The letter
‘Well, we’ve found the three most famous residents’, said Gill cheerfully, dusting some dead leaves from her jeans, ‘And not so difficult really’.
‘No’, replied Daniel, ‘But now we’ve got the John Constables and George du Mauriers out of the way, let’s start looking at the really interesting stuff – the locals!’
Gill and Daniel had met at university. Their mutual interest in archeology and history in general had thrown them together and they were never happier than spending hour upon hour looking up local history and visiting any number of places that offered peeps into events and people gone by. Invariably, this took them to graveyards and cemeteries, where there was always a wealth of information to be found about past personages or simply the people who once lived in the area.
‘They keep this place pretty much in trim’ said Daniel as he brushed away a trail of ivy over a pale grey tombstone. ‘Funny how it never gives me the creeps – only makes me a bit sad sometimes. Look at this one, just five years old and her sister but three and even a little boy of nine months – the whole family! How on earth did people cope with it?’
‘That’s something we’ll never know’ replied Gill. ‘I guess everybody’s reality is moulded round the time they are living. People a hundred odd years ago didn’t expect to see all their children grow up. I suppose they must have got used to it’.
‘No’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t think anyone could ever get used to losing a child. The pain must have been as acute as it might be today. Perhaps they just accepted it with more resignation’.
They picked their way through the sombre army of stone and marble; mankind’s final gesture to his mortal fragility.
‘Isn’t that a headstone right over there by the wall?’ said Gill.
‘Could be. Let’s have a look’.
They passed a great rectangular tomb surrounded by rusty railings and made their way through the undergrowth. A large line tree stood against the bulging cemetery wall and beneath it, a perfect white headstone. In this corner of the churchyard the weeds had been allowed to grow high, almost concealing the grave but, exactly around it, as though neatly trimmed with a pair of scissors, the grass was perfectly cut.
‘There are even some flowers here, look!’ said Gill. ‘So strange, tucked away here half forgotten, and yet not forgotten. Somebody must visit it periodically… love – lies – bleeding’.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Daniel.
‘These flowers; love – lies – bleeding; the traditional symbol of desertion’ replied Gill.
‘Umm, I won’t ask you where you dug that one up from, but look what’s written, IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHABELSKY AND …’
‘And what?’ cried Gill. ‘How incredible! Imagine leaving a space. Let’s see, when was she born?... August 4th, 1890 and she died April 9th, 1912 – umm, died young’.
‘And the name, what about the name?’ added Daniel. ‘That’s never an English name… Shabelsky, Irina Shabelsky – it’s Russian, of course!’
‘How can you be so sure?’ questioned Gill.
‘Humph! You obviously don’t know you Chekhov, do you?’
‘But this thing with the space’, continued Gill, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Irina Shabelsky and… and who, for goodness sake? It ’s really strange’.
‘Must admit, beats me. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Who was she? And where did she come from? I’d be surprised if we found anymore Shabelskys around.’
‘Well, whoever she was,’ said Gill, ‘Somebody hasn’t forgotten her’.
‘I can feel my investigative claws twitching, can’t you, Gill?’
‘I’m game if you are, Daniel’
‘Ok, so where do we begin?’
The first and most obvious choice was the church itself. The doors were locked, a sad reminder of modern times but to their great delight, they could see a light on in the vestry. Gill knocked tentatively.
‘It’s probably just the cleaner’ she whispered to Daniel.
After a hefty silence they could hear what sounded like shuffling footsteps and presently, the bolt was drawn and the door was opened a few inches.
‘Yes?’ the voice was flat and offered little encouragement for conversation but Gill put on her prettiest smile and, in tender tones asked if the old man could spare just a little of his time for two dotty historians. To their surprise the door was opened quite fully and there stood, or rather stooped before them an elderly man with an exceptionally large forehead, fronds of snow white hair hanging almost to his shoulders and glasses that, in persons less sensitive than Gill and Daniel, might have provoked laughter due to the extraordinary magnitude they imposed upon his eyes.
‘So, you’re young historians, are you? Well, there’s plenty to tell you about this church. As you can see, it’s not more than a couple of hundred or so years old – not that there hasn’t been a church here for a good deal longer than that. The original church was founded in the 14th century but, forgive me. I don’t yet know where your main interest lies’. However, he continued, ‘There are a couple of striking stained glass windows, unless, of course, it’s the tapestry you’re interested in – is it by any chance the tapestry?’
‘Well, err, actually’, said Daniel, relieved to get a word in. ‘It’s really the cemetery we are interested in’.
‘Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I suppose you know about Sir Herbert Beerbolm Tree and John Constable?’
‘Yes’ interrupted Gill. ‘And George du Maurier, no, what we’re really interested in is the little white grave that’s all by itself near the wall’.
‘Oh, I see’, said the verger, and his eyes lost their sparkle for a moment. ‘And what might interest you there, if I may be so bold to ask?’
‘Oh, I don’t know really’, stammered Gill.
Daniel stepped in.
‘We are fascinated by the name, Shibelsky – not a common one to be found round here – and the fact that it’s so hidden away’.
‘Yes’, replied the verger. He nodded his head and a sad smile filtered across his face. ‘It is indeed hidden away and you’re right, you won’t find any other Shibelsky’s here. Yes, a sad and haunting story it is to be sure. Look, if you’re really interested, why don’t you both pop round tomorrow, say around 4.00 p.m.? I may have something that’ll interest you’.
They both thanked him and stepped out of the vestry door onto the gravel.
‘Not a bad start’, said Gill. ‘How about taking just one more look before we go home?’.
‘Well, if you insist, but I don’t see how much more we are going to get from the headstone’.
‘Neither do I’, replied Gill. ‘Just a feeling. I’d like to have another peep. I wonder what the verger’ll bring us tomorrow – do you know, we don’t even know his name’.
And the two of them made their way back through the cemetery towards the little white tombstone. It was getting late and the watery winter sun had disappeared begin a hefty bank of thick cloud covering the horizon. In the shade of the dark trees the tombstones assumed a softer hue, blending into the enveloping shadows of bottle green and grey.
‘Do we have to do this?’ said Daniel.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ replied Gill.
‘Nothing, I’m sorry’ and Daniel went quiet.
‘Look!’ said Gill suddenly. ‘There’s someone there!’
‘Where?’ replied Daniel, involuntarily clutching Gill’s arm.
‘Over there, behind that broken column. I’m sure I saw someone’.
They had both stopped in their tracks and were straining to see in the twilight.
‘There was definitely someone there’, said Gill, almost defiantly. ‘It was a woman, small and slightly bent. She must be making her way through those trees there and out towards the north entrance’.
‘Good, well let’s leave her that way’ said Daniel quickly. ‘Come on, let’s go and have this peak at our friend, Irina’.
Despite the rapidly diminishing light, the little headstone stood out distinctly. Gill laid her hand over the top of it almost caressingly.
‘There’s something terribly sad here’, she mused. ‘Poor Irina’. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but, and we know almost nothing about her, I feel so sorry for her’.
‘Fair enough, Gill. But remember, whatever happened to her happened a long time ago’.
‘I know, Daniel, but something has touched me. Can’t explaine. Must be a woman thing’, and she smiled softly at him.
There was a cold breeze picking up. They both shuddered.
‘Let’s be heading back, Gill – oh, my God, what’s that? ’
‘What’s what, Daniel?’
‘That light over there, see it? It must be a torch; someone’s carrying a torch’.
Right among the thickest of the trees an intense flickering light was approaching. Instinctively, they moved towards the large railed tomb and crouched behind it.
‘I don’t like it, Gill’ whispered Daniel.
‘Shh’ she replied, and inched her way forward where she had a clear view of the approaching light. It was getting bigger and brighter. A fine but desperate voice broke the silence… ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’
The light moved right in front of them and, as it reached the white headstone, quivered agitatedly and began to elongate, stretching out both upwards and downwards until it formed a narrow streak. There was one more agonizing cry and it vanished. The darkness was now the more intense. The two of them remained huddled by the railings in mute silence. The dry leaves of the lime tree rustled; a car beeped its horn some way in the distance.
‘I think we can go home now, can’t we?’ said Daniel, finally and slowly, without saying another word, they edged their way through the darkened graveyard and out into the welcome orange glare of the street lamps. After some while of walking in silence Daniel stopped. They were standing right in front of a Turkish take-away.
‘Gill’ he began. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘I’m thinking that I don’t know anything about anything. I know we saw and heard what we just saw and heard – we did, didn’t we, Daniel?’
‘Saw and heard what? – no, just kidding’.
‘Daniel, let’s face it, we’ve just witnessed and experienced what is commonly called a ghost. I don’t know what we’re supposed to feel. We were both frightened, we can’t deny that but, it simply happened, like watching a show or two people talking or, I don’t know! – it was strange and so ordinary!’
‘I don’t know about ordinary’ replied Daniel, ‘but yes, I don’t feel any different than I did before. We certainly have seen something but, well, that’s it!’
‘Do you think we should mention it to the verger?’ said Gill.
‘I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear’.
A row of juicy kebabs were sitting under the grill near the window, generous wads of onions and red and green pepper bulging between each chunk of meat.
‘Fancy one? said Daniel
‘You don’t have to ask me twice’, and the two of them slipped into the urban familiarity of ‘Ahmed’s Kebabs’.
At the appointed hour, Gill and Daniel were knocking at the vestry door, their amiable collaborator opening it almost at once.
‘Come in, come in’ he said congenially, ‘come in out of the cold. I’ve got the paraffin heater on, as you can see; not that it emanates a great deal of warmth. Church cuts, you know. What with the place being opened only for services, not much justification for burning good money, yes, well…’, and, almost as though he were embarrassed by his own ramblings, he turned away from them and opened a small dark wooden cupboard in the shape of a gothic arch, which stood above the mantelpiece. There was a sound of rustling and he drew out a large faded envelope.
‘Popped it in here as soon as I arrived. Didn’t want to leave it lying about’.
He placed it reverently on the tatty leather bound table and beckoned for them both to sit down. Meanwhile he sat himself in the windsor chair opposite and, with his elbows resting on the arms, touched his lips with the tips of his fingers. For a few seconds, no one said anything.
‘I must confess’ he began, ‘a great deal of time has passed since I last examined the contents of this envelope. I probably wasn’t much older than yourselves. Well, there it is. Why don’t you open it? and he prodded the article towards them. Gill took it up gingerly in both hands. It was soft to the touch, probably due to its age. Written across the front in a beautiful delicate hand was the inscription ‘To the very Reverend Jules Darcy’ and a little to the right in smaller letters ‘In very strictest confidence’.
‘Don’t be afraid’, he continued. ‘I shall be very interested to hear what you make of it. I’ve never shown it to anyone else’.
With slightly trembling hands, Gill drew out several sheets of cream coloured paper, remarkably smooth considering the age and written on one side only in the same graceful hand.
‘But it says, April 8th , 1912’ stammered Gill, ‘surely that’s around the time of –
‘Yes’, interrupted the verger. ‘One day before she died’.
Daniel nudged up closer and the two of them began to read.
‘Dear Reverend Darcy,
‘Firstly, I hope and pray that this letter does indeed fall into your hand only. I have almost no friends here, but I know you are a good man and I have no one else to turn to. I need your forgiveness, good Sir; your forgiveness and more than a little of your comprehension. It is for this reason, if you permit, that I will hereby relate to you the circumstances that have drawn us both to this hateful but inescapable decision’.
Gill and Daniel both looked up at the verger. He raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded to them to continue.
‘You know little of me. For reasons I will now relate, you will perhaps understand why I have kept so low a profile. You may have spotted a figure at the back of the nave. I have always arrived after the service began and, to avoid any uncomfortable encounters, have left before the end. As God is my witness, I have never renounced the faith. I had hoped that one day I would persuade my beloved fiancé, Henry, to join me. I felt sure that in time he would. Due to my imposed anonymity, I could not join the Russian Orthodox community but found comfort here in this church’.
‘Henry? said Daniel sharply, ‘Why, that’s the name …’ and he broke off suddenly.
‘The name of who?’ questioned the verger. ‘You know something about Henry?’
‘Yes, I mean, no’ stammered Daniel. ‘It just happens to be my father’s name’.
Gill looked at him sideways for a second. The verger made no reaction at all and they all resumed their reading.
‘I met Henry less than a year ago while at Lake Ladoga
‘Who was this Henry Western?’ interjected Daniel
‘Ah’, replied the verger, ‘A nasty piece of work and no mistake. Quite a regular gold digger’.
‘And what was he doing in Russia
‘Looking out for himself, no more, no less. He was a neurologist by profession, though a shameful example of one. Been struck off, he had, for malpractice. Had a bad reputation with women. He used his charm and good looks solely for his own advantage’.
‘And poor Irina couldn’t see it’ sighed Gill.
‘Love is blind, my dear. A cliché it may be but the sentiment prevails’.
‘What happened when they came to England
‘Read on, it’s all there, well, most of it’.
They returned once more to the finely written pages.
‘Things were not easy for us. Henry couldn’t find a buyer for my Mother’s jewellery. He refused to sell them for less than their worth. Without money we couldn’t get married and so we must wait. He found rooms for us, very discrete and hidden away. I was so worried, and so was he, dear man – it was then that I started getting those headaches. Not so bad at first but as time went by they became more intense. How lucky I was to have Henry! He put me through many tests and examinations – all carried out, of course, in the privacy of our rooms. How hard, how very hard it was for him to tell me that I had less than six months to live. He cried so and though I was in terrible shock myself my heart broke for him. We were so in love – may I say, though there be such little time for us, still so very in love. Henry was inconsolable. There was nothing I could do or say to give him comfort. It was then that he thought up our plan. You may think me selfish but I swear to you, Henry said there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. His mind was made up. Life without me would be unbearable and so, tomorrow, the two of us will end our lives together and, God’s grace permitting, be united in heaven forever. Please, Reverend Darcy, do not imagine any ill has been planned against me. My decision has been made of my own free will. I commend our souls to God and beg that you pray for us both. The ring enclosed here is sufficient, should you enquire in the right quarters, to pay for our burial.
God bless you and keep you,
Yours sincerely,
Irina Shibelsky
Gill’s eyes were moist and a veil of pain hung over her face.
‘But the grave only has her name on it’, she said quietly.
‘Yes’, replied the verger. ‘She left without him, so to speak’.
‘Do you mean to say, he didn’t die with her?’
‘Exactly, my dear. He had probably been administering minute doses over some time and, at the appointed hour, gave her the necessary lethal amount’.
‘Of what?’ said Daniel.
‘Strychnine. Very similar in appearance to sugar. It would have been very simple for him to have taken an identical portion of a totally innocuous substitute. Though he could no longer practice in England
‘How horrible’, cried Gill. ‘I knew there was something. When Daniel and I were there by the grave I just had this feeling, something so sad and melancholy. Look, Sir – and please forgive us. We don’t know your name’.
‘Oh, bless me, how very English of us all! The name’s Nathan and you are…?’
‘Gill and Daniel’, said Gill. ‘Nice to meet you!’ and the three of them made a show of shaking hands with each other.
‘Nathan’, began Daniel. ‘There’s something we’ve been meaning to ask you’ Gill darted a glance at him.
‘Fire away, I’m all ears’.
‘No, it’s just, we were wondering if there haven’t been any stories of sightings, umm, you know, strange appearances or such like.
‘I wouldn’t have thought two serious historians like yourselves would be interested in such rumours but, as you happen to mention it, yes, I have heard talk of lights, strange lights but I’ve never seen or heard the like myself – and I’ve been working here a good many tears. No, I put that sort of thing down to an hour or so too long at the pub’, and he gave a curious throaty sort of laugh.
Gill and Daniel smiled feebly and nodded mutual consent to say no more on the matter.
‘Going back to this pathetic story’, said Daniel, ‘What became of Henry Weston and what became of the jewels?’
‘Ah’, sighed Nathan, ‘there’s a pretty tale. Her family never got them but then, neither did Henry, well, not for long’.
‘You mean he was arrested?’ ventured Gill.
‘No, no, nothing so prosaic. Our friend was much cleverer than that – too clever for his own good. Of course, he knew nothing of Irina’s letter, nor of the ring that she had kept back from the jewels, but it all made no difference in the end. No, as soon as he had dispatched his unsuspecting financée he booked a passage for the states. Never heard of again’.
‘So the scoundrel got away with it!’ shouted Daniel.
‘No, indeed he didn’t. His name was confirmed on the list of missing passengers. Our friend made one error which he couldn’t possibly have foreseen. He booked his passage on the ‘Titanic’.
‘Wow’, said Gill. ‘What a story. A miserable confidence trickster met his end and an innocent young victim, cruelly deceived. There’s a sort of moral to it but… it’s got that air of unfinished business’.
‘Who put up the headstone?’ asked Daniel, suddenly.
‘Well, that was nothing thanks to Reverend Darcy. When he received the ring and the letter he was very agitated. He was an extremely pious man but he was tormented by the willful desire for suicide and yet the obvious fact of cruel deception. After much deliberating, he consented to have her buried where you saw her grave, right over by the far wall. No, the headstone came much later, erected by her niece and finance by the ring. He had left both the letter and the ring in the care of his successor. He felt the ring should be returned to her family, should they appear.
‘And did they?’ said Gill.
‘Just one, the niece’, replied Nathan. ‘The only survivor from her family. The rest of them perished in the revolution’.
‘How dreadful’, said Gill.
‘Yes, my dear. She had lost everyone and came looking in search of her aunt. When she discovered what had happened she became quite strange. I suppose it was the last straw, so to speak. She received the ring and used it to pay for the white headstone – the same material as many of the first world war graves’.
‘The woman among the trees’, whispered Gill involuntarily.
‘I’m sorry, my dear?’
‘Umm, no, I as just remembering. I was sure I saw someone yesterday, but then I suppose it could have been anybody’.
‘Yes’, said Nathan, scraping back his chair and standing up. That’s the whole story as far as I know it. The woman, Danyasha’s her name, she tends the grave. Quite a strange one she is. One of our local characters’.
Gill and Daniel could feel that it was time to leave. They carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Nathan.
‘Thank you so much’, they both said, and he shook each of their hands in turn.
‘Been a pleasure. Any time you want to talk, just knock on the door, you’ll always be welcome’.
They thanked him again and in a moment were standing once more on the gravel.
‘We’ve got to look at it again’, said Gill.
Immediately, they set out towards the white headstone. By now it was quite dark but their route was becoming familiar.
‘What are we going to do, Gill?
‘I don’t know, Daniel, what can we do?’
It was raining, not heavily but with the cold wind that had picked up, sufficient to discourage any notions for prolonged walking. They were but twenty feet from the spot when they stopped abruptly. There was somebody by the grave. They could see the silhouette quite clearly against the white.
‘It’s got to be Danyasha’, whispered Gill.
They crept a little further forward and Daniel stepped on a large twig. The woman gave a harsh cry and stumbled to her feet.
‘What do you want?’ she shrieked. ‘What do you want and who are you? Keep away from me, do you hear? Keep away!’
‘It’s all right’, coaxed Gill. ‘We have not come here to do you any harm, please don’t be afraid’.
Gill tried to reach out her arm but the woman started back in fright and, as she did so, a bedraggled spray of crimson amaranthus dropped to her feet.
‘We are your friends, Danyasha. It is Danyasha, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know? Who are you?’ The woman was becoming hysterical. ‘You don’t know anything, you young people, you foolish young people but I’ll tell you something, that I will’, and she glared at them from under her drooping black hat. ‘Sadness, you can forget, and believe me, I’ve had my share, disappointment too but treachery, never, do you hear me? Never!’ and she turned and slipped away through the dripping trees.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s get out of here’, said Daniel. ‘I’ve really had enough for one afternoon’.
Gill at once consented.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Daniel’, she began, the moment they were back on the lit pavement. ‘We’ve got to do something. I know you’ll think I’m crazy but I’ve got this really strong feeling that it will work. We owe it to Irena’.
‘We don’t owe Irena anything’, snapped Daniel. ‘We’ve found out loads more than we’d ever imagined and now I think we can forget the whole thing and leave ghoulish nocturnal wanderings to this Danyisha, or whatever her name is.’
‘Danyasha’, said Gill calmly. ‘I don’t think you understand, Daniel. There is something we can do and if you’re not willing to help me…’
‘I’m sorry, love’, said Daniel. ‘Course I’ll help you. Just tell me nice and slowly as we’re walking home, o.k? You can rely on me, you know you can. Right, I’m listening’.
It was almost three in the morning when two figures, cloaked in black and
carrying a small bag were making their way towards the church. They kept out
of the street light as much as possible and slipped imperceptibly through the
iron cemetery gate. The rain was constant and blowing in sudden, uncomfortable gusts. The wind effected a constant roar in the trees and the graves glistened cold and damp.
‘Almost there’, whispered Gill.
In a moment they were standing under the lime tree by the familiar headstone. Daniel fumbled in the bag and pulled out a gleaming chisel and hammer. He handed them both to Gill and then focused a large torch onto the headstone.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, whatever you do. This is probably a prisonable offence’.
Gill read the inscription once more, ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND...’ She took a deep breath and placed the edge of the chisel in the space immediately after the ‘AND’. At once, the wind seemed to grow in intensity, the roaring in the trees rose and the branches of the lime tree began to beat about her hands and face.
‘I’ve got to do it’, she murmured, ‘I’ve got to do it’.
The chisel dug into the white stone, chips flying off sporadically. She worked as fast as she could and, steadily, if roughly, the letter’ H’ began to form.
‘Hurry, Gill, as quick as you can’.
She focused on the chisel and one by one the letters appeared. The roar was becoming deafening. Gill had to half close her eyes to stop herself from being scratched by the branches.
‘There’s someone coming!’ screamed Daniel.
At once, the woman, Danyasha, burst upon them, her eyes bulging from their sockets.
‘You, you thieves, you vandals, I’ll kill you for this!’
She threw herself towards Gill but Daniel managed to grab her arm and the two of them fell onto the damp grass. She was spluttering with rage and growling strange words in Russian. One hand was on his throat but her other was locked behind her. Daniel tried to release her fingers with his other hand but they were digging in sharply. She stared up from the ground towards the headstone and read the inscription. The words choked her as she spoke. At that moment a strange light enveloped them, a lurid penetrating light that distorted their features. The same horrible cry, ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’ The noise filled their ears. Skeletal leaves and other debris blew about them, sticking to their clothes and faces.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ shrieked Danyasha, ‘Look what you’ve done!’
Gill carved in the last details of the number twelve. Crude but legible, the stone read, ‘IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND HENRY WESTERN, WHO DIED 14TH APRIL, 1912’ , while below, the record of Irina’s short life remained intact. The hammer and chisel dropped from her hand and she fell against the headstone, the leaves and debris half smothering her face. The light and the haunting scream filled their eyes and ears. Gill buried her face in the dead matte. Suddenly, the wind dropped; the terrible roar in the trees melted into a murmur and the garish light filtered away. In its place, a soft, pink glow pervaded the space. Slowly, the three of them looked up. Danyasha had let go her grip and lay limp against Daniel’s shoulder. They turned towards the white headstone. It was surrounded by the same soft, pink light. It reflected in all their faces. They felt the gentlest of breezes, like a sweet caress, pass one by one across their cheeks. It played about them for some seconds and then, almost imperceptibly, drifted up and away into the still winter air.
‘Come on’, said Gill, and she tenderly lifted Danyasha to her feet.
The woman looked up into her face. Her eyes were calm now, almost serene. She linked her arm slowly into Gill’s while Daniel took the other.
‘I think we can go home now’, said Gill.
The woman nodded and the three of them walked towards the gravel path. Danyasha stopped and looked back across her shoulder.
‘It’s finished, hasn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes, yes’, said Gill. ‘Irina can rest in peace’, and the little trio turned away from the darkness of the trees and out into the welcome orange glow of the street lamps.
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