Do Us Part {A Crimson Peak fanfic}

by SincereJester

{Hope all you readers are enjoying this; we know the spirit of the Peak certainly is…} 

Part 7 

The house breathed, a deep rasp of agonized pain, burdened
with its miserable secrets. The rotting walls sheltered their latest addition,
still wet with bathwater and blood. The ghost wavered over her own corpse,
unseen, as her children fled from the horrible house. She could not ever leave
this place, not even when her mutilated body was discovered and removed; no,
she would remain. Freed from physical constraints and of time, she was now
bound by her spirit to dreadful revelation. She could envision things that had
happened, were happening, and would happen…and none of them offered salvation
or comfort. Perhaps this was Hell, then. The children would return, there would
be others, she must warn them…

Far below, the earth oozed, laughing. There were so many
buried there, some noble sacrifices imbued with forgotten magic, some tossing
restlessly in their muddy graves, all submitting to the eternal of this place.
Let this new one rage, let her flutter and flail with her silent screams. Let
the play begin!

In the empty attic, the moths danced with the little
stick-bug fairy, spinning around and around endlessly in the still summer air.

The waning moon shone weakly overhead, barely lighting the
trailing dirt road. Hand in hand, the siblings had walked for several hours as
the moon followed them. The sound of their breathing mingled with the scurrying
of insects and rodents unseen in the brush; their gasps at the rare hooting of
an invisible owl.

“Let’s rest,” Lucille suggested, and Thomas nodded gratefully,
dropping her hand. They were both tired and worn from the events of the night,
and Thomas was hiding his fear of being out in the dark vastness of Crimson
Peak. There weren’t many trees this near the path, but Lucille took his hand
again and let them from the road to a small hollow sheltered by scrubby bushes.
They sank down, happy to be off their feet for a few moments at least. They
nibbled at the bread they had brought.

“It will be dawn soon,” Thomas remarked.

Lucille brushed the crumbs from her nightgown. “We’ve come a
long way; the crossroads should not be too far from here.  Would you like to sleep a bit?”

Thomas nodded and pulled off his coat. Settling next to her,
he draped it over them both, curling his legs up beneath him. Lucille wrapped
her arms around him, and they fell into an exhausted slumber.  Soon the moon slipped beneath distant
hillside and the sky began to brighten.  The sister and brother were so soundly asleep
that they didn’t even stir as a horse came racing down the road toward the
town, or later when a party of riders returned at full gallop, followed shortly
by a wagon. It was only when the sun was rising in a hazy sky and the birds
began to sing in the meadow that they awoke, and they made their way back onto
the road.

@8@

Finlay hoisted the stack of branches onto his shoulder. The
wood would have to dry a bit more before it would be suitable for kindling, but
with the lady of the house returned and the wood stores depleted in her
absence, he needed to replenish the supply. His mistress was expecting more
company today, so it was only right to see to this little task.

Finlay was a simple man, in more ways than one. His family
had served the Sharpes almost as long as Allerdale Hall had been standing. His
small brick home was a short walk from the mansion; a groundskeeper’s hovel
that was larger than he needed but served him as well as it had his father and
grandfather before him. A small windbreak of saplings surrounded the place, allowing
him some privacy [or more likely, to hide the servants from the view of the
gentry living or visiting Allerdale Hall.] He preferred it that way. With the
decline of his responsibilities to the house, he was able to spend his time out
in the wild meadows of Crimson Peak, hunting rabbits and gathering what he
needed from the land, if it was kind enough to yield it to him. His needs were
few and basic: shelter, food, some drink, a good fire when it was cold, and the
entertainment of remembering the old stories and songs told to him when he was
a mere lad. He didn’t need much else, and was content.

He made his way to the kitchen door, humming one of the old
songs. Frowning, he stopped: the door was standing wide open, as if it hadn’t
been latched. He knew it had been locked when he had left the afternoon before,
after all the deliveries had been made. Poor Miss Lucille had locked it up
after them, when he had joined the porters on a rare trip to town for some
company. Too much company, probably, but the horse knew the way back, luckily. “Hullo?”
he called, peering through the doorway. “Lady Beatrice? Miss Lucille? Hullo!
Master Thomas?”

The kitchen was dark and the fires unlit. His footsteps
echoed on the floor. He set down the bundle, alarmed by this unusual quiet.
“Milady, is anything amiss?” There was no response, and Finlay grew more and
more worried as he tiptoed into the foyer. The sturdy front doors were still
bolted shut. Maybe Lady Beatrice had taken ill again, or perhaps they all had.
He mounted the stairs, crossing the walkway and knocking on her chamber door.
“Milady? Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” he called out, and pushed the door open.
The room was as empty as the kitchen, but there was a smell that raised the
hairs on the back of his neck as soon as he detected it: blood, and the fetid
scent of something dead. “Lady Beatrice?”

Yelling in terror, Finlay dashed from the room at the
gruesome sight of his murdered mistress. Without a pause he fled the house and
ran back to his house. Shaking, he saddled his horse and tore off down the road
at top speed.  Wide eyed he had barely
stopped to tie up his horse before bursting into Farlam’s police station in a
panic. He stammered out his discovery, begging them to come at once. Not
accustomed to such sensational crime, the authorities reacted at once to return
to Crimson Peak. Constable Webber and Inspector Root rode out on their own
mounts followed by a wagon bearing Dr. Frederick Jones, Farlam’s foremost
surgeon and acting coroner, a court recorder, and the distraught Finlay.

Constable Webber was a steady, cautious man and wouldn’t
allow any other to enter the house before he had searched the premises,
together with Inspector Root. The murder scene was one of the most dreadful
sights he recalled having seen, and it would haunt him for months after.  Fortunately he was not required to remain in
the room for long: he was sent off to observe other parts of the house and to
check on Finlay, who couldn’t be persuaded to go farther than the stairs.

After excusing himself for a bout of retching at the bloody
sight, the court recorder returned with his sketchbook in hand and began to
draw, as delicately as he could, the entire scene. Inspector Foot and Dr. Jones
conferred in hushed tones over the bathtub and its gory contents. Dr. Frederick
retrieved several of the sheets from the bedroom as Inspector Foot drained the
tub.  With the utmost consideration they
lifted the cold but limp body from it and laid it out on the sheets spread over
the tiled floor. Carefully they removed the bone cleaver from the unfortunate
woman’s skull; a difficult task, it having been embedded so deeply. Setting the
weapon aside, they covered the naked corpse from unnecessary exposure before
continuing their examination.  It went on
for some time.

Constable Webber had
gotten Finlay a sizable drink to settle his nerves and had finally gotten the
poor groundskeeper to recall the events leading up to the discovery, starting
from the day before.  The simple fellow
had stammered out everything he could recollect, repeating himself when
Inspector Foot appeared in the kitchen. Suddenly Finlay paled. “Oh, I had
forgotten the young ‘uns!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t seen them, either, and I left
without thinking!”

“Children?” Inspector Foot asked. “There are children in the
house?”

“Young Master Thomas and Miss Lucille, yes,” Finlay replied,
shaking at the thought of what might have happened to them. “Their rooms are in
the attic, sirs, but I had no sight or sound of them when I came in.”

Constable Webber leaped to his feet and dashed up the
stairs. He returned shortly, only to report that the attic was deserted, and
that there had been no sign of violence in all the rooms. Had they been
abducted, then? Or had the poor things witnessed the crime and run off? Where
were they?

Dr. Jones was preparing to have the body of Lady Beatrice
removed to the wagon and driven to the mortuary in High Street in town, but
since there was great concern over the missing children, they decided to
unhitch the horses from the wagon to search for them. The surgeon would remain
with the body at Allerdale Hall as each of the remaining men took off in different
directions with hopes of finding the Sharpe siblings, safe and unharmed.

The two small figures were hand-in-hand when Constable
Webber found them near the crossroads, on the dirt road to Farlam. He was not
given to outbursts of emotion but he nearly wept with relief at finding them.
They were shivering and mute with fright, it seemed: the boy was particularly
reluctant to be placed on the saddle beside his sister as they returned to
Allerdale Hall. The girl merely murmured her thanks at their rescue, holding
tight to her brother all the way back. He could only imagine what they had
endured that night.

Finlay wrung his hands and wept when the children were
brought back to their ancestral home.
Inspector Root was as business-like and professional as Finlay was mawkish,
seeing that the children went up to dress after the night’s exposure, in order
to distract them from the sight of Dr. Jones’ proceedings.  He had questions to ask them, and did not
delay in doing so. Thomas was questioned first, and Lucille gave his hand a
quick, firm squeeze before going to the kitchen to prepare something hot and
substantial for them and the officers.  

The poor young lady must have been in shock, Dr. Jones
thought as he returned to the house, seeing how she performed her tasks in a
daze. She only shook her head when given the unfortunate news that her mother
had met with an untimely and gruesome death, but of course she and her brother
may well have been present when the crime was committed, although one hoped
they had not actually witnessed it. Dr. Jones was gentle and mild in conveying
the news to her that the body would be transported to the funeral home in Farlam,
and that perhaps she knew of anyone else that should be notified? The
dark-haired girl stared at him unblinking for several long moments before
replying that she knew only that Mother’s solicitor had visited just the other
day, and that there had been some arrangement made with an aunt in Surrey. She
was most obliged to the esteemed doctor, and asked if she might be allowed into
her mother’s quarters, in order to select an appropriate gown for Lady Beatrice’s
burial. Might she also have a lock of hair by which to remember her? Lucille
asked, to which he agreed as being most appropriate a gesture for a grieving
daughter.  He left her to her duties.

As if she were sleepwalking, Lucille made her way up the
steps to the master bedroom, gliding across the carpet without hesitation,
removing her mother’s dark mourning clothes from the armoire and laying them
across the bed. Turning, she moved to the washroom as if drawn to it, a moth to
flame.

The walls were still spattered with drying blood, the tub
streaked with crimson red. The tiles on the floor had streaks of brownish-red
in places. Lucille’s first thought was how to scrub the place clean, for she
had the sudden desire to rid herself of any trace of her mother’s presence from
the room. It did not stem from remorse or guilt: she was the lady of the house
now, and it simply would not do to have it in such a condition. Her unblinking
eyes fell on the bone cleaver, set aside and now forgotten, on the marble sink
top. What a fearsome thing it was, with its heavy, thick blade and curved
handle, almost like a battle ax, a weapon of war. Well, to her it was, and she
had won the battle against her hateful mother. She had brought down that
killing blow as if to counter every wicked word her mother had ever spat at
her, every blow of the cane that bruised and broken her body. She took up one
of the discarded sheets from the pile of bed linens and wrapped up the blade
without a second’s hesitation. Like the ring, this was hers, a memento.  She would hide it away, keep it, for Mother.

She carried the bundle under her arm, stashing it in the
larder when she returned to the kitchen to tend to the food. When she found a
moment, she dashed down the winding stone steps to the clay pits beneath the
house, where vast vats of murky red mud bubbled in the shadows. She pried up
one of the flagstones and tucked her prize beneath it, hastily replacing the
rock and returning upstairs. She fought to keep her face bland and unsmiling as
she busied with the meal.

Thomas came in, his face quite solemn, escorted by the
police constable. Although he remained silent, his eyes told Lucille that he
hadn’t revealed anything of the truth during his questioning. He had kept to
their story.  Lucille was proud of him,
her little brother now growing into an adult, the new lord of Allerdale Hall.
Together, they truly had no equal. They would be unstoppable in whatever they
set their minds to achieve.

Beneath them, the mud vats bubbled, the disturbed surfaces
swirling as if awakening. The pipes rattled as blood-red silt coated the
interiors, settling like rust. The disembodied vapor of their ghostly mother
stood unseen in the empty tub, shaking, eyes wide in horror, and screamed a
silent scream.