Spider Light (23 page)

‘It should be. But she won’t go inside.’

‘By the look of it, that’s just what she’s doing. We’ll have to go after her.’

‘Quietly, then. Don’t alarm her.’

Twygrist’s door was not locked after all. Maud pushed it open and was stepping into the yawning blackness as George and Cormac came up the grass-covered slope towards her. She turned, like a cornered animal, one hand going up, although whether in defence or to attack it was impossible to know.

Cormac reached her ahead of George. He took her arm and said, in a voice so gentle that for a moment George wondered who had spoken, ‘Maud–this is a bad old night to be out. Come on home with us now.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Maud sounded quite reasonable and sensible. ‘Don’t you hear it? The tapping on the walls? Listen.’ She clutched at Cormac’s arm, and for a dreadful moment George found himself thinking that there was a faint sound from somewhere inside Twygrist. As if something was tapping feebly against ancient bricks, trying to get out.

‘That’s what you’d do,’ said Maud. ‘You’d keep tapping on the walls until someone heard. Over and over. You’d wear away your flesh, wouldn’t you, but you wouldn’t care, because then you’d have your fingerbones, and bones make good hammers—’

‘Maud, no one has any need to tap on the walls.’

Maud stared at the two men, and then said in a voice that caused an icy hand to clutch at George’s vitals, ‘But if you had been buried alive…’

For a dreadful moment the darkness seemed to swoop down on them, and a brush of wind stirred the shadows around Twygrist. George saw Cormac glance up at the crouching outline of the mill, then he said, ‘Maud, my dear, no one’s buried alive.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Maud. ‘Oh yes, they’re buried alive. They’re both in there.’ For a moment her face–the features George had always thought so pretty–sharpened, and became sly and furtive, and a deep memory stirred in him. He thought: that is exactly how her mother used to look sometimes.

To quench this image, he said, ‘Maud, you’re not well. I’m taking you home.’

‘
No!
’ It came out on a scream, splintering the night, and when George tried to take her arm, she pushed him away. ‘I must stay here until the tapping stops,’ said Maud. ‘That’s why I came out here, you see. To make sure. Because how long would you take to die–do you know? Hours? Days? Down there in the dark, hammering at the walls to get out.’ She began to sob, and the sobs took on a shrillness, and then built up to dreadful piercing cries that splintered the night. Despite himself George glanced uneasily up and down the deserted road, because the hour was not so very late, and if anyone should come along…

It was Cormac who pulled out the silver flask, and said, in a sharp firm voice, ‘Maud, your father is right and you’re unwell. Drink this now for me–Oh yes, you will, there’s to be no argument about it. And then we’ll walk along to Toft House.’

That’ll never work, thought George, but incredibly, it did. Maud drew in a deep shuddering breath. She stopped crying, and looked at Sullivan for a moment, then took the flask and tilted it to her lips. She gasped as the spirit–George supposed it was brandy–went down, but after a moment it seemed to kick her back to some form of sanity.

The fit, whatever it was, seemed to have passed. When they took her arms again, she walked between them with a docility that upset George far more than anything else that had happened tonight. To see his dearest Maud in this condition–crying and screaming, talking about macabre things–it was more than he could bear. It was more than any man should be expected to bear. And to think she had run here, to the very place where her mother…

But if he allowed himself to think about Maud’s mother, George knew he would break down altogether. He turned his whole attention to the task of getting Maud back to Toft House.

If it had been an odd experience to steal along the dark lanes in company with Cormac Sullivan, it was even odder to sit with him in Toft House’s drawing room.

Maud had been safely tucked into bed–George had roused Mrs Plumtree, telling her that Maud had succumbed to a sudden fever, and so in Miss Thomasina’s absence they had brought her home. Mrs Plumtree had administered a tiny measure of laudanum, and that, probably along with the contents of Cormac Sullivan’s flask, had sent Maud into a sound sleep. She’s all right, thought George determinedly. A nerve storm, that’s all it was.

He poured whisky into two glasses, handed one to Sullivan, and thanked him for what he had done. A great help. He did not know how he would have coped on his own.

‘Oh, daughters are the very devil,’ said Cormac. He was seated near the fireplace and he looked entirely at his ease, which was vaguely irritating of him. A man of Sullivan’s morals and reputation ought not to be so at ease in a house of this kind.

He frowned, and said, ‘Here’s the thing, Lincoln. We need to take a look inside the mill.’

‘Why?’ said George at once. The word came out sharply, but beneath it he was aware of a churning panic.

‘Because Thomasina and Simon Forrester are both absent without explanation,’ said Cormac. ‘And because Maud was talking about somebody–and it sounded like more than one somebody–being buried alive inside Twygrist.’

As George started to make a protest, Sullivan said, half to himself, ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it, that however much you think you’re modern and without superstition, the primeval fears still grab you by the throat. Buried alive, that’s what she kept saying. Down there in the dark, hammering on the walls to get out–Jesus God, I hope we’re wrong about this, but we need to make sure, and we need to make sure tonight. If you’re not up to it, Lincoln, say so, and I’ll haul out Daniel Glass to come with me.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said George.

‘We’ll cut across the field,’ said Cormac, when they reached Scraptoft Lane. ‘It’ll bring us out just below the reservoir and
that’ll save time. It’s a short cut I often use,’ he said offhandedly, and George glanced at him, and thought: I bet you do!

The underground rooms of Twygrist were dismal and dank and it was necessary to walk cautiously to avoid tripping over bits of broken or discarded machinery littering the floor. The oil lamp George had brought created grotesque shadows on the walls, and there was a faint drip of water from somewhere. Twygrist was probably leaking like a sieve; George had known that for years, though. It was one of the reasons the place had been closed down. As for the other reason–his mind shuddered away from that, and he concentrated on what they must now do.

Here was the kiln room, with the massive old doors firmly closed. George said, ‘You know, I really don’t think we need look in there.’

‘I think we do,’ said Cormac. ‘And we’ll get to it at once.’ He grasped the edge of the left-hand door as he spoke. It moved reluctantly, and its hinges shrieked painfully in the enclosed space, but it slid slowly open.

‘God Almighty, it’s like the gates guarding the entrance to hell,’ said Cormac ‘But I think we’ve got it now. Give me something to wedge it in place, would you? That’s better. Now hold up the lamp.’

As the light fell across the floor, Cormac swore softly and George felt as if he had been punched in the ribs.

Thomasina Forrester was huddled against the brick chimney at the far end of the room where once the fires had burned. Her face was turned towards them; it was hideously distorted and covered in livid crimson blotches–for a moment George was not even sure it was Thomasina. Her tongue, black and swollen, stuck out of her mouth. A few feet away, as if he had tried to crawl to the door, was her cousin Simon, his face, mercifully, turned away from them.

‘Jesus God,’ said Cormac softly, ‘that would be a terrible way to die. Down here in the dark, all alone.’ He bent over the dreadful thing that had been Simon Forrester, and then moved to
Thomasina, in case, George supposed, there might be a faint flicker of life left in either of them.

After a moment he straightened up. ‘They’re both dead. God knows how they became trapped down here, but it looks as if they tried to find the door to get out. It’d be pitch dark though, so they’d have no way of knowing where they were. Would they have suffocated, do you suppose?’

‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. There ought to be some air down here–the drying floor’s directly above.’

‘I suppose they died from shock and exhaustion,’ said Cormac. ‘Daniel Glass will be able to tell us.’

George said, ‘Thomasina must have thought she had reached the door, but it was the wrong door. It was the ovens.’ He held the lamp up again, and they both saw the long scratches on the oven surface.

‘You’re right,’ said Cormac. ‘Look at her hands. The fingernails are all broken and bloodied. Lincoln, if you’re going to be sick, go and do it somewhere else, because we don’t want any more mess on the floor than we can help.’

For the second time that night, George and Cormac Sullivan sat together in the drawing room of Toft House.

George was still reeling from what they had found, and even Sullivan–who must presumably have seen a few strange things in his time–looked stunned. He had offered George his flask down there in Twygrist’s darkness–it was brandy and George was grateful for it–but it was not until they were back at Toft House that Cormac spoke again.

‘Lincoln, did Maud kill Thomasina and Simon Forrester?’

George said, as sharply as he could, ‘No, of course not.’

‘You do know it’s a question that will be asked, though?’

‘Will it? Why would anyone think Maud would do such a thing? A young girl–she’s barely eighteen.’

‘George, did it never occur to you to wonder why Thomasina Forrester invited Maud to Quire in the first place?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘Miss Thomasina has always been very kind to the young ladies of the neighbourhood. Interested in them. I was pleased for Maud.’

‘Jesus God,’ said Cormac, making it sound like an invocation. ‘All right then, we’ll look at it in a different way. Why did Maud go out to Twygrist tonight? She knew they were in there, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, but—Does it have to become common knowledge?’

‘Minching up at Quire knows at least half of it,’ said Cormac. ‘If you think she won’t gossip about it, you don’t know much about women. The story–or a version of it–will be halfway round Cheshire before the week’s out.’

‘Yes,’ said George slowly. ‘Yes, I see that.’ He looked at the other man. ‘What do I do?’

‘To protect Maud from a police investigation? From a court hearing? Perhaps from a verdict of guilty, and a prison sentence or worse? For if they decide it was a double murder…I’m sorry to sound brutal,’ said Cormac, ‘but I think you have to face up to this.’ He frowned, and then said, ‘I know what I’d do. If it was Bryony, I wouldn’t care a farthing’s curse for the law. I’d get her out of Amberwood faster than a saint getting out of hell–probably back to Ireland.’

‘Yes,’ said George slowly. ‘Yes, I see that. If there were somewhere Maud could go. Just for a while.’ He stopped, and then said, ‘Somewhere that would put her beyond the reach of the law.’

The two men stared at one another. Neither of them spoke, but a single word lay on the air between them.

Latchkill.
Latchkill
…

After Cormac had gone, George passed a sleepless night.

Stamped on his mind was the image of Maud’s face with the dreadful slyness coming down over it like a veil, and echoing in his ears were the words she had used, ‘They’re buried alive in there…’ That was what she had said, and that had been when he had known, quite certainly, that Maud had deliberately shut Thomasina and Simon Forrester in Twygrist’s kiln room. Had she intended to leave them there until they were dead? George did not know, and he did not want to know.

He had only the smallest knowledge of how the police worked, but he could not risk the truth getting out. If it became known what Maud had done–how oddly she had behaved, how she had gone out to Twygrist–she would be questioned. Somebody would be bound to tell the police the horrid gossip about Thomasina, and the result would be that Maud would be charged with murder. She would have to stand up in a courtroom and answer prying questions and cope with avid stares, and at the end of it, she might be found guilty, and hanged in the early morning, her body buried in some shameful squalid prison yard…And if that happened, George would have nothing left to live for.

Even if Maud were cleared of the charge, she would never be
free of it, even if they left Amberwood. There would be newspaper reports–perhaps with reproductions of the sketches made in court–and people would remember. Maud Lincoln? they would say. Oh yes, that’s the woman who was tried for the double murder. The Forrester case, wasn’t it? Two women together–oh yes,
I
see…The jury brought in a verdict of innocent, but you know the old saying about no smoke without fire…And the speculation and sniggers would follow Maud for the rest of her life.

Anything was better than that. Even Latchkill? said his mind.
Yes
.

It had been very late indeed when Cormac Sullivan had finally left, but before going, he had said, ‘Lincoln, I’m an unconventional man and I believe in unconventional solutions, but I think what you have in mind is wrong. Listen now, we could get Maud over to Ireland quite easily. A ferry from Liverpool to Dún Laoghaire, and a journey across to the west coast. I have a house there, although it’s tumbling into the Atlantic ocean with neglect…’ He paused, and George glanced at him because for the first time he had heard a note of wistfulness in Sullivan’s flippant tones.

A bit awkwardly, he said, ‘Thank you, Sullivan. But I think my way is best.’ Because she’s mad, she’s as mad as her poor mother was, and this is the only way she’s going to be safe from the consequences of what she’s done.

‘Ah well, the offer’s there,’ said Sullivan. ‘And we’ll hope you’ve saved her from a–a bad future.’

‘Yes. And I’ll never forget how you helped tonight—’

‘I’m a helpful sort of a man,’ said Cormac offhandedly. ‘But I’m not a man given to talking about what goes on in Amberwood, so you needn’t be afraid of that. You won’t be wanting to let them know Maud’s real identity in Latchkill?’

‘No.’

‘Then how would it be if I deliver a note to Matron Prout some time tomorrow, asking her to call on you to discuss a–a private matter? I can do so without anyone seeing me, I believe. That would keep it fairly anonymous for you.’

‘I’d be very grateful if you’d do that,’ said George.

‘You’d need to keep Maud from talking to Mrs Minching in the meantime.’

I’ll need to stop her trying to get out as well, thought George, but did not say it.

‘Could you give her a drop of laudanum? For God’s sake don’t overdo it though. Laudanum goes a devil of a long way.’

George belatedly remembered that Sullivan’s daughter was a nurse in Latchkill.

‘There’s no need for Bryony to know any of this,’ said Cormac, apparently following George’s thoughts. ‘In fact I’d rather she didn’t know–that’ll mean that if she’s asked questions, she won’t need to lie. In any case, she’s mostly on duty in the public wards–the pauper wards they call them.’ This was said with extreme distaste. ‘She’s not very likely to even know Maud’s there. But if she did find out, or if I had to tell her, she wouldn’t spread any gossip, you can trust me on that. There’s your housekeeper, though. And Minching.’

But George had already worked this out. He would tell people that Maud had gone to stay with relatives of his wife for a few weeks. Mrs Minching might think Maud’s behaviour tonight rather odd, but she had not known about the Twygrist visit, and there was no reason why she should. There was no reason why anyone should know. As for Mrs Plumtree, she was a loyal soul who had served his wife’s family for years. She could be told a version of the truth–that Maud was displaying symptoms worryingly like those of her mother, and that George had arranged for a short rest in a place with proper medical care. Somewhere on the coast, he might say. Bracing sea air. That would be perfectly believable, and it would mean that Latchkill need not be mentioned at all.

‘Good. That keeps it simple,’ said Cormac, when George explained this. ‘We’ll have to report finding the bodies, of course, but we can do that tomorrow, and there’s no need for either of us to mention Maud’s part in it. We’ll say we went searching for
Thomasina. You were concerned, what with your daughter staying at Quire. And it’d be natural for you to think of looking in Twygrist, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes. Until my wife died, Twygrist was my whole life,’ said George.

‘Good man.’ He dropped a light hand on George’s shoulder that might have been a gesture of friendship or commiseration, and went out into the night.

When it came to it, the thing that upset George most was the subterfuge he had to employ to keep Maud’s identity secret. It felt as if he was wiping away all traces of the child’s very existence. But the alternative was too dreadful to contemplate, and so before Matron Prout was due at Toft House he got Mrs Minching out of the way by asking her to deliver a wholly unnecessary message to the rectory about hymn books and then went round the house putting all the photographs of Maud out of sight. Forgive me Maud, but I can’t see any other solution.

Latchkill’s matron was not a complete stranger; at one time George’s wife had helped with some of Amberwood’s charity events, and Freda Prout had been one of the other helpers. George remembered her as a raw-boned lady with ungainly hands and feet. When she came to Toft House in response to his note, he saw his memory had been accurate. She sat in the warm, comfortable drawing-room and George tried not to think there was a calculating glint in her rather small eyes.

‘A very nice house, this,’ said Freda, looking about her. ‘Just as I remember it.’

George said he had not realized Mrs Prout had been to Toft House before. ‘Oh yes. On two occasions, both times to discuss the organisation of charity events with your wife and some other ladies.’

Her voice was rather ugly; there was a discordance to it. George wondered if he could really shut Maud away in that terrible place with this hard-faced woman and her unmusical voice? Maud, who so loved music…?

But he embarked determinedly on the little speech he had prepared for Mrs Prout. A young relative whom the family had reluctantly decided to commit to Latchkill for a time, he said. He hoped Matron could arranged that.

‘Dear me, how very distressing for you.’

George said it was very distressing indeed. ‘I’m afraid she is sadly disturbed, but we believe it to be purely temporary. I daresay you’ll know how–how changeable young girls can be. Very excitable one moment, and deeply melancholic the next.’

‘Indeed yes. And so often a young man is the cause of it.’

George wished it was as simple as that but did not say so. ‘We thought–one of your private rooms. Just a few weeks. But proper medical supervision–sympathetic treatment–perhaps mild sedation…’ Dammit, what were the right expressions! He should have asked Sullivan. ‘And then after a little time she can return to her family,’ he said.

‘That may be possible, although I should have to see the young lady for myself.’

George had anticipated this. He said, ‘She’s in the large bedroom on the right of the landing upstairs.’

‘A private room, you said?’ asked Freda, back in the drawing room some little time later.

‘Yes.’ With the idea of establishing friendly relations, George suggested a glass of sherry might accompany their discussion. This was well received. Freda did not, it appeared, normally drink sherry–or any other alcoholic beverage–at this time of day, because of setting a good example to her nurses. But perhaps just this once.

‘My word, what very nice sherry. Cheer-ho. Well now, Mr Lincoln, I can arrange a room for the young lady, although there will be a charge, you understand.’

‘I had assumed that. I–the family–we are quite prepared to pay.’

Freda merely nodded, as if this was no more than she had
expected. She looked towards the desk in the window, where Louisa used to write her letters. George had hoped Maud might one day do the same, but she never had.

‘I see you no longer have the photograph of your daughter on the secretaire,’ said Freda, and George instantly felt as if something had smacked him across the eyes.

But he said, very firmly, ‘Mrs Prout, my daughter is away visiting relatives at the moment.’

‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Lincoln, but your daughter is the young lady I have just seen in the bedroom upstairs.’

The small mean eyes met his. A flat denial, thought George. That’s what I must do. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Matron.’

‘Oh no,’ said Freda. ‘Your wife showed us all the photograph the first time I was here. I remember it very clearly–a silver frame it was, and I thought at the time what a very pretty girl. You have put the photograph away since then.’ She studied George for a moment, and then said, ‘You mentioned a stay of a few weeks in Latchkill, Mr Lincoln. But matters are not always quite so straightforward. Latchkill is not an hotel for people to book in and out as the whim takes them. Or,’ she added, ‘as it takes their families. We have to comply with the requirements of the Lunacy Act.’

George, who had not expected this, asked for clarification.

‘For a patient to be admitted, a justice must first make an order for lunacy, which must be signed by two separate doctors–neither of whom must be related to the patient or have any financial interest in him or her.’ A pause. ‘However, something might be arranged.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Doctors–and the commissioners of the Lunacy Board–are sometimes open to persuasion, Mr Lincoln.’

‘Oh, I see.’ George thought he did see, and he did not much like it. It sounded a bit too glib. But another part of his mind felt grateful that there might be a way round the bewildering legal requirements. It can be done, he thought. I can put Maud
into Latchkill, and once people have forgotten what happened to Thomasina and Simon, Maud can come home to Toft House, and life can go on just as before.

‘But,’ said Freda, ‘I find it strange that you should wish to commit your only daughter to an asylum, Mr Lincoln. Especially when you must surely have enough money to care for her at home.’ Again there was the appraising look round the room. ‘Is it because you are ashamed? Or is there some other reason?’

There was a rather unpleasant silence, but at length George said, ‘Before she died, Maud’s mother was very disturbed. Maud is showing unmistakable signs of the same–disturbance. I want to keep it private.’ This came out firmly and clearly.

‘I daresay it’s her delusions you want to keep private,’ said Freda. ‘Quite remarkable some of them. You had administered something to her, I think–laudanum most probably–but she was sufficiently awake to talk while I was with her.’

George felt as if something had a stranglehold on his throat, but he said, cautiously, ‘Maud has a very dark imagination at times.’

‘Indeed? Well, people whose minds are flawed exhibit the most extraordinary behaviour. You wouldn’t believe the things some of my patients say. Confessions of all kinds of crimes. Even murder.’ The little eyes were unreadable. ‘For most of the time we keep an open mind, of course. And no one at Latchkill will hear if Miss–should we call her Miss Smith?–very well, no one will hear if Miss Smith talks about people being buried alive inside your mill. A curious coincidence, isn’t it, that poor Miss Forrester and her cousin have been found shut in the underground room there. I heard some of my nurses talking about it before I left Latchkill. Quite a stir it’s caused.’

George was not clear if the Prout woman thought Maud had killed Thomasina and Simon, or whether she thought Maud knew who had done it, or if she thought George himself was the killer. Whichever it was, he felt a sick panic in his vitals.

Freda was saying, ‘But you know, Mr Lincoln–or may I be a
little forward and call you George? You know, George, I’m sure we can some to some arrangement. And–oh yes, perhaps just a small drop more sherry. Thank you so much.’

‘Arrangement?’ said George.

‘I’m afraid it would mean extra work for my staff. And that would mean higher payments. Just to keep things in order. Not that there will be anything quesh–questesh–Pardon,
questionable
anywhere.’

A genteel blackmail, that was what this amounted to. George supposed he ought to have seen it coming. Was he prepared to submit to it? He remembered Maud’s happiness–possibly even her life–was at stake, and thought he was. And, said an unpleasant little voice inside his mind, your own happiness? Isn’t that at stake, as well? Isn’t your pleasant comfortable life at Toft House at stake, as well? Toft House and the Rosen money, that you worked so hard to get? He said, ‘I’m sure we can find an amicable agreement, Mrs Prout.’

‘Freda, please. After all, we are friends. And–oh no, I really mustn’t have any more sherry, my word, you’ll be getting me tiddly. Well, perhaps just half a glass.’

‘You do understand,’ said George, refilling her glass and wishing he could stir in poison, ‘you do understand, Freda, that everything I’m doing is entirely for Maud’s sake.’

‘Oh quite. Cheer-ho again, George.’

The news of Thomasina Forrester’s death, and that of her cousin Simon, rocked Amberwood’s little community to its roots.