Broken Bonds. Part One.

[Dusak]

Broken Bonds
A chance Encounter

For the third time I read my brothers note. ''Come quickly my brother I need you.'' Several points concerning this short note placed worrying thoughts in my mind. Firstly, my brother had never communicated with me since father passed away apart from the purchase of his new home. Secondly my brothers handwriting was always of a neat presentation, unless the years since we did actually communicate had caused his hand to falter. And thirdly, my brother would never, under any circumstances, ask for my help since that devastating and most ridiculous argument we engaged in ten years ago. Finally, there was no indication when he had actually written the note as it carried no date, but the envelope did contain the key to his house. An ominous sign to my eyes.

On my fathers death we had both been left equal shares of his estate. I had suggested to my brother that it would be a good future investment to plough the money into the families legal firm. But no, my brother had quite clearly voiced his disdain towards my sensible suggestion, he stating that he had been held back from his true desires in life long enough. He was going to use his half of the money digging for, and cataloguing, fossils. He quite openly believed if we are to progress into the future, we must first understand our past. To my mind a most ridiculous assumption. So we parted on bad terms, each creating our future destinies without need of the other.

I knew that he had taken up the ownership of an old house on the Yorkshire moors as he had found it convenient to use my familiarity with the legal side of purchasing property and land deeds. The house was somewhere in the vicinity of Coopers Claw Ridge, a most unhealthy sounding location for a city lover like I. But that is all I knew. I had decided to offer my assistance those long years ago, mainly due to the non forgettable fact that John, for all his foolishness and wrong decisions, was still my younger brother and who could refuse a brothers need to have important legal work done correctly, and also in the hope that our disagreement would be like the waters that passed under the bridge, forgotten with the passage of time. But it was not to be, silence followed the conclusion of the necessary paperwork without thanks. And I did still feel guilt for charging him for my services, a charge bestowed upon him out of my own selfish anger at his decision concerning how he was going to spend his share of the inheritance. So, once again I took the decision to help. I just hoped that the help he required did not involve a spade and barrow.

I searched out my maps, finding the one that covered the Yorkshire area. Total nothingness and mile after mile of moorland. The odd village was highlighted, and to my surprise, so was Coopers Claw Ridge. And not only that, it actually showed a lone building which carried the name of Stevenson’s Parsonage. As I studied the map it soon became evident that I would first have to take this afternoons train to Showerbridge, then, hopefully, the overnight mail coach to the village of Westmead. By the looks of things this would then entail an hour or so's walk to reach my brothers house.

I arrived at the train station in good time, writing, as is my want, my daily report as to what this particular day had brought me, a journal of sorts of my time on this earth. I completed some paperwork I had also brought with me as I firmly believe that idle hands make the Devils work.

A one hour wait at the mail office forced me to sit in silent protest while a man of advanced years continually pulled on his pipe that created the most disgusting amount of odorous plumes of smoke which he constantly punctuated by ejecting gobs of foul looking deposits into the spittoon. I was already in foul mood as this particular mail coach only had two seats available and both had already been sold which meant an eight hour wait until the mid afternoon when the next one was due to embark. One of the passengers was seated there as I had entered and upon hearing my voiced disappointment at failing to gain a seat, had offered me his ticket at an increased price that tripled the cost. I just hope that my brother was going to prove the worth of the expenditure.

My name had been called and I had made my way towards the coach station. I must admit, due to the dimness of the gaslights that I very nearly suffered a seizure as I had stepped up onto the mail coach and squeezed myself through the narrow opening as inside sat a portly woman completely bedecked in black clothing. It was only her strongly accented Yorkshire greeting of good evening that hinted that the coach was occupied. The coach drivers assistant had leaned in and lit the small tallow candle lamp that was suspended from the inside of the coaches roof. It gave sufficient illumination to bring into focus both mine, and my travelling companions face. She introduced herself as a Mrs Bainbridge, and as it was to turn out, not only could she talk, but was in possession of a very strong urge to know my life story, as she also felt the need to tell me hers.

Mrs Bainbridge had enquired had I come up from London. I had stated that this had been a very good guess as to my origins. She had made a tutting noise, stating that she had not needed to guess as the copy of the London Standard newspaper that was showing in my coat pocket told her this fact.

Seeing my fathers old briefcase at my side, she then attempted to guess at my profession, seemingly not willing to loose the chance at passing some time away by just asking me outright what it was that I did for a living. She proceeded along with her first suggestion that I could be a Doctor, a collector of revenue, or a servant of his Majesty's office, then various other possible placements of employment, each one getting lower on the pay scale as she progressed along her mental list of possibilities as her excitement at this game increased. In the end I had to tell her that I was the owner of a law practice in London before she reached the position of a fish seller on the local market. She had muttered that I did not resemble a lawyer type, whatever, to her mind, one should look like I could only surmise. But she did, eventually, gain my attention.

At one point in the journey she had mentioned what I had been thinking for the last hour, that my poor bones were being shaken apart from the coaches wheels hitting every rut and large stone on the highway. She had stated that she would be happy when she reached her destination of Westmead. I had informed her that I was going close to there, Stevenson’s Parsonage on Coopers Claw Ridge. She had informed me that the old Parsonage was only a half hour walk from her home, that was if the wind was giving you a push, which it tended to do more often than not according to Mrs Bainbridge. She had then decided to give me the history of the old house, lock, stock and barrel full of murder, mystery and hauntings. It was at that point that my aches were soon to be forgotten and I had settled back as comfortable as was humanly possible in this confined space to listen to this collection of tales.

Her father had actually worked on the building that was now referred to as the Parsonage, but its first owner had been a merchant involved in shipping and he had had the home built for his family to use in the summer months, the area being the beginnings of his life as a child. But over the years the family had visited less and less until it had become virtually abandoned until one day the family had been lost at sea while voyaging to the East Indies. A cousin had taken ownership of the property and had employed some journeymen to repair and make alterations to the house. It was during this said work that the now widowed Mrs Bainbridge had met her future husband who was a stone mason by trade and had stayed at the local inn in Westmead where she had worked as a barmaid and cook.

I could tell that there had been a strong bond between the two, as she broke from her story to reminisce about her husbands belief that only cleaver people that knew what they were talking about had the right to engage in conversation. I believe, going off the amount of talking Mrs Bainbridge was indulging in, Mr Bainbridge had little choice in the matter but listen. This reminiscing continued until the mail coach pulled to a halt to rest the horses and ourselves at a way station some two and a half hours into our six hour journey.

Once back on the coach, highly refreshed from our much needed respite from the arduous journey I was successful in steering the conversation back to the history of the house. She had stated that about one year after the house was completed, the cousin had been found dead on his doorstep with a musket ball firmly embedded into his head. No one had ever been caught for his murder, but it had been rumoured that he had been heavily in debt with no means to repay the money.

A few years after this, a French woman had taken over the building as a finishing school for young ladies, but had closed after two years as the lassies had started to say that the place was haunted. They all reported that they had seen ghostly figures in the hallways and cellars. Strange sounds in the night and doors closing without the aid of human hands. One of the young lassies had fallen down the well and been killed, but some say she was pushed by ghostly hands. Slowly the wealthy parents of these young girls started to place them elsewhere until the numbers all but dried up. The locals say it was the ghosts of the lost family that objected to strangers living in their home or even the murdered cousin, or even all of them.

A short time afterwards, Parson Stevens and his wife Jennifer and son Tomas made it their home. It had soon become apparent, or so Mrs Bainbridge had stated, that it was a Godly, but loveless violent home to be in. The Parson was always heard to be shouting at his wife, accusing her of bringing the Devils spawn into his home as he screamed out the scriptures. He used to beat his son black and blue with his cane that never left his possession. His wife suffered the same torments. His weekly sermons were all fire and brimstone in nature. Even the menfolk were never willing to cross him. Some had even stopped drinking as he stated it was the Devils brew, and if you supped the Devils brew, then you became allied to him.

She had then suggested, according to local gossip, that the Parsons wife must of reached the end of her tether, as one day both her and the son had disappeared never to be seen or heard from again. Once more, Mrs Bainbridge had stated, rumour had it that the two of them had escaped to America to live with her brother. Apparently two months later the parson had been thrown from his horse on the way to evening prayer and his neck had ''snapped like a fresh carrot'' as Mrs Bainbridge had termed it as he had collided with a wall head first. No one had lamented his sudden demise and the Parson had been laid to rest in the grounds of his chapel in the small family crypt that he had had built.

The house had then stayed empty, but looked after by an agent of the church until my brother John had purchased it nearly ten years ago. Mrs Bainbridge had also informed me that another lady from the village, a close friend of hers, had started to take his weekly needs to the house as my brother had began to show less and less interest in visiting the village, but she had told Mrs Bainbridge that she had not seen any sign of my brother for two days up to her, Mrs Bainbridge, leaving to visit her sick relative. That had been three weeks ago. But she had stated that I should not worry too much as my brother was well known to disappear for several days at a time while he indulged in his passion of searching for remnants of our past history. I was inclined to agree with her sentiment that things that are dead in the ground should be left in the ground. A statement that was, unfortunately for me, going to prove very true.

The coach had eventually reached the boundary of Westmead. We had both alighted, Mrs Bainbridge going in the opposite direction to the one she had pointed out that I should follow by a well trodden pathway. I had given her five shillings to give the woman that brought shopping to my brother in case he lacked supply enough to feed me. Supply’s which Mrs Bainbridge had assured me would be delivered to my brothers house by mid day. Daybreak was just beginning to peek over the hills and it looked as if it was going to be a nice warm summers day and I had to freely admit, the fresh air tasted good and the countryside became a sight to gladden my tiered eyes as it was slowly illuminated by the rising of the sun.

My brothers house soon came into view and it had taken me just half an hour to reach, without the aid of the wind. Perhaps this was due to me being faster in my stride, or the lack of a timepiece on Mrs Bainbridge's part. I fumbled for my brothers key and unlocked the door only to be greeted by swarms of flies exiting the house and the rancid stench of death.

To be continued tomorrow.