Abigale Hall (26 page)

*

Eliza didn't know where she was. Her clothes were soaked and she shivered in her nightdress. It was too dark and there were no landmarks to guide her. She scrambled to her feet, slipping in the mud, and saw the light ahead. As her eyes identified the outline of the manor, she spotted the open kitchen door.

She was on the east lawn, and the light came from the highest floor of Thornecroft. It hovered, stationary in the window. Mrs Pollard, she thought, but then saw lamplight and a thin figure moving through the kitchen. Mrs Pollard came and shut the kitchen door then vanished into the darkness. The light above remained.

‘What is it?' Eliza asked. ‘What is it you want me to see?'

The kitchen door remained unlocked. Eliza crept down to her room and hid herself inside. Drenched and freezing, she changed into her warmest jumper and trousers and crawled onto her mattress.

She could hear Mrs Pollard moving about next door. The clock read 1 a.m. Eliza lay still, letting her wet hair soak the pillow, and listened to the rhythmic ticking of the clock as she waited for the housekeeper to settle. Time was merciless, each minute moving slower than the last. A larger gap of silence appeared between the ticks of the second hand until the clock stopped moving entirely. The room was all in silence and stillness. Time froze. Nothing moved. Nothing except the ghost-white hand reaching towards her chest.

Eliza shot up and rubbed her eyes. The clock ticked loudly above her head. Time had released her, she thought, then realised it had never held her in the first place. She tipped the clock face towards the moonlight – three in the morning.

Even a familiar home changed when the hour was so late, when all life within slept and moonlight transformed simple objects into complex shadows. Walking through Thornecroft at night was like entering a different world. Every corner hid a secret. Every shadow was alive. This was the time when the second inhabitants of the house came out to play, took free reign of the rooms and halls. Eliza joined them.

With her Tilley lamp, she ascended the east-wing staircase. The light she had seen was directly over the kitchens. This surely had to be the way. She climbed like Jack up the beanstalk, following the staircase as it twisted and weaved into the unknown world above.

She reached the top, no giant to be seen. The halls were unfurnished, the floor bare. Here the ceiling was slanted, like an attic, making Eliza cautious of hitting her head. The journey up the winding staircase disorientated her, and she no longer knew if she faced the east lawn or not.

‘Victoria?' Her voice bounced off the bare walls. She thought it would boomerang back to her, it travelled so quickly in the quiet. She waited for a responding echo, but none came.

She began trying the doors. The first was locked. Eliza peered through the keyhole but saw only an empty room illuminated by moonlight. She tried the next. Nothing more than a half-empty broom cupboard. The following two were also locked and peeps through the keyholes revealed nothing. Eliza turned the handle of the last, expecting the same result, but this one gave under her hand. Before opening it, she glanced at the wooden sign mounted to the door and brushed away the dust.

Reading Room

Holding her breath, she pushed the door in and stepped back.

Books were stacked floor to ceiling, covering every wall, reaching to the highest corners. They filled the entire room like a hedgerow maze, leaving only narrow passages through which a person could walk. Almost all were bound in leather, stamped with faded gold. The first spine she touched belonged to a Shakespeare folio. She swung the lamp to and fro trying to read every title, every name as she passed – Wordsworth, Browning, Keats, Stevenson, James, Molière. The vast collection cramped into this tiny space – she felt the books crying out in pain, unable to be read.

When she arrived at a small clearing, she set the lamp down and picked up the first title she could reach. She sat on the floor by the lamp, admiring the cover. This was a moment that needed to be appreciated. She placed the book to her nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of nights warmed by a roaring fire, cups of tea and a soft armchair. She ran her fingers over the spine –
Seven Curses
of London
by Greenwood. How long had Mrs Pollard kept these trapped here? How long since someone gave them purpose? Careful of the thin paper, she opened the cover, feeling the book's knowledge already passing through her fingers as it pulsed with a desperate desire to be read.

She stared at the table of contents and frowned. Someone had defaced the page, scribbling out the words in heavy blotches of black ink. She turned to the next page. This, too, was ruined with ink. A third, a fourth. She skimmed the entire book only to find horrid marks across every page. Most were illegible scribbles with the occasional word –
bird
,
cantor
,
coal
– that made no sense. Perhaps a child? But when had a child last lived at Thornecroft?

Eliza set the book aside and chose another,
Imaginary Conversations – 1825–1826
. She opened to a random page. It was written over in red and black. As was the next and the one following that. The entire book ruined. This kind of defacing was deliberate. It took time.

She closed it and took another,
Memorials of Human Superstition
. Red lines like scars tore many of the delicate pages.

She tossed it onto the ruined pile and opened another –
Law of Husband and
Wife
. This too was destroyed, though the words were clearer –
harlot
,
trollop
,
disease
,
filth
. The handwriting here was different, thin and feminine. Though hurried, Eliza remembered that same spider's scrawl from the letter in Aunt Bess's handbag. She snapped it shut and left it at her feet.

She found a French title –
Le Magasin des Enfants
by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont. Eliza remembered the author's name. She once had a copy of this same book in English. It contained one of her favourite fairy tales, one Mother would read her every night before bed, before Rebecca was born. Eliza turned to ‘La Belle et La Bête' and dropped the book in horror. The Beast had a sword protruding from his back, blood spurting from the wound, and a grotesque tongue dangling from his mouth. A noose hung round Belle's neck while blood dripped from an incision down her chest. She looked at Eliza with eyes scratched out in red ink. The word
WHORE
was scrawled on the page opposite, written over and over again. But this was not Mrs Pollard's writing nor the heavy male hand of the other books. It was simple, untrained, like a child's. A young girl's.

No. She would not think it. Eliza scrambled to her feet, bumping over another stack. Several books tumbled to the floor, every open page defaced with violent words, graphic drawings. As Eliza grabbed the lamp, something soft fell onto her head and to the floor. A dead mouse lay at her feet. She backed away, deeper into the darkened room, eyes fixed on the mouse as if the books themselves had somehow poisoned it. But from where had it fallen? Eliza raised the lamp. A loose strand of twine dangled above her. She turned slowly about the room. The light fell on a pair of tiny feet – doll's feet. The Victoria doll hung from the rafters with twine. Beside her hung a squirrel, another mouse, a fellow doll, a pigeon, a rabbit. Like ornaments from a tree, their bodies hung in neat little lines all across the ceiling as far as Eliza could see. She looked away and covered her nose with her hand, desperate to block the sudden smell of sulphur.

On the floor, across from the fallen mouse, lay
Mrs Miniver.
She reached for it with a shaking hand and opened the cover.

For my girls. No day is
complete without a story. With love, Father.

Eliza dropped the book. She felt rats gnawing on her skin as she ran from the room, the books closing in around her as she frantically navigated the maze.

She never stopped running – all down the twisted stairs, down and down through the hall to her bedroom. The door was locked. She tried the handle several times, but it refused to turn. She ran through the kitchen, out into the rain and to her window, forgetting it had been nailed shut.

‘No, no,' she panted, setting down the lamp. She tried to lift the sash, but it would not budge. ‘No, please!'

She gave up and went back through the kitchen, where the Tilley lamp faded, depleted of oil. In the dark and quiet, shivering in her wet clothes, she rested her head against her door in despair.

It clicked open.

Eliza entered cautiously. It was empty. The door was never locked, she thought, as she shut it behind her. It couldn't have been.

Ruth was right. There was a poison here. It thrived within the walls, infecting every room. The house itself was poisoned with madness, and she could no longer allow herself to succumb to it. The longer she remained here, the more it ruined her mind. She could still save Rebecca, but she could not save her if she remained within Thornecroft.

*

Mrs Pollard was preparing breakfast in the kitchen when Eliza approached. She already wore her coat, her suitcase in hand.

‘I'm leaving,' she announced.

Mrs Pollard cocked her head to the side and smiled. ‘Are you now?'

‘I came here on the condition that it would be to care for my sister. As Rebecca is no longer here, there is no reason for me to stay. Consider this my notice.'

The housekeeper would no longer have any hold over her. Eliza knew now where the source of the hate came from, and she was no longer afraid.

Mrs Pollard set down her spoon. ‘Well, then, if you're so certain. There is one thing, however, before you go.' She untied her apron. ‘Something I've been meaning to tell you.' She disappeared into her office and emerged a moment later with a slip of paper. ‘Where, may I ask, are you going to go?'

‘I'll return to my aunt in London.'

‘Ah yes, quite a good idea. Although that may be somewhat difficult as your aunt is dead.' Mrs Pollard handed her a telegram.

Eliza forgot about the books, about the poison, about Rebecca.

She couldn't be. Aunt Bess couldn't be. The words of the telegram, the sender's address in Swansea, were blurred. Only the date remained clear.

‘This . . . this is dated weeks ago. Why didn't you tell me straight away?'

‘It kept slipping my mind.'

‘Our last living relative – Rebecca's guardian – dies, and it slips your mind?'

‘You'll watch your tone, Miss Haverford.'

‘No I will not! You had no right to keep this information from me or Rebecca!'

Mrs Pollard smiled. ‘Rebecca knew. Her guardianship was transferred to me upon your aunt's death. Would you like to see the paperwork? Rebecca was quite pleased. I thought you would be, too. You never seemed to like her much.'

Eliza struck Mrs Pollard. It hurt her hand, but the pain felt good.

Before she could hit again, Mrs Pollard backhanded her twice across the face then grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, straining her neck. Eliza cried out and clawed at Mrs Pollard's arm, but her head was thrown forward into the countertop. She crumpled to the floor, a fresh wetness on her forehead. Mrs Pollard took her by the hair and pulled her across the kitchen floor to the office. Eliza kicked and screamed, but there was no one to help her. Ruth. Where was Ruth? Mrs Pollard yanked open the trapdoor and kicked Eliza into the dark hole. All the air was knocked from her as she hit the packed dirt floor.

‘You'll remain there until you learn a little respect. No one touches me. Not in this house.'

The door shut, leaving Eliza in darkness, the smells of the cellar morphing into the smell of sulphur and sweet marrow as she lost her battle with consciousness.

Ticket queues wound through the station while passengers hurried to and fro, bumping into one another from lack of space. Smoke wafted to the ceiling and the smell of coal dust was nearly unbearable. The only sound that carried above the loud crowd was the whistle of departing trains.

There was too much noise, too many people. To Peter it all sounded like screams. The smoke from the train was the smoke from his building; the hurrying passengers were tenants desperate to escape the flames. All eyes watched him, blamed him.

It had been better in Shepperton, that fear someone was always watching him. Shepperton was so quiet. He knew every neighbour, every shopkeeper. There was no place for strangers to hide. In Paddington, every face was unknown to him. He used to love the contact of strangers on the bus or underground, the odd sense of camaraderie that they were all surviving London together, each in their own way. Now it felt like survival was not a group effort but a competition pitting man against man, one where not everyone could survive.

The queue inched slowly forwards. The address book felt heavy and solid in his pocket. There was a train to Swansea leaving within the hour. If the queue was quick enough, he could make it. He felt exposed, as if Stephen would know precisely when he crossed London's borders. He had asked Michael to join him – the journey safer with two – but Michael refused. He knew how dangerous leaving the house could be.

Peter felt trapped. Michael said it was better being a moving target, but Peter could only move as the queue allowed. He kept his eyes on the faces around him. Two men bowed heads to whisper to each other about Peter. A pair of old women laughed at his discomfort. The mass of coats, shoulders, caps, umbrellas all blurred into one beast. One smirking, snarling beast with a pug-like face . . .

Someone tapped on his shoulder. Peter's breath caught in his throat else he would have screamed. The old woman politely asked him to pay attention. The queue had moved forward. Peter obliged, removing his handkerchief to dab his face. His palms were sweating and he closed his eyes to try to block out the sights and sounds around him. He opened them and wished he hadn't.

Lurking at the entrance to the platforms was Stephen. His ragged blue and yellow cap was pulled low on his head, hands jammed in his coat pockets as his eyes searched the crowd. Peter turned up the collar of his coat and moved forward with the queue. Stephen made eye contact with someone. Peter followed his line of sight to a man down the station. The barman from Angelo's, a bandage on his head. He shook his head once – no – and Stephen did the same. Stephen looked the other way, making eye contact with another, but this time Peter did not see who.

Peter used the crowd to his advantage, keeping his head down, staying turned away from the platforms.

The queue was interminably slow. Policemen loitered about, but Peter ignored them as they did him. He moved closer to the counter as Stephen moved closer to the queue.

Peter bought his ticket just in time for the train. The warning whistle sounded. No longer could the queue protect him, but the path to platform four looked clear. He kept his head down as he hurried across the station and didn't see the man he bumped into.

‘Hello, mate.' Stephen smiled.

Peter struck him in the face with his suitcase. The bag fell to the ground and burst open, scattering its meagre contents. His ticket clutched firmly in hand, Peter ran for the train but was grabbed by the arm. The barman. Peter elbowed him in the stomach. The train whistled. Smoke burst from the chimney. Peter ran. The crankshafts began to move, the coupling rods pulling the train forward. Someone snagged his coat collar, the third man. Peter snapped his head back and smacked the man on the nose. Freed, he ran and leapt onto the last carriage.

The train pulled out of Paddington as Stephen and the two men were accosted by the police. Peter watched until the train left the station then found a place to stand in a crowded coach. He couldn't see London as they left, but it didn't matter. He and Eliza would see it together when they returned.