occhi_bella (occhi_bella) wrote in story_arc, @ 2007-08-24 21:16:00 |
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Current mood: | creative |
Entry tags: | fifteen set 03, ichabod crane, occhi_bella, sleepy hollow |
FIC Aftermath - Chapter 4
Cross-posted to occhi_bella and unknown_fandom.
Title: Aftermath
Author: occhi_bella
story_arc Set: 15-03
story_arc Theme: Snow (5-3, #1)
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (movie)
Character: Ichabod Crane
Rated: M
Warning: Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers
Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.
Link to Story Archive and All Chapters
Summary: Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.
Chapter 4
Ichabod sat at the desk in their room that evening and pondered the chain of events that had occurred since their arrival. He made notes in his ledger. Although he had no jurisdiction as a constable in this town, nor had he been asked to look into any crime - and wouldn’t be, taking notes helped him to organize his thoughts.
Emily.
Stephen had mentioned her more than once now. But Ichabod was not yet ready to accept that this Emily was a ghost roaming the house.
What if James McKinley had lied? He claimed that all of the rooms on the two upper floors had been locked until the night they arrived, and that he lived alone. They were lodged on the second floor, which left the third floor empty if he was to trust Mr. McKinley’s claim. But suppose there was a little girl of flesh and blood here, kept hidden for some reason? He wrote this question down in the ledger and read it several times to himself. Why a little girl would be sequestered away and denied was something he couldn’t fathom, but anything was possible. Of course, if she was locked up, how would she have been able to roam around the house and enter Stephen’s room, unless she had somehow escaped from her confines? That seemed impossible, too; she would have had to climb out the window and scale the outside of the house!
Then there were the townspeople who behaved so suspiciously. James McKinley did say they had to worry about her the previous evening, which spurred the others to hush him up and urge him to refrain from speaking of it. Were they referring to the same Emily?
There also seemed to be some concern that the boy had spoken of her. The boy referred to Stephen Masbath, he had no doubt about that.
“We are all guilty, every one of us. We knew…even before we were told, we knew. And we did nothing.”
He couldn’t help but remember those words too. There was definitely something amiss in this place.
Every piece of the puzzle seemed to contradict another and the fragments of knowledge he had gathered so far didn’t meld into an even remotely coherent explanation; but he decided it was worth looking into. Any information that might be linked to Stephen’s condition and odd behavior was relevant to him.
Resolved, he stood up and lifted the candle that sat on the desk. The usual crowd was gathered in the tavern downstairs, including its proprietor, and tonight they were loud and boisterous. As long as he moved about quietly, no one would be the wiser.
He tiptoed up to the third floor, which was identical to the second floor except for a lower ceiling. It consisted of a long hallway with several doors along one wall, and doors at each end perpendicular to the rest. Live-in servants had possibly slept in these rooms at some point. Moving from one door to the next, he quietly tried the knobs on each. They were all locked. But as he moved to the last door at the end of the hall and tried that knob, he jumped, nearly crying out, as he thought he heard a shuffling sound from inside.
Taking a step back now, he brought a hand up to his chest and took deep breaths. He stared at the door for a moment, watching to see if the knob would turn, or if perhaps someone would light a candle on the other side. The knob hadn’t moved when he tried it; it was definitely locked.
After several minutes, no movement or sound came from the room; or at least no sound that he could hear over the beating of his heart. Ichabod turned quietly and tiptoed down the stairs. Back on the second floor, he softly entered the room where Stephen slept and looked around. Only Katrina was there with him, sitting by the fireplace reading. She looked up from her book when he entered.
“Are you alright, my love?” she asked softly, her eyes probing his face.
“Yes. I had thought of something and went to explore it just now. I’ll explain later…when I have gathered my thoughts.”
She could always read his expressions, always knew when something was wrong. He knew he wasn’t fooling her now, but fortunately she didn’t press him.
They both looked over toward the bed as Stephen’s sleep became fitful and a soft moan escaped him. Ichabod walked over, setting the candle he was holding on the night table, and sat down, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Stephen’s eyes popped open and he cried out.
“Shh. It’s alright. Settle down,” Ichabod murmured softly. “It was just a bad dream.”
His fever was raging, Ichabod noted with dismay as he felt his burning hot forehead.
*******
Katrina entered the room with a tray and set it on the table beside the bed. Curling wisps of steam drifted into the air from the cup that sat upon it. Beside it there was a bowl and a cloth. She stood beside the bed and held the cup out for Stephen.
“Here, drink,” she coaxed, her voice firm yet tender.
“Later,” he rasped weakly. His eyes remained closed. “I want to sleep.”
Ichabod sat on the edge of the bed beside him and watched in alarm as the boy lay there lethargically, too ill to move this morning.
“As soon as you finish your tea you can sleep, I promise,” Katrina urged him. “But we must bring your temperature down.”
“My head throbs.”
“This will help that, too.”
He groaned softly and began to slowly sit up. Ichabod reached out and supported him while Katrina held the cup to his lips and assisted in getting the hot liquid into his mouth.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked after draining the cup.
Katrina placed a gentle hand on his forehead. “You have a high fever and it has weakened you. Keep drinking this tea. It takes time but you’ll feel better soon.”
Her manner was calm and serene, her tone soothing, but Ichabod could see the deep concern in her eyes.
He rested a comforting hand on Stephen’s arm. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll both be here if you need anything.”
Stephen nodded weakly and lay back down, closing his eyes. Katrina picked up the cloth and dipped it in the bowl, which contained water, wrung it out and placed it across his forehead.
With a sigh Ichabod stood up and followed her as she left the room. He quietly shut the door behind them.
“I don’t like it,” he brooded, now that they were out of Stephen’s earshot and could speak freely. “This came on so suddenly and with such intensity. I know he was out in the cold for a long time when we were traveling, but…he shouldn’t have become this ill so fast…”
“I’m worried, too. But maybe this illness was already beginning, and traveling in the cold merely brought it on and made it worse.”
“And then running out into the cold half-dressed the way he did yesterday. He is mad with fever, delirious. Katrina, I found him in the cemetery. He thought that little girl Emily that you mentioned was with him, but I found him alone. And…he was lying on top of a grave.”
Her eyebrows went up at that. “Whose grave was it?”
“I…I didn’t look.” He stared at her for a moment, his mind reeling, unable to process what it was she was intimating.
“Is it possible that someone was with him for a time, then left?”
Ichabod shook his head. “When I arrived there was only one set of footprints leading into the cemetery. Unless someone walked behind him and deliberately placed their feet into every single one of his footsteps, which is the only thing that would explain one set of prints for two people, there was no one with him.”
“If the weather allows, it wouldn’t hurt to look at whose grave it is - just to rule that possibility out.”
He rubbed his temples wearily and sighed. Neither of them had slept through the night; frantic with worry, they took turns keeping vigil at Stephen’s bedside, refusing to leave him unattended for one moment. And even when Katrina relieved him and he returned to bed, he was too concerned and preoccupied to sleep very much.
“No, I suppose not. The problem is if the grave should happen to belong to someone named Emily.”
“When and if that happens we can worry about it. Until then there is no use imagining what may not come to be. I’ll look after him for a little while now. Why don’t you lie down and get some rest?”
She reached up and smoothed his hair down tenderly, pecked him on the cheek, then opened the door and entered Stephen’s room once more.
“Confounded snow,” he muttered to himself as she closed the door behind her. He sighed heavily again. “At the first sign of it, we should have remained in Sleepy Hollow for a few extra days instead of venturing out. Then none of this would be happening.”
*******
It was no longer flurrying when he set off that afternoon, walking in the direction of the cemetery. Grey clouds covered the sky but, despite the lingering fog, the visibility was better today and he observed his surroundings as he strode purposefully along the road.
Odd that there is no church in town, Ichabod mused absently.
That was usually the most prominent structure in any town. What he had thought looked like a church steeple in the blinding snow upon their arrival turned out to be part of a mill. Even the cemetery was merely a field of tombstones, with no chapel in its vicinity. But his mind was quite elsewhere and he was too preoccupied about Stephen’s condition and about the errand he was embarking on; thoughts of the lack of a church quickly vanished from his consciousness.
His heart pounded in his chest as he approached the cemetery. It was easy to remember where he’d found Stephen Masbath. The grave was in the very last line of tombstones, furthest from the entrance, and the last one on the right. This row was set somewhat apart from the rest of the graves, under a broad maple tree. Given the more private location and the large, prominent headstones, these graves belonged to a family of some importance in this little town.
Prolonging the inevitable, he decided to start on the left and work his way to the right. There were only four graves. Detective’s instinct told him that information about this family might prove to be important. He set his bag down and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink blotter. He opened the ledger to a clean page and, dipping his pen in ink, he jotted down the names written on each of the gravestones as he went, as well as the dates of birth and death, and information concerning lineage in the epitaphs.
Headstone 1:
Rebecca Jenner, born 14th of May, 1757, died 20th of January, 1758, beloved daughter of Mark and Sarah
“Jenner,” he mused aloud. There was something familiar about that name. He examined the dates etched into the stone. “An infant. She didn’t reach the end of her first year.”
He moved onto the next grave.
Headstone 2:
Sarah Jenner, born 10th of October, 1739, died 12th of February, 1779, beloved wife of Mark, beloved mother of Rebecca and Abigail
Headstone 3:
Mark Jenner, born 2nd of June, 1732, died 5th of February, 1799, beloved husband of Sarah, beloved father of Rebecca and Abigail
With trepidation he moved on to the fourth and final grave in the row, fully expecting to now see Emily’s name written in stone, though there had been no mention of her on the headstones of the other three. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and faced the headstone of the grave where he’d found Stephen.
Headstone 4:
Abigail Jenner, born 15th of April, 1764, died 20th of February, 1799, beloved mother of Emily, beloved daughter of Mark and Sarah
“Abigail!” he exclaimed softly. But there was an Emily; Abigail’s daughter. Ichabod felt his heart flutter and he took a deep breath, attempting to steady his already frayed nerves. He had to concentrate on facts.
He stared at the notes he’d written. Abigail had died early this year. His eye quickly scanned the page. Mark Jenner, her father, had also died early this year. In fact, he’d died only about two weeks before his daughter. Where was Emily then? There was no grave for her, so it stood to reason that she was alive, and still in this town unless she had been sent elsewhere, to a relative perhaps. But then how would Stephen have seen her, or even known about her?
It didn’t make much sense yet, but Ichabod made some notes, then he turned on his heel and walked back over to where he’d left his bag. He put the ledger, pen and ink away, closed the bag and stood up, about to leave. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, his eye was suddenly drawn to a lone grave off to the side, sort of in its own row and a few feet away diagonally from Mark Jenner’s grave.
Headstone 5 (different row, isolated, a few feet diagonal from Mark Jenner’s grave):
Edna Jenner, born 10th of June, 1733, died 5th of February, 1799, beloved wife of Mark
“He remarried,” he murmured. Setting down his bag, he withdrew his pen and ink once more, took out his ledger and jotted down the information on the same page, above Mark Jenner’s name. He shut the ledger and replaced ink and pen in his bag.
Not more than a moment later he stopped, realizing that he’d seen something, and reopened the ledger to the same page. He perused the dates of death again, comparing them.
“Mark and Edna Jenner died on the exact same day! And…the daughter Abigail died only two weeks later!”
This was no coincidence.
Tucking the ledger under his arm, he picked up his bag and began to walk toward the entrance, detouring and walking through every row to observe each of the tombstones, stopping to dust off the snow that covered the smaller stones. He didn’t know what exactly he thought he would find; if there was a grave for Emily it ought to have been beside her mother’s. Unless…Abigail’s tombstone had her father’s surname on it, not her married name. Perhaps she never did marry; there was no ‘beloved wife’ written anywhere in the epitaph. If Emily was illegitimate they may have declined to bury her in the Jenner family plot. But that made no sense either; if that was the issue, Abigail’s grave would have been elsewhere as well, since she conceived a child out of wedlock.
He shook his head, annoyed with himself. “It’s only the wind blowing the branches.”
But he turned and left the cemetery at a quickened pace, deciding that he’d gathered all of the information that could be found there for now.