Abigale Hall (28 page)

‘Cefn Coed?'

‘The hospital in Swansea. Where Mrs Pollard says she sent her.'

Ruth placed her hand on Eliza's arm. ‘No children with polio would be sent there. Cefn Coed is a mental hospital.'

A mental hospital. Rebecca's worst fear.

‘She gave me that address as a joke.' As if her family was a joke. Rebecca's condition, a joke. Their entire lives, a joke. She took a glass paperweight and threw it against the wall.

‘Why don't you lie down . . .'

‘Don't tell me what to do.'

‘You've had a shock, Eliza. If you don't allow your body to rest . . .'

‘Just because your father is a doctor doesn't mean you are.' Eliza paced. ‘Maybe Victoria doesn't have her. Not yet. Maybe that's what she's been trying to tell me. The handkerchief. Rebecca was locked in that room until someone moved her. And why would Mrs Pollard care so much about the mine collapse unless . . . Do you know what a
cware
is?'

‘
Cware
? It's Welsh. The Welsh word for quarry.'

‘When she heard about the collapse, Mrs Pollard was upset. Worried. I've never known that woman to be worried about anything.' Eliza pulled Ruth along.

‘And you think . . .'

‘I think that's where she's hidden Rebecca.'

*

The ground was bumpy and wet, making it difficult for Eliza to balance on the frame while Ruth pedalled. She would have preferred to walk, but Ruth's old bicycle was the fastest way. After nearly twenty minutes, they reached the top of a hill, where they dismounted.

‘There.' Ruth pointed to the west. The red pit head stood out from the green hills while smoke stacks puffed more grey into the air. The shouts of the men below echoed, bouncing off the landscape. A few old horse carts were parked haphazardly on the main gravel drive, but the view of the mine's entrance was blocked by a brick outbuilding where Thornecroft's familiar carriage waited. The mare stood patiently, oblivious to all the activity. Beside them, the gaping wound of the quarry rested. Without fog, Eliza could see the treeline on the opposite side, and the narrow shelf path that led to the unseen bottom.

‘Where is Mrs Pollard?' Eliza asked.

‘I can't see her.'

‘We must get closer.'

Ruth held her back. ‘We can't go down there.'

‘I'm not here to admire the view.' Eliza started down the hill. She heard Ruth following.

‘If the mine's shut, there's no getting any of the men out, let alone your sister. They could be trapped there for hours. Days, even, if they're alive at all.'

‘They'll get through eventually, and I'll be there when it happens. I'll be there for her.'

‘But she mightn't be there, Eliza.' Ruth ran in front of her. ‘Your sister could already be dead.'

The smell of coal dust grew stronger as they came closer to the mine. Eliza tasted it on her tongue. The shouts of the men were clearer, a mix of English and Welsh. An explosion shook the ground. Eliza struggled to stay on her feet as a great puff of black smoke flew into the air.

A brief cheer went up amongst the men, who began clearing more debris. Eliza continued to feel the vibrations as she and Ruth made their way to the outbuilding. The mare looked at them, disinterested, then lowered its head and returned to sleep. They hid around the corner of the outbuilding and tried to watch the rescue. More men were disappearing into the mine. No survivor had yet come out. Mr Drewry directed the proceedings, wearing the army trench coat Eliza had seen hanging in the carriage house.

Mrs Pollard stood beside him, eyes fixed on the men running back and forth. There was an uneasy calm about her. Whatever was being done at the mine entrance did not concern her. It was the movement of the men. She stood as if guarding something.

Eliza continued to watch, unnoticed amongst all the activity. One miner hurried from the wreckage carrying what appeared to be a bundle of fabric. Mrs Pollard stopped him. Eliza's mind transformed the bundle into a child. She could see its lifeless arms and legs, a shock of curly blonde hair. Maybe Ruth was right. Maybe Rebecca . . .

Mrs Pollard grabbed the bundle from the man. It was only a mass of canvas. It contained nothing. Mrs Pollard threw it aside then dusted off her hands.

‘Ruth!'

A large man, face black with dust, stood behind them with a pickaxe.

‘What're you doing here?' he asked Ruth, throwing Eliza a glance.

‘We heard about the collapse. Thought we could help.'

‘Nothing you can do here.'

‘Davey!' Another man whistled at them and the miner hurried off. ‘Best get yourselves home 'fore you get in the way,' he called over his shoulder. Eliza watched as he ran past Mrs Pollard. Mrs Pollard, who thought Eliza was still trapped in the cellar. Mrs Pollard, who stared directly at her.

Eliza saw the anger blooming on her face for only a moment before Ruth had her by the hand, pulling her up the hill. She wanted to look back, see if the housekeeper was following, if she had sent anyone after them, but as soon as she turned her head she stumbled. Her body hit the damp ground and began rolling down the hill. Ruth caught her and yanked her to her feet. They reached the bicycle, and Eliza was barely seated before Ruth was pedalling off.

She struggled to maintain her balance as Ruth sped away. She clung to the frame, but her arms were weak from the digging and threatened to lose their hold. She gritted her teeth and gripped tighter, using her pain as a focal point. They could do this. They could get away. They could.

All she noticed in the crossroads was the presence of something large. Then she was on the ground, tumbling towards a ravine.

Harsh winds blew in from the Bristol Channel, battering Peter as he walked down Stryd Fawr. Glass crunched beneath his feet. London had been hit badly by the Blitz, but Swansea was devastated. Building after building was completely razed. Others were mere shells – smoke-stained façades hollowed out by fire and bomb blasts. Their charred skeletons towered either side of him as he battled against the heavy incoming winds. When he reached Castle Street, there were no buildings at all, only piles of rubble, the ruined remains of homes and businesses. He caught the glowing eyes of stray dogs keeping warm in dens of crumbled brick and mortar, their faces hungry and pleading.

Peter had no room, no map and little money. Adelaide Street could be beside him or on the other side of the city. He opened the address book, but there was no new information to guide him. He passed the ruins of a castle that now matched the city it called home. Maybe no one would notice if he spent the night there. Castles were strong, defensible.

Just beyond stood one surviving building, the words
Castle Cinema
gleaming from the red brick. Peter sheltered in its doorway, though there was no escaping wind which seemed to blow in every direction. If only Eliza knew he was here. If only she could guide him the rest of the way.

Voices carried on the wind. A group of girls hurried past the closed cinema. Their smiles vanished as soon as he stopped them.

‘Excuse me, ladies, I don't mean to bother you, but I'm afraid I'm a bit lost.'

‘Long way from home, are you, English boy?' A girl in a peacock-blue coat stepped forward and took the book from his hand. Her boldness faded as she read the address. She shoved the book into his hands and stepped back into the safety of her companions.

‘Why would you want to go there?' she asked. Her friends whispered questions, and she responded in a low Welsh burr.

‘So you know it?' Peter asked. He couldn't hide his excitement. Eliza was getting closer with every passing second.

The girl on the right spoke. ‘Everyone knows T
Å·
Marwolaeth.'

Peacock Blue nudged her in the arm, urging her to remain silent.

‘I'm sorry. Tie––'

‘Looking for work or what?' Peacock Blue asked.

‘No. No, I'm looking for my girlfriend.'

The third, silent girl's face softened though the two others remained sceptical.

‘Likely story. Come on, girls.' They changed direction and started walking back the way they came. They couldn't leave him. Not now. Not when he was so close.

‘Wait, please! Her name's Eliza. Eliza Haverford. She and her little sister, Rebecca, they were sent here. I need to find them. Please.'

At the mention of a little sister, the quiet one detached herself from the group and came forward.

‘Anwen, wait,' her friends urged, but she ignored them. From her pocket she withdrew a small notebook and began scribbling in it.

‘Here,' she whispered, tearing out the page and pressing it into his hand. Directions.

‘Thank you,' Peter said. ‘Thank you. Wait. What does it mean? T
Å·
 . . .' He pointed to the words she wrote at the top.

‘Death House,' she said, and was gone. They were all gone.

Peter stood alone on the pavement, receiving no shelter from the brick cinema as the winds threatened to steal the paper from his grip.

Death House. Superstition, he told himself. All the people out here were superstitious. The name had to do with the war. Perhaps the place was used to house those wounded in the Blitz, many of whom later died. They probably thought the place was haunted.

The heavy rain fell straight down despite the wind, but he had no umbrella or even change of clothes. If he were home now, he'd be settling down for dinner inside his warm, dry house, eating hot food and drinking hot tea. He could almost hear the whine of the wireless, the crackle of a fire, could smell the scent of a freshly cooked meal.

He passed another gutted building, its façade completely torn away and only some of the inner dividing walls standing, like a mews for giants' horses.

Beside it was T
Å·
Marwolaeth. It was three storeys tall and all the windows were boarded up, like a body with its eyes glued shut by the undertaker, a body void of life. It reached out to Peter and, like a vacuum, drew him close while stealing what little feeling he had left.

The door stuck but eventually yielded. The house wanted him, Peter knew. It would not bar him entry for long.

Inside it was silent except for the rain outside and, although it was dry, it was cold. His damp clothes clung to his skin, and he shivered as he inched his way into the foyer. The girl called this Death House, and there was a smell about the place, a kind of musty coldness he remembered from his grandfather's wake. Peter breathed deeply though it felt as if he weren't breathing at all. He could feel the air, yet couldn't, as if his body were a ghost. There was only one certainty – Eliza was not here.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the walls and doorways, the stairway before him, but there was no furniture, not so much as a coat stand. This house was empty. Eliza had never come to work here.

Peter fell forward into the banister and lowered himself onto a step. It was lost. She was lost. There was nothing he could do for her, no way he could find her. And what would he do? Return to London, where thugs wanted to kill him? To parents who were ashamed of him? He had forfeited his apprenticeship by coming here. The firm would find another man to replace him, a trustworthy man, a reliable man. He had nothing. He should have left it alone.

Peter's fear and exhaustion began to morph into anger. Anger towards Bess, towards Eliza, towards the men who tricked him into coming out here. He wanted to find them, every last one of them, and make them suffer the way he had suffered. He gripped the banister and pulled himself to his feet. No longer did he feel cold or tired or hungry. There was only anger. That was his fuel now.

He climbed the stairs. He would search this house top to bottom for clues, for anything he could use. He would interrogate every person in Swansea until he found Pollard, track down those Welsh girls, make them tell him everything they knew. They must have known more. Why else would they have run away so quickly? He should have made them wait. Peter stumbled, banging into corners, tripping on loose floorboards. His cigarette lighter was too weak to burn a hole in the darkness.

Somewhere on the first storey, where the damp wallpaper peeled and cockroaches skittered home across the floor as the rain continued its heavy assault outside, Peter's legs could no longer hold him. He was close. He could feel her near, but the anger had burnt out. He was empty, hollow. He crawled into a corner of the room, rested his head against the wall and allowed the house to envelop him.

She was lost inside their house in London. Except it wasn't their house. Everything was familiar but wrong. Doors in the wrong place. Rooms on the wrong floor. This was Aunt Bess's bedroom. There was a woman there. A body. Pip Vlasto's, and her eyes were missing. Eliza ran. Every hall had the same paper, the same carpet. Candles lit the way through Thornecroft, and if she reached Abigale Hall, she would be safe, but there was nothing save long, empty corridors.

You know what you must
do
, Victoria whispered.

The large, carved doors appeared before her. She could get closer now. She could see what was wrong. The wooden figures moved, acting out their idyllic scenes. A cough like a monster's scream shook the doors and the figures writhed in pain.

You know what you
must do
, Rebecca said. Eliza looked but did not see her. The doors were open. She had opened them, cut them in half with the knife in her hand, and they bled. When she screamed, her voice made no sound. She could hear Rebecca counting, but her voice was distant.

‘Hush. It's alright.'

Eliza opened her eyes to a dark room. A candle flickered on the nightstand beside her. She was in a bed, dressed in clothes that weren't hers.

‘It's fine. You're safe.' Ruth sat beside her, holding a lamp and a tray of food. ‘A lorry knocked us down. You've a few bumps and bruises but nothing serious.'

The room was warm, but there was a chill Eliza couldn't account for. It seemed to come from within her. She wrapped her arms tight around her torso.

‘How long have I . . . ?'

‘A few hours. Past dinnertime, but I thought you might be hungry.' She handed Eliza the tray.

‘The mine?'

‘What I've heard, all the men are out. At least the ones they could find.'

‘Rebecca?'

‘No one saw a little girl.'

Eliza had no appetite. She pushed the bread around her plate.

‘Eliza, you must leave Plentynunig. Mrs Pollard has it in for you. It's not safe for you here.'

‘I understand,' she said. It was the truth, but sense had no meaning for her now. Sense could not erase the duty she had to her family.

‘Good.' Ruth smiled. ‘Now rest. You need to get your strength back.'

Eliza forced the food down her throat then fell into a fitful sleep. Though she should have felt safe in Ruth's house, she could not rest. A million different thoughts crawled around inside her, trying to catch her attention, but she could never focus on one. There was not a part of her that did not ache. She was itchy and feverish, her clothes scratching against her skin. The bed sheets became too warm. She kicked them off, nearly knocking over the candle. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard her sister crying, saw the knife in her hands.

‘Rebecca,' she whispered to the dark. ‘Rebecca, I'm sorry. I'm coming.' The dark never replied.

You know what
you must do.

Though she never felt herself fall asleep, when she next opened her eyes, the candle had gone out. Eliza swung her feet off the bed. The cotton nightgown she wore was damp from sweat and stuck to her skin. On a chair by the door she found a pile of clean, folded clothes – dungarees and a work shirt. Ruth's old Land Girl uniform. She dressed, the clothes baggy on her smaller frame, and tied back her hair in a headscarf. Her shoes were beneath the chair and she laced them up quickly. She knew what Victoria was telling her to do, yet she could not do it. Rebecca could, but Rebecca would not return until it was done.

As Eliza made her way down the narrow attic staircase, voices drifted up from below. A man and a woman. The woman was Ruth, and the man she assumed was Berwin. Yet, as she reached the first floor, the man's voice became clearer. It was much too young to be the drunk.

Their voices remained hushed as Eliza crept down the staircase to the ground floor. Ruth and the man were in the kitchen. Eliza remained quiet, as if Victoria were standing beside her pressing a finger to her lips, and placed her ear to the closed kitchen door. She could only make out a few words.

Time. Girl. Swansea. Wait.

The man's voice was familiar. She knew it but couldn't place it, though it made her heart quicken in fear. So familiar. Something nudged her leg. Kasey stood beside her, wagging his tail. Eliza pushed open the door.

Ruth and Mr Drewry were held in each other's embrace, kissing. The kitchen door bounced off the wall, and they broke apart.

‘You lied to me,' Eliza whispered, unable to move. ‘I should have known. How you got those notes to the house. Why Mrs Pollard hired you. It was to keep an eye on me, wasn't it?'

Ruth stood silent, unable to defend herself.

‘Belfast. The label on Mrs Pollard's trunk. Is that where she recruited you?'

‘Eliza, wait.'

‘Your name isn't in the book. Your name . . .'

Mr Drewry moved towards his rifle. Eliza ran. She heard them shouting after her, chasing her, Kasey barking, but she did not stop. She did not see where she was running to, but she did not stop.

Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed.

The word pulsed inside her head as her feet flew across the ground. She should have known better than to trust anyone. But she had been so desperate for someone to talk to, for someone to help her. It was so obvious now. Not knowing what happened to Pip, the children having polio – they were lies. All of them lies. And she had believed them. Despite everything, she had believed them. Gullible, weak, just like Father said.

Tears clouded her vision. She no longer heard them chasing, but she didn't turn to look. In the distance was a treeline and she ran for it. She was a few feet into the forest when the burning in her legs and lungs forced her to stop. She fell to her hands and knees and screamed. The sound tore out of her, deep and primal, ripping her throat to shreds. She didn't care. A little girl. That's all she was. A silly little girl, always believing everything she was told. The world laughed at her, spat at her, buried her under the weight of its lies, of the false belief that if she muddled through, made the best of everything, it would all turn out alright.

Tears kept rolling down her face, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. Let them fall on the ground and nurse the wicked soil, she thought. The world was wicked and cruel. Let it feed on her weakness and purge her hollow soul. Let her become as hard as the earth. Let her turn to stone. No, to coal. Turn her to coal and let her burn. Let her dust contaminate the earth, stain those who would harm her. This was what Rebecca understood. Why she treated the world the way she did. Rebecca understood how easily everything could turn against you but refused to let it get the better of her.

Eliza knew then her sister was alive. Rebecca would never stop fighting. She would do whatever she could to live. Rebecca was nothing like Father, Eliza saw that now. Rebecca would fight. Now was Eliza's chance to show Rebecca that she, too, was strong.

She let her tears dry, waited until the burning in her legs receded. Then she retied her headscarf, brushed the dirt from her hands and made her way back to Thornecroft.

*

The creatures of the night came alive around her as she waited in the woods at the edge of the little cemetery. Owls hooted. Foxes darted across the lawn. Shadows, which earlier seemed innocent, grew more sinister. She blended in with the darkness. Blackouts had once terrified her. Anything could have been lurking in Hungerford's darkened streets, so she would keep herself nestled snug by the Littletons' fire, sewing dollies from scrap and pretending the world beyond the blackout curtains was filled with light. She never saw London in blackout, but Aunt Bess told her how eerie it was, like an abandoned ancient city. One could never find one's way, she said, and if you were stuck in an unfamiliar place with no street signs to guide you, you had to wait until morning and hope you were still alive. The one good thing, she said, was that if it was a quiet and clear night, you could see the stars. They shone bright and clear and filled the sky, allowed you a moment of beauty in an otherwise ugly time.

There were no stars now. The clouds were a curtain pulled across the sky. She debated how long it would be until she could be sure Mrs Pollard was asleep. The answer in her heart was never. She pictured the woman coiled like a snake, ready to pierce her venomous fangs into the most unsuspecting victims.

Movement in the garden refocused her attention. Eliza thought it was Victoria, but the figure moved with too much purpose. Mrs Pollard walked out the back gate and into the dark carriage house. Mr Drewry had not been home all night. He and Ruth were probably out hunting her, tracking her across the countryside.

Mrs Pollard emerged riding the grey mare faster than Eliza had ever seen it move. So captivated was she by its speed, it took her a moment to realise it was headed in her direction. Eliza ducked behind the nearest tree and crouched low. She heard the hooves pounding on the ground, the heavy snorting breaths of the overworked animal. Closer and closer it came, nearly on top of her. She thought of Ichabod Crane hiding from his Headless Horseman, and hoped hers would be a dissimilar fate.

The sounds of horse and rider veered away. Eliza peeked round the tree and caught a glimpse of the mare's backside before it was swallowed by the dark. She could hear its galloping grow fainter and was tempted to follow. Perhaps Ruth and Mr Drewry had contacted Mrs Pollard, told her Eliza was gone. How furious she would be at them.

Eliza needn't worry now whether the housekeeper had gone to bed. She emerged from the woods and ran down to the house. The kitchen door was locked. She grabbed the rock they used for a doorstop, feeling the smooth spots where the rabbit's blood still stained, and tapped it against the handle. It remained intact. Forgoing silence, she slammed the rock again and again, until the old handle broke off and fell to the ground.

She moved through the familiar kitchen with ease, grabbing the Tilley lamp off the wall and the matches kept nearby. After lighting the lamp, she chose the largest knife from the block and headed into the hall. Her bedroom door was open. Though the furniture remained, the room had been emptied. All her things were gone, the bed sheets changed, ready for a new occupant. Eliza thought of the address book and wondered who the next girl was to be.

Sickened, she continued through the house, pausing only in Abigale Hall. This had always been her favourite place, the only spot that felt untouched by the evil eroding the rest of the manor. She never saw Mr Brownawell here and Mrs Pollard chose to pass through quickly, as if they could not bear the comfort of the place, its carved-flower wainscoting and delicate dome the antithesis of the rest of Thornecroft's heavy brutality. It was as if Victoria's spirit had taken solace here, imbuing the hall with the same strength that drove the girl's ghost. While the halls of Thornecroft threatened to destroy, twisting around Abigale Hall like choking bindweed, the hall maintained its strength, a strength Eliza now let fill her as she climbed the north hall staircase.

The shadows of the carvings ran down the grand double doors. The figures remained still as Eliza put her hand on the polished brass handle and pushed. The door stuck, then gave way.

The room was deep and dark, with towering ceilings and oversized furniture. Everything seemed designed to dwarf the occupant. Eliza refused to feel small. At the far end of the cavernous bedroom was an immense four-poster bed, the kind Eliza saw in books on French royalty. Heavy curtains were drawn all the way around. She approached, afraid the creaking floorboards would give her away. She reminded herself that he was a crippled old man. He could do nothing to harm her. She came round the side of the bed, gripped the curtain firmly and yanked it aside.

The bed was empty. The sheets were neatly made, tucked into the mattress with precision. The pillows were smooth, perched and waiting. Eliza touched the bed. It was cold. When she drew back her hand, it was covered in a fine dust. She looked closer at the bed and realised the pillows and top sheet, too, were dusty.

A cough echoed from next door. Eliza took one last glance at the bed then hurried after the sound. On the far side of the room was another door. This one was plain, with scuff and scratch marks around the bottom. A low groan sounded from behind. She turned the knob.

It was a windowless cupboard with only three pieces of furniture – a bedside table, the antiquated wheelchair and the simple single bed in which Mr Brownawell coughed and writhed. The room was freezing, but he had only worn flannel pyjamas and a thin blue sheet. The pillows beneath his head were flat and uncovered. He coughed into a handkerchief already coated with globs of spit then weakly dropped his head.

Eliza pushed the wheelchair aside and held the lamp over his head, staring at his gaunt face and liver-spotted skin. He coughed again, and she stepped back to avoid getting sprayed by spittle. She didn't know how long Mrs Pollard would be gone but was starting to feel as if she'd been here too long already. She knew what she must do.

‘Wake up,' she said.

Mr Brownawell did not move.

‘I said wake up.' Eliza kicked the bed. He startled awake. Disorientated, he cowered at Eliza then seemed to recognise her.

‘This is the only way, isn't it? The only way to break the curse.'

Mr Brownawell wheezed.

‘I once told Rebecca that I couldn't hate anyone, but I was wrong. I didn't know men like you existed.'

He reached for the call bell that rested on his nightstand. Eliza grabbed it.

‘Mrs Pollard isn't here.' She dropped it to the floor. ‘Whatever deal she made with your ghost is at an end. The girls – they'll all of them be returned.' She positioned the knife above her head.

With great effort, Mr Brownawell spoke: ‘Victoria.'

‘I am not Victoria! Your Victoria is dead.'

He took a deep breath. ‘No. I . . . know.' He pointed a crippled hand at the nightstand. ‘Drawer,' he rasped. ‘Please.'