,’ Edward demanded, as his cousin tipped back his head and drew in a long and pained breath.

‘She visited a distant relative in Norwich two weeks ago but quickly came down with influenza, which we have since discovered is rife in the city. The doctor prepared me for the unthinkable when the delirium was at its worst, not expecting her to last until morning. However, to everyone’s surprise, she survived the night.

Her health, if not her mind, was almost immediately improved, but she was a different person – childlike and confused. ’

‘Childlike?’

‘She kept asking for her mother, even though the woman has been dead for five years. Her manner was aggressive and she had fits of temper like an infant, biting people and kicking out.’

‘Then the fever must have affected her memory and she’d simply regressed to her girlhood.’

‘It wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t her girlhood she was reliving.

As I explained in my letter, she said her name was Esfir – the name isn’t even English, for goodness’ sake.

And then, she began to carry around the doll that had sat idly on a chair in the bedroom for years.

She actually screamed when she caught her reflection in the mirror at her dressing table, not even recognising her own face. ’

Edward frowned. Emma had always been practical and not one to display a fanciful imagination or behave in a dramatic manner. Look how calmly she had taken his refusal of her all those years ago.

‘Goddam it, man, she didn’t know me or anything about our life together. She didn’t recognise any of the staff and wouldn’t let me touch her. Have you any idea what it feels like when your own wife pulls away from your embrace?’

There was an awkward pause. Barnabas must have suspected that Emma had been fond of Edward once, and he also knew the reasons that his cousin pursued a bachelor life. His comment had been thoughtless.

‘The longer this strange behaviour went on, the more I knew it wasn’t Emma,’ he continued, ‘but instead a girl from another time. Someone who stood in front of my wife’s sewing machine and had absolutely no idea what it was for; who talked of cooking over open fires and living amongst waggons.

There was an uncontrollable anger within her that I’ve never witnessed in my wife, and she repeatedly cried that they must all die – although I never found out to whom she was referring.

Simply put, it wasn’t that Emma had lost her memories, it was that she had someone else’s. ’