Abigale Hall (23 page)

Stephen stood across the street. He tipped his checked cap to Peter then slipped away as another body was carried from the building.

Eliza sat at the table watching her porridge run off her spoon the way the rain ran down the glass. Her eyes felt swollen and sore. She wouldn't touch them for fear of itching them raw. One of these nights, she needed to get some decent sleep.

Mrs Pollard mashed up fruits for Mr Brownawell's breakfast. The squelching they made reminded her of the butchered sheep's carcass. Eliza lost her appetite and took her bowl to the sink.

‘Has there been any news concerning Rebecca?'

‘I'll be informed if she dies.'

‘Is there an address so I could send her a letter?'

‘If you wish to write to her, I'll post it for you.'

The bowl threatened to break in her grip. ‘I would send it myself if only you gave me the address.'

‘If you're so keen to write to family, why don't you send a letter to your dear aunt? I'm sure she's missing you terribly.' There was laughter hiding in Mrs Pollard's voice, like a background conversation on a crossed telephone line. Eliza dropped her bowl in the sink, enjoying the displeasure on Mrs Pollard's face as it clattered against the porcelain.

‘I've heard that several of the children from town were sent to the hospital in Swansea. I'm sure someone in the village has the address. Or even the 'phone number.'

‘Why don't I make it easy for you?' She motioned for Eliza to enter the office. The trapdoor was slightly ajar. Mrs Pollard slammed her foot down, closing it properly, then continued to her desk. She opened a small tin box full of index cards, flipping through it until her fingers stopped and drew one card from the stack.

Cefn Coed
Hospital

Cockett

Swansea, SA2

‘Children love receiving post, don't they? It's only when we're adults that we fear the day the letters stop.' She stared at the card, rubbing her finger along its edge.

‘And what day did your letters stop?'

Mrs Pollard thrust the card forward. ‘Write to her all you like, Miss Haverford. But do remember there is a paper shortage.'

Back in the kitchen, Mrs Pollard finished preparing Mr Brownawell's breakfast tray, and left Eliza alone. It took Mr Brownawell approximately thirty to forty-five minutes to finish breakfast, depending on his mood, which gave Eliza plenty of time. When she was certain Mrs Pollard had left the east wing, Eliza hurried into the hall and tried the door to Mrs Pollard's room. It was locked. She peeked through the keyhole, though she could see little. There was, however, a window.

Eliza returned to the kitchen, slipped on the oversize raincoat and wellies Mrs Pollard left by the door, and waded through the mud to the window. The rain made the sash slick and Eliza's fingers kept slipping as she struggled to get a good hold. Once she managed to draw up the window, she crawled through the opening then sat on the sill, removing the wellies and setting them outside. If Mrs Pollard noticed tracks of mud across her room, Eliza would have more to worry about than wet stockings. She felt no shame as her feet slipped quietly to the floor. Mrs Pollard had stolen her privacy; Eliza was only returning the favour.

The room was the same length as Eliza's but about a foot or so wider. The bed was small with a wooden frame, plain headboard and brown top sheet. The single nightstand had no drawer and held only an alarm clock, oil lamp and two books. Out of habit, Eliza examined the titles. One was a book on archaeology. The other's name had faded from the spine. Eliza opened the cover page, but the title had been scratched out.
Useless
was scribbled underneath the censored title. At the bottom, in a different hand, someone had written
Property of Thornecroft Reading Room
. Footsteps sounded above her. Eliza returned the books and continued searching. The floor underneath the bed was empty and spotlessly clean. Nothing hung on the bare and yellowed walls. The electric lamp awkwardly installed in the ceiling was the only item gathering dust. The final piece of furniture was an immense Victorian wardrobe too big for the small room.

That's where
you are
, she thought, approaching it with caution. There was a noise from the hall. Eliza paused, her mind racing through acceptable excuses should Mrs Pollard find her. There were none. She listened, but heard nothing more. Nothing but an old house sinking into its pains.

Eliza opened the wardrobe doors one at a time. All of Mrs Pollard's black and brown dresses were neatly hung, her shoes aligned in a strict row. She flipped through the clothes.

‘You must have something,' she whispered.

On the floor sat a sewing box. Eliza unlatched the lid and sorted through the items. Needles, thread, scraps of fabric in assorted colours. At the bottom was a small brown bottle, similar to the one Mrs Pollard kept on her person. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed – the same strong smell as the syrup given to Rebecca. Eliza returned the bottle and sewing box then searched the top shelf where the undergarments and night things were stacked and folded. Though she wanted to search behind them, she was too short to reach all the way back. Instead, she ran her hand along the front of the shelf.

‘You must have been a person once.'

Her fingers fell on a key.

She turned it over in her hand, trying to determine to what it belonged. There was a keyhole on the wardrobe, but the one she held was much too large. Eliza searched the room again but found nothing else that would require unlocking. Of course Mrs Pollard would have nothing here. She probably knew Eliza would sneak in as soon as she had the chance.

Eliza was closing the wardrobe when something caught her eye – a slip of paper stuck inside the frame near the bottom. She tugged it free.

It was a photograph of a young girl, aged six or seven, with familiar dark eyes and distinctive sharp cheekbones, holding the hand of a beautiful Indian woman. Eliza ran her fingers over the dust coating it and turned it over. The words ‘Georgina and nanny' were written on the back of the photograph. This nanny, she must have been important to the family if they chose to photograph her, she thought. Eliza stuffed the photo and key into her pocket.

There was only one other place Mrs Pollard kept any of her belongings. Eliza climbed back out of the window, her stockings landing in the thick mud. The wellies were filled with water and her feet were soaked through as she sloshed into the kitchen. She returned the coat to the hook and went quickly to change her stockings before returning to the quiet kitchen. Still no sign of Mrs Pollard. Eliza snuck into the office. A multitude of locks adorned Mrs Pollard's desk, but the key belonged to none. As she stepped back, her foot bumped against the iron ring of the trapdoor.

Eliza had been everywhere on the ground floor of Thornecroft. Everywhere except that cellar. She hadn't been in any cellar since Father's death. Since she ran with Rebecca's hand in hers. He wouldn't be down there, of course he wouldn't. There would be no body, no marrow liqueur, no tapping of feet. Yet no matter how much she called herself a coward, she couldn't bring herself to reach for the handle.

A voice in the hall made the decision for her. Eliza hurried into the kitchen, pretending to clean up her uneaten breakfast. As footsteps approached, Eliza realised it was not one voice but two. Mrs Pollard and another woman. Her heart leapt for Rebecca but quickly extinguished its excitement. Rebecca was still a child.

The kitchen door swung open with a violent lurch.

‘Ah. There you are,' Mrs Pollard said. ‘Well, Miss Haverford, you'll be happy to hear your sister's absence will not lead to your solitude. Someone else is apparently eager for the job.'

She yanked Ruth into the room. Ruth refused to meet Eliza's eye.

‘I would give you time to get to know one another, but I have it on good authority you already do. Miss Haverford, go see to the veranda. Mr Drewry says the doors are leaking again. Mrs Owen, you'll be so kind as to stay here with me.'

Eliza scurried out of the kitchen. Before she could take another glance at Ruth, Mrs Pollard slammed the door in her face.

*

She stood in the doorway, the mice scampering around her feet, drawing her deeper into the room.

You know what you must do
, said Rebecca.

It's
him keeping us here, not her
, Pip added, her smile obscured by the blood trickling down from her nose.

It
's him
, Rebecca agreed.

It's him
, Pip said.

It
's him . . . It's him . . . It's him
, they repeated back and forth, speaking in time to their feet moving through the empty air as their bodies swung from the meat hooks in the larder. Eliza wanted to leave, but the door had vanished, a grey brick wall in its place. She ran her hands over it, unable to find an escape.

It's him . . . It's him . . . It'
s him . . .
A high voice followed by a low.

There must have been a way out because more mice had found their way in, and they were crawling up Rebecca and Pip's legs to their faces, where the first few had begun to nibble at the soft whites of their eyes.

Eliza shot up in bed, gasping. Breath came to her in shallow gulps, the lack of air keeping her from screaming. When she first heard the gentle tapping at her door, she shrunk in the bed, fearful of the mice, but then she heard the voice.

‘Eliza, are you awake?'

She recognised immediately the soft, Irish accent and hurried to open the door.

‘Ruth!' She spoke louder than intended. Ruth pressed a finger to her lips and nodded to Mrs Pollard's door. With a single candle to light their way, Eliza and Ruth crept down the hall to the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind them.

Though the nightmare still clung to her, the images of Rebecca and Pip's bodies visible every time she blinked, she felt minor relief in Ruth's presence.

‘I've wanted to speak with you all day,' Eliza panted, still recovering her breath.

‘I don't think Pollard wants us alone together at all,' Ruth said.

The house creaked. A footstep? Eliza couldn't tell. Ruth took her hand and led her deeper into the kitchen, and into the larder. Eliza wanted to protest but couldn't find her voice. Instead, her body trembled. She pretended it was from the cold, and avoided glancing at the wall where the too-familiar meat hooks were embedded.

‘We must be quick,' Ruth said, closing the door behind them. ‘If she finds us, she'll do worse than snatch me from my home.'

‘Is that what she did?'

‘She somehow got word that I tried to help you leave. Berwin, I suppose. Yesterday, everyone in the village whom I sewed for, they all said they no longer had need of my services. The money I'd saved . . .' Anger brought her pause. ‘It's all gone missing. And who should turn up at my door? Mrs Pollard. She practically kidnapped me and brought me here.'

‘You couldn't have run? Your friend in Abergwili . . .'

‘Aye, but . . .' Her anger left her with a sigh. ‘When I saw her at my door . . . I heard Rebecca was gone, I felt responsible for not doing more to help you both.'

With those words, Eliza turned away. Though her eyes remained averted from the walls, the smell of raw meat began to sting her nose.

‘We're not your responsibility,' she said. Outside, heavy rain pounded on the manor, muffling all other sounds.

‘You are now. And if I'm stuck here, too, I might as well be useful to you.' Within the rain, they thought they heard another sound. Another footstep? A cough? Ruth spoke with more urgency. ‘Word is Rebecca fell ill like Pip. What were her symptoms?'

The smell of the meat continued to assault her. Eliza could almost feel the fresh blood upon her. She absentmindedly began rubbing her hands together.

‘I don't know. She was barely speaking to me these past few days.' Eliza remembered the hatred on Rebecca's face as she stamped her foot, crushing the tablets.

‘Since she beat Kasey.'

‘How did you . . . ?'

‘Was she prone to violent outbursts?'

‘No. I don't know. Did you ask Pip all those questions?' Eliza turned away. She appreciated Ruth's desire to help, but not this interrogation. Rebecca's history was a family matter.

‘Aye. But she swore it were only the dust making her ill. The dust and . . .' She ran a hand across her face.

‘Victoria?'

Ruth ignored her question. ‘What did Mrs Pollard say happened?'

The smell was beginning to make her sick. Eliza tried to distract herself and toyed with a tin of tongue on the counter. ‘That Rebecca caught polio and had to be sent away for quarantine.'

‘Polio? But I thought . . . That could be the truth.'

‘You trust Mrs Pollard to say anything that's true? If she's right about Rebecca, why was she wrong about Pip?'

‘Keep your voice down. Of course I don't trust that woman. It's only . . .' Ruth sighed. ‘There has been a small outbreak of polio in the village. Some children have been sent to the big hospital in Swansea.'

‘When? When was this?'

‘Wednesday. By Friday, the sick children were being taken away. It is possible Rebecca . . .'

‘I was there on Friday. I saw no one there collecting children!'

‘Eliza, please.'

She had been shouting. They both fell silent and listened for any approaching footsteps. There was only the rain, but the smell was nearly unbearable now. Was the meat rotting?

Ruth reached for her hand, but Eliza pulled away. ‘Did Rebecca seem ill at all?'

‘No.' Eliza hesitated. ‘It was nothing.'

‘Tell me exactly. Fever? Chills? Any flu-like symptoms?'

‘It wasn't polio.' Her voice resembled Father's before an argument. The smell itched its way under her skin. She started scratching at her arms.