Abigale Hall (11 page)

Eliza covered her nose to block the metallic smell of blood emanating from the butchered sheep carcass that swung rhythmically from the ceiling. For a moment, it was not a sheep she saw. She helped Mrs Pollard carry the slab of meat from the larder. They dropped it on the butcher's block with a thud. The raw pink body of the headless skinned animal was marred in places by patches of mildew.

‘Mr Drewry slaughtered it last week. He's very good with a gun.' Taking a cloth soaked in vinegar, Mrs Pollard rubbed the green patches away. ‘Have you ever made curried mutton?' She pressed two fingers against the flesh and plunged a boning knife into the top of the sheep's pelvis.

‘No, ma'am.'

‘What a travesty. Curry powder is the first item one learns to cook with when living in India.'

‘I've never been to India, ma'am.'

‘Well, I suppose we can't all be so fortunate.' The boning knife sliced around the pelvis, perpendicular to the spine. ‘Fetch me two small onions, a sour apple and the curry powder.'

Mrs Pollard wanted to see how Eliza would get on with the cooking, wanted to see if she could take on the added responsibility, speaking to her as if Eliza had not been the sole cook for her family for two years. As if she had not put meals on the table three times a day despite the ration. As if she wouldn't know the difference between rabbit and pork, lamb and mutton. She would show her just how well she could ‘get on'.

The larder was dark except for the light leaching in from the kitchen. Tinned fruits and vegetables lined the granite countertops while empty metal hooks were screwed into brick walls which held in the cold. Their larder in London was no more than a small pantry, but it was large enough for the little she managed to buy when going to market in Whitechapel. The jellied, pickled and preserved foods here could feed them in London for weeks, perhaps months. All of it for one old man and his housekeeper.

She set down the items with a heavy smack. ‘Was Miss Vlasto a good cook?'

‘Why the interest in poor Miss Vlasto? Get that pot.' Mrs Pollard tossed the boning knife onto the table.

Eliza dropped the pot onto the counter. ‘I suppose I'm interested in why she left. Jobs must be few in Plentynunig, what with the coal mines closing. They said on the wireless––'

Mrs Pollard took a cleaver to the sheep's spine. ‘The master's mines will never close. Get the lid.'

Eliza tossed the lid beside the pot. ‘So you fired her?'

‘Don't be silly. Help me cut the meat.' Mrs Pollard handed Eliza a knife, blade first. ‘Miss Vlasto died before I had the chance.'

The knife nearly sliced her palm.

‘In your bed, as it happens. Very sickly, I told you. The Welsh air did not agree with her.' Mrs Pollard stuck her hands under the butchered ribcage. ‘Don't look so concerned, Miss Haverford. I changed the sheets before you arrived.'

*

Blood stuck under Eliza's fingernails. She stood at the bathroom sink, scrubbing at her hands with a nail brush. Washing them in the kitchen had not been enough.

How could Pip be dead? Had she not seen her the other day? Either she was speaking to ghosts or that girl with the paper-riddled house lied to her. Was she really as gullible as Father said?

Her skin was raw but the germs remained, embedded in her pores. She had to get them out. The tap ran so loudly that Eliza almost missed the singing.

‘
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run . . .
'

‘Rebecca?' She turned off the water. The soft padding of small feet crossed in front of the bathroom. Eliza opened the door and caught a glimpse of a brown dress darting around the corner. She followed.

‘
Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer
's gun . . .
'

Rebecca dashed into the north hall.

‘
Run
rabbit, run rabbit, run run run . . .
'

A shadow ascended the staircase that led to Mr Brownawell's private rooms.

‘Rebecca!' Eliza ran up after her.

The first floor of the north hall wore the same faded carpets and peeling wallpaper as downstairs. Though fitted for electricity, there were no bulbs in the sconces. A window at the end of the corridor allowed the only light. Eliza listened.

‘Rebecca? Rebecca, you know you shouldn't be here. You're going to be in an awful lot of trouble if Mrs Pollard catches you.'

When she reached the end of the hall, there was still no sign of her sister, only empty passages either side leading to destinations unknown and large windows that lined the back of the manor. Thinking she perhaps misheard – could the singing have come from outside, her glimpses of a child merely shadows? – she leant over a bare oak table to peer onto the north lawn below. The grass was overgrown and a lone, gnarled tree pocked the otherwise flat land. The wolfhound barked and galloped across the field, followed by Mr Drewry, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He stopped mid-stride and turned his head towards the north hall window where Eliza stood.

She spun away from the glass, pressing her body flat against the wall. She wouldn't return to the staircase until she could be certain he was gone. Eliza waited, counting her breaths, until she felt it safe to look again. Mr Drewry walked towards his carriage house, giving no sign he had seen her. Eliza dabbed the sweat from her brow. She needed to return downstairs but hesitated.

If Mrs Pollard wanted to keep the bloodstained book from her, why not hide it up here? Eliza needed to find it, scour it for clues as to what had killed Pip Vlasto. If Mrs Pollard were to lie about something as innocuous as mentioning a reading room, what lies was she telling about Pip? About the blood in the book? What else was the auburn-haired girl hiding, apart from her real name? No longer would Eliza take anyone in Plentynunig at their word. She'd discover truths for herself.

Every room she tried was empty. She discovered a few pieces of scattered furniture but nothing more. No boxes. No books. So much empty space, it was overwhelming. At Aunt Bess's they had been three people crammed into a one-bedroom flat. There was never any peace, not even in the bathroom, with only one per floor. Mrs Hodgkins would occupy it for hours, soaking her back, or Mr Pendleton would bang on the door complaining he never got his fair chunk of time. When Eliza did have a spare moment, Rebecca would seek her out or Aunt Bess would holler. So many voices calling out for her attention.

Another empty room.

Three people in Aunt Bess's flat and the whole building felt claustrophobic. Here, there were so many rooms and passages, they could go days and never so much as glimpse one another. Yet Eliza could never shake the sensation that there was always someone with her.

She turned the corner, and a massive set of wooden doors – more elaborate than anything she'd seen at Thornecroft thus far – stood before her. As she inched closer to the towering panels, Eliza felt small, plain, insignificant. She ran her fingers over the intricate carvings in the wood. It felt warm against her skin. The handcrafted images depicted scenes of men ploughing fields, women cooking, sheep in fields, dogs and children playing – an illustration of what a plentiful Plentynunig could be, of perhaps what it once was. Every carving was smooth and polished. Unlike so much in the manor, these doors were in perfect condition. They could have been made yesterday. Eliza wanted to open them, split the scene in half, discover what lay behind. She placed her hand on the curved brass handle.

Coughing rattled the hall – a deep, dry hacking that made the handle vibrate in Eliza's hand.

‘Handkerchief! Hurry up now. We must get moving.'

Mrs Pollard stood behind those doors.

Eliza ran, the carpet silencing her steps. The staircase she needed wasn't there. She made a wrong turn.

A door opened and slammed. She turned left. More doors and no exit. The slaughtered sheep came to mind, Mrs Pollard with cleaver in hand, the blood on the butcher's block.

Heavy footsteps pursued her.

She slipped inside the nearest room, holding her breath as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The footsteps, louder now, were accompanied by a light creak and the brush of something heavy sliding against the carpet.

‘. . . close it until the autumn. I warned them. Nationalisation would mean death . . . may have to sell . . . but we'll keep the Cware entrance open, of course. Still . . .'

A dry cough brought the footsteps to a halt outside Eliza's door. She kept perfectly still.

‘Use your handkerchief.'

The muffled coughs continued for another minute. Eliza held her breath, afraid of making the slightest sound.

‘Better? Good.'

Eliza thought the loud thumping of her heart would give her away, but the steps and creaks recommenced. She remained huddled by the door, listening for any more sounds.

It was then she spotted the portrait. It hung uncovered above the fireplace. Dust blanketed the paint. Yet even in the grey darkness of the room, Eliza could tell it was the woman in the muslin dress. In the downward gaze, she saw a forlorn look cast by deep brown eyes. The face was round and soft, much like Eliza's. If she let her hair grow longer, Eliza could almost pass the portrait off as her own, albeit a more beautified version of herself.

A nameplate was screwed into the bottom of the frame. She stepped onto the foot of the fireplace. Leaning over the mantle, she wiped away the dust, but the plate was unreadable in the dark. She pulled the box of matches from her pocket, lit one and held it close to the frame. Someone had tried to scratch out the inscription, but the words remained legible.

Beloved Victoria

Eliza reread it till the match burnt her fingers.

When she returned to their wing, she found Rebecca sitting in the hall with her toy cat. Without a word, Eliza took her by the arm and pulled her into the bedroom.

‘You told me I'm not allowed in here,' Rebecca said as Eliza closed the door.

‘What were you doing on the first floor? You know we're not permitted up there. What do you think Mrs Pollard would've done had she found you? You must think about consequences, Rebecca.'

‘But I didn't do anything.'

‘It doesn't matter. Simply being where you're not allowed––'

‘But I wasn't!' Rebecca sat on the bed beside the body. Eliza blinked. There was only Rebecca.

‘Stop being silly. I won't let people lie to me any more.'

‘I wasn't on the first floor, Liza. I wasn't! I've never been up there.'

‘Then where were you this afternoon?' Eliza crossed her arms, trying her best impression of Mother.

‘I was where Mrs Pollard told me to be. At the henhouse.'

‘All afternoon?'

‘I had to collect the eggs, change the straw, sweep the coop, feed the chickens. It took ages. And they kept squawking at me and flapping their wings. All these feathers got in my mouth . . .'

‘You never went up on the first floor?'

‘No.'

‘Mrs Pollard didn't ask you or . . .' A pulsing pressure formed behind her eyes. She wanted to sit but not on the bed.

‘Eliza, what's wrong?'

‘Tell me the truth. Swear to me you weren't there.'

Rebecca stood beside her. ‘I swear. Do you really think I'm a liar? Well, do you?'

‘No. No, I . . .'

‘I'm trying to be good. Really I am.'

‘I know, dearie.' Eliza regarded her another moment then hugged her. Though Rebecca wore the same brown dress she had on at breakfast, she smelled nothing of the henhouse.

*

Mrs Pollard slopped a hunk of mutton onto Eliza's plate. The curry powder smelled too strong for her liking and the meat was overcooked. While Rebecca had no trouble eating, Eliza only nibbled. She had never regained her appetite after the butchering.

‘Not to your liking?' asked Mrs Pollard. ‘This is one of my favourites.' Despite her words, Mrs Pollard ate only a small portion, leaving most of her plate untouched.

Eliza tried a larger bite. It was like eating a hunk of dried liquorice root. Her jaw became sore trying to grind it down.

‘Tomorrow, I need you to sweep the north hall. The dust is exacerbating the master's condition. You remember where the north hall is, don't you, Miss Haverford?'

Eliza fumbled her fork. It clattered against the stoneware. ‘Of course,' she said, picking it up off the plate.

‘Good. I do like a maid who remembers what she's told. Miss Vlasto was troublesome like that. Very forgetful. Reminds me of a maid I knew in India. A native called Bimali. Pretty girl, for a coolie. Unfortunately, her intelligence did not match her appearance. Miss Haverford, since dinner appears to be beneath you, go and stir the stock on the stove.'

Being away from the table was a relief. The mixture of broth and vegetable juices smelled better than what was on her plate and cleared her nose of the awful curry. Eliza's stomach grumbled.

‘What did the maid do?' Rebecca asked and, this time, Mrs Pollard did not rebuke her curiosity.

‘Bimali was ordered to serve only the lady of the house, as her appearance distracted the master from his work. One night, as she passed by while bringing tea to her mistress, the master saw her. Of course he could not resist such beauty, so he took her into his room and had his way with her.'

There was something large in the pot that struck the wooden spoon every time Eliza stirred.

‘The master was furious, of course, for Bimali had used her wicked ways to lure him into sin. So he told her family of her indiscretion.'

Eliza coaxed the large chunk to the surface.

‘They took her to the bazaar and stoned her to death.'

A set of teeth smiled at her from the brown water. Eliza dropped the spoon. The sheep's head sunk to the bottom of the pot.

‘She didn't even scream as they pelted her with rock after rock. She knew she had done wrong and let the stones beat away her wicked soul. I remember how the bruises marred her face and the blood pooled by her head.' Mrs Pollard's voice became soft and distant, the way Aunt Bess's did when she spoke of her ex-fiancé. ‘I remember, though her eyes were swollen shut, how she stared at me while I held my mother's . . .'