The Cottingley Cuckoo Read online

  I am, I should say, too old for fairies. I am indeed the grandfather to a little girl, Harriet, who is seven years old. Sadly, the war visited me with the deepest grief with regards my son – my wife was spared such misfortune, having gone to a better place some years previously. My son’s wife, Charlotte, and his child have done me the honour of abiding with me for the last few years, greatly to my comfort. I gave up my little business in the architectural line soon after the event and moved to a pleasant cottage just outside the village of Cottingley, with which I know you are familiar, for such is where the fairies were apparently captured on a photographic plate.

  You may think that such circumstance would mean that Harriet had caught tales of the ‘folk’ from the local children, and it is true that she has heard tell of them, but little more. She is rather younger than Frances Griffiths and much more so than Elsie Wright, the two amateur photographers who brought the sprites to your notice; and being new to the village, she has often been somewhat rebuffed as an ‘incomer’ or ‘offcumden’ by those who should be her playfellows. Furthermore, we have discovered there to be a marked disinclination to speak on the subject of fairies among the residents hereabouts, one which has passed, rather more surprisingly, to their children.

  And so it was with much enthusiasm, but nothing in the way of formed notions or expectation, that Harriet persuaded me to go ‘hunting for fairies’ in Cottingley Glen earlier this year.

  Wishing to please her, and to allay in some wise the loneliness in her situation at which I have hinted, I set out readily enough. We had been there often before: she enjoys naming the flowers, and arranging pebbles in the stream, and peeking into birds’ nests. It is a pretty place, and hearing her laughter, and her chatter of magical things, is pleasant for a fellow of my more sober years; and I smiled as I went, listening to the babble of Cottingley Beck and child alike.

  There is a place – I understand Miss Wright has spoken of it also, though you have not yet found opportunity to visit – where the brook falls in merry little steps into the pools below. All about is verdure, with an abundance of wildflowers and singing birds, and the trees lower their branches as if to provide a resting place for any travellers who wish to pause and admire, and hang their legs over the stream. I did so, being rather more fatigued than Harriet, who busied herself about the water, poking twigs into the hollows to ‘seek them out’.

  She soon alarmed me, however, with a shriek, and I looked up sharply to see her whitened face, and a flash of light which I took for a reflection dancing in the water.

  Tears started into her eyes. She held up a hand, staring at it, and at first I saw nothing; then a drop of crimson appeared at the knuckle and dripped into the pool. I hurried towards her, thinking she would begin to cry in earnest, but she appeared too surprised to do so. I caught her arm, drawing her up the bank, and examined the wound. Thankfully I found only a small, circular puncture, nothing concerning, and indeed she seemed to have forgotten all about it, for she pulled away and slithered down the bank again. She dirtied her dress as she went, and landed with her feet in the water.

  I was rather inclined to scold her, but she stood there with her back to me, so intent on something in her view she did not hear my words. I called her name; she remained motionless. This absence of attention was concerning. She was not accustomed to ignoring her elders or disregarding their imprecations, but since she still did not turn I became curious and stepped towards her.

  She was peering at a rock that jutted from the beck where it fell a matter of three or four feet to the pool in which she stood. The outcrop was darkened with spray and dressed with moss, though its upper surface remained relatively dry. There, tiny white flowers wavered in the humidity thrown up by the water. I could not see what had so interested my grandchild. I thought to find there some bee or wasp or other stinging thing, and then I blinked, for where the air was misted I thought I caught sight of a hazy form. It was like the tiny semblance of a man, but so indistinct I was certain I must be mistaken.

  I forgot myself so much as to take another step, which soaked me to the ankle, but I did not look away until another bright flash caught my eye. This was to the side, and again could have been nothing but sunlight playing on the water, except that when I looked at it directly I saw six or seven of the brightest, smallest, most lovely of beings, floating about us in the air.

  Harriet’s laughter added to the atmosphere of wonder that came over me at the sight. My eyes are not what they once were, but when I peered more intently I made out the most perfect little ladies, their hair like gossamer and their wings iridescent like those of a butterfly. They captured the light and threw it back, now in lavender, now mauve, now blue and green, now in the palest of pinks.

  Harriet called to them and stretched out her hands as if to provide a perch for them to land upon, but they did not; they drew away, and instead she began to follow them. The strangeness – nay, the sheer peculiarity of it, the sense of falling into a dream, was such that I reached out and seized her shoulder. And something – oh, I do not know what, but something made me turn from such gorgeous little miracles and back to the grey stone.

  I knew not what it was, but I leaned in closer. And I saw a little man all dressed in green, not six inches high. I did not see if he possessed wings like the others, for his expression caught my attention utterly. His pippin face was unreadable, but his eyes, which were quite black – and, if I may say it of such lovely perfection, somewhat soulless – were brilliant with anger, which deepened when he saw me looking at him.

  The sight froze me to the spot, and I became conscious of how cold it was, standing with my feet in the pool; but I peered more closely, because I saw that he was not alone. He stood over a little body lying at his feet. It was another of the females – quite beautiful, but entirely motionless.

  I could not help myself: I reached out and he leaped into the air with rage, landing once more on the rock in front of the prone figure. Harriet was beside me again and she let out another shriek at his motion but at the sound he seemed to despair, and in the next instant another bright flash marked his darting away. A series of little clicks, such as might be made by a bat, drew my attention towards where the gaily dancing maidens had been, but as if by some mutual consent, they too had passed from sight.

  I fully expected his companion to have similarly disappeared, but she had not. She lay as before, indifferent to everything, for I saw that her breast did not move with any breath, nor did any animating principle enliven her features. Her eyes were closed and I could not doubt that she had gone to whatever heaven awaited such creatures.

  That was the moment when I realised I could return home not merely with a fanciful tale, but carrying the proof of what I had seen.

  With special care, I bore up the tiny form. I hardly felt its weight. I asked Harriet to draw my handkerchief from my pocket and I fashioned a sling in which to carry it, anxious to avoid crushing her wings. I kept expecting the fairy to vanish beneath my coarse hands or to dissolve into ether, but she did not.

  I cannot adequately explain the effect it had upon me. My powers of description pale before your own; I will only say that my wondering was matched by a peculiar sense of fear at seeing something that was thus far out of my experience or expectation. I became concerned at how rapidly my heart was beating – I am no longer a young man – and I had an odd aversion to lingering any longer by the beck. Indeed, I wished to be away from it, and the glen, as quickly as was practicable; and so, stealing away the bounty I had found there, I walked home with Harriet by my side, the child piping questions to which I possessed no answers. And I hope it is not too fanciful to say that as I went, the very sky looked different to me, knowing that such creatures live beneath it.

  Now, justly, I am sure you would request of me what became of the fairy. This is the point where the observer of such a marvel should say it has indeed vanished into the air, leaving no trace behind, conveniently leaving their story to the credulit
y of the listener; but such is not the case.

  I placed the frail body into a little wooden box. I somehow did not like to have it in the house, though it constantly preyed upon my mind, so I placed it in an outbuilding to which only I possess a key. Was it that I still struggled to encompass the existence of such a thing? Harriet seemed to feel an odd kind of reluctance too, or I think she did; at any rate, she did not like to speak of it. If I tried to begin on the subject, or even if she observed that I was going outside to check on it, she would close up somehow and slip away to bury herself in a book.

  I regularly looked in upon the box, though something prevented me from opening it. It was not until a number of weeks afterwards that I felt I should intrude upon her little casket and see what had become of the fairy. I know little of the process of human decomposition, and regardless, I do not suppose it would be directly comparable; but I rather dreaded witnessing the putrefaction of such a lovely thing, and I must confess, the fear had grown upon me that she might really have vanished. If she had, I think there would have been nothing left for me to do but puzzle over the loss of my senses.

  She had not vanished. She had putrefied however, and I suspect more rapidly than a human might, but it was not hideous. It was, rather, fascinating in the extreme. Indeed, I examined the body more closely with the aid of a magnifying glass, feeling as if I had fallen into one of your Sherlock Holmes stories and turned detective.

  Barely anything was left of her flesh. What remained had greyed and turned powdery, and there was a smell upon bending closely over it, like stale herbs. And beneath the skin – oh, what a splendid little skeleton! It is a wondrous thing, delicate as a bird’s, and easily as weightless. She possesses ribs like a human’s, though more steeply angular, as if crushed by the strictest corset. The leg bones seem very like, though I only noticed upon looking so closely that the knees bend backwards. The arms are similar to a woman’s in everything but size, as is the skull, if a trifle elongated, like some of the more primitive incarnations of humanity. The wings are incredibly fragile, like those of a preserved insect. They are veined and quite whole, the membranes nearly transparent. My hand shakes as I write of it; it is so very strange and wonderful.

  And so I come to the purpose of my letter. I have not told of the fairy to anyone save Mr Gardner and now yourself. Indeed, I scarcely know what to do. This evidence could open the eyes of man to something so momentous it is unheard of in our history, and yet I fear I am not possessed of the skills or wherewithal to do it. And so I write to you, Sir Arthur, most humbly, in recognition not only of your penmanship, which is of course without compare (I have read many of your praiseworthy stories, and even now Charlotte sits at my side, barely keeping in check her ardent admiration and good wishes), but also with regard to your high reputation, your unimpeachable character, and your interest in the world I have so unwittingly stumbled upon.

  The skeleton, I am certain, will pass any inspection. It may be photographed; it may be examined, so long as such examination does not press it to destruction, for it is as fragile as may be supposed.

  In short, I can only assure you what a singular object it is. I would be greatly honoured to set it before you at any date you require, and at your convenience. I am only sorry I cannot send it to you, but as I am certain you will understand, I fear to move her – she would crumble to dust, I think, or may be mislaid upon the way, and that would be the most tragic and unbearable loss.

  For this is something that should belong to the whole world. Of course, the mind of man is such that when faced with an idea so new, the inclination is to see what one will and disregard anything that does not line up with it. But this – it must surely break through any such failure to see. It cannot be denied!

  Needless to say – and the times are such that I must address a point that should require no assurances – I seek no monetary gain. I would merely see the remains set before those who may use them best for the advancement of Truth and Knowledge, and such things should never be sullied or brought into question by financial inducement.

  I have exhausted my tale. Pray, forgive the length of my letter; having remained silent on the subject so long, I am quite carried away by it. I dare hope you will be as excited as I with the discovery, and I most eagerly anticipate your reply.

  Your humble servant,

  Lawrence H. Fenton

  PS. I should add that Harriet’s little hand healed very well; there were no lasting effects. I do not doubt that she scraped it on a stone as she started away in surprise upon seeing her splendid discovery. Truly, in the realm of fairies, children have proved to be our most visionary and bold adventurers.

  2

  I had thought I would be able to guess at the contents of Mrs Favell’s bookshelf. She would have serious, weighty tomes, something I might have read as part of my degree; peeling linen boards and gilded pages rather than the pink-covered paperbacks they keep downstairs. She’s not the Catherine Cookson or Mills & Boon type.

  I hadn’t expected the thing she placed in my hand. It’s a letter, written with fountain pen flourishes on thick cream stock, the ink a little faded, the paper darkened at the edges. Its touch is luxuriant and I’m still half caught up in the magic of the words, though I don’t know what to think of them.

  Wherever did she find it? It crosses my mind that it must be valuable, that I should be wearing white cotton gloves – after all, it’s addressed to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And yet the letter isn’t from Doyle. There’s no sign it was ever delivered to him. And if it really had been in the possession of the author who created Sherlock Holmes, how could Mrs Favell have come by it?

  My son’s wife, Charlotte, the letter said. I found the line again: and his child. I wonder if the name is a coincidence. I look at the Charlotte sitting in front of me, her eyes closed yet with an intensity about her that makes me think she’s listening, waiting for my response. I shake my head at the strange idea that comes: that here is the Charlotte spoken of in the letter. But the Charlotte it refers to must be long dead. And she’s a Favell, not a Fenton – meanly, I tell myself I can’t imagine she’s changed it through marriage. Maybe she discovered this in an auction or an antique shop, noticed her own name written there and bought it as a curiosity.

  Why ask me to read it to her, here, now? It’s bizarre, but then the whole thing is peculiar, more like the opening to a story than a letter. If Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had ever come into possession of a faked fairy skeleton, no matter how cobbled together, people would have heard of it. Plenty have heard of his involvement with the Cottingley fairies, said to have been caught on camera near Bradford. I went to the National Science and Media Museum there once with my mother, saw the prints and the cameras they’d been produced with. It was famously a hoax: two little girls had painted fairies onto cardboard, cut them out, propped them up using hatpins and taken their pictures as if they were playing with them. It was Doyle’s belief that escalated a children’s game into a situation they could never have anticipated. From what I’d heard, it hadn’t done much for his reputation that he’d trusted them. The fairies never had been anything but trouble.

  It occurs to me what my old tutor’s reaction would have been upon seeing this document, something never uncovered before by academia – the studies I might have built around it – and I feel dizzy.

  But perhaps Doyle never received this letter, or issued some scathing reply and disregarded it, or returned it to the sender. That might be how Mrs Favell had come by it – did she have some connection to Fenton? Perhaps she’s a distant relative.

  I look up and see that she’s opened her eyes. She’s watching me with interest, her gaze steady and unblinking. When I meet her look she doesn’t alter her expression, just goes on glaring until I’m the one to look away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, and holds out her hand for the letter. ‘That will be all.’

  I long to question her, to keep hold of it and examine it again, but it’s as if she’s a headmistress
requesting my homework and I hand it over.

  I hadn’t expected to be so intrigued. I had offered to read to her for a while after my shift ended – there was no time during it, and I hadn’t wanted her to think I’d ignored her request. I suppose what I’d really wanted was for us to be friends. Now she’s dismissing me, without even thanking me, not really. On her lips, ‘thank you’ means ‘you’re done’.

  Now I don’t want to leave. I look at the letter she clutches so carelessly and I want to ask her about it – how she obtained it, what it means, whether it’s a real thing that was sent in the post, on a steam train maybe. Had the great man held it in his hands? But perhaps she’ll tell me it’s simply some kind of joke. She might even say that, in some odd moment of imaginative fancy, she wrote it herself.

  One look at those cold blue eyes and I know she won’t tell me. I don’t think she needed the letter reading out to her, not really. She doesn’t wear glasses. She doesn’t have macular degeneration, not like Alf Harding downstairs, pottering about with a cane he doesn’t quite know how to use. I don’t know what she does want. Probably to see me at her beck and call, lending her a semblance of power in a world in which she must have little. Or she wants me to be intrigued, to give me a glimpse of something fascinating and strange, bait for her hook, only to snatch it away when I bite.

  I decide not to bite. I say, ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Favell. Sleep well.’

  She stands and turns to the window. It is full of that peculiar light they call gloaming, the perfect word for the radiance coming from beyond the edge of the world. I expect her to say something sarcastic about early nights, since it isn’t yet time to sleep, but she doesn’t. She focuses on the trees that lie beyond the garden, their crowns shifting and swaying in some breeze, and her eyes go soft. She almost seems to be listening, but for a moment everything is suspended. I can’t even hear the television downstairs, on permanently too loud, the clink of teapots or rattle of Scrabble tiles in a bag, the traffic outside.