The Poisoned House (3 page)

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Chapter 5

Mrs Cotton told us to have a bedroom made up for Samuel’s return, but not his former chamber on the first floor.

‘In the library, if you please,’ she said.

Lizzy and I shared a look. Did this mean he didn’t even have the strength to climb the stairs?

Men were brought in to help dismantle the bed and bring the pieces down under Mr Lock’s supervision. Attending to His Lordship’s strange and infrequent whims was hardly tiring and for months the butler had wandered aimlessly from room to room, searching for a purpose to fill his day. Now he seemed to have it.

Lizzy and I carried down the clothes and bedlinen and made sure the room was comfortable. The library was seldom used anyhow, and Mrs Cotton demanded we give it a thorough cleaning to make it habitable for a convalescent. As a girl I had been allowed to take books from the shelves on occasion, and as a consequence, while neither Rob nor Lizzy knew their letters, I could read and my handwriting was passable. Not that I had much opportunity to put it to use.

The bed was placed opposite the bay window that looked out into the garden, far from any draughts which might slow Samuel’s recovery. A tin bath was brought down from his room too, and scrubbed clean. At least we wouldn’t have to carry the water up more than a single flight of stairs.

Over the course of the morning, running to and fro, Lizzy must have heard from Rob or Cook about the events of the night before, because as we were laying linen on the reassembled bed, she put a hand on my arm and kissed the top of my head.

‘You could have come to me,’ she said. ‘We might have talked.’

It was hard to meet her eyes, so full of generosity that I hardly deserved. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘It sounds like you thought it through clearly enough,’ said Lizzy. ‘But what would you have done? Where would you have slept? It’s the middle of winter, Abi!’

I knew she spoke only out of kindness, but her words made me realise just how foolish I’d been. In all likelihood, I would have frozen to death by the morning.

‘I –’

‘Abigail,’ said Mrs Cotton briskly, ‘carry the tea leaves and polishes upstairs – you can help me with the empty rooms today.’

We both turned at once to see the housekeeper standing just inside the door, her bone-white hands clasped over her apron. I hadn’t even heard her arrive, and wondered if she had overheard our talk. She moved like that sometimes, slipping silently between the rooms like a draught of malice.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied.

As I gathered the things we’d need from the scullery cupboard Rob, who was painting varnish on to a chair leg, leant close to me. ‘Watch out for anything . . . unusual, won’t you?’

I gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’

Rob shrugged and smiled. ‘Only that Mrs Cotton might get a fright today.’

A fright? I hurried up the stairs, where Mrs Cotton waited outside the chamber formerly occupied by His Lordship’s wife. I didn’t remember her, of course, because she had died before I even came to Greave Hall, but her picture still hung on the stairs. My mother told me that she had never recovered from Samuel’s birth, and was confined to her bed for some three months before dying.

We all knew that Mrs Cotton didn’t like going into the room alone. She’d been called to Greave Hall to attend on her sister through her illness and look after the baby Samuel, and had never left after Eleanor Greave’s death. If it hadn’t been for those sad circumstances my mother, Susan Tamper, would never have come to the house herself. Sammy didn’t take to his aunt, nor she to him, so when he was three it was decided that a day nurse was needed and my mother stepped into the role. Though it wasn’t much, she and my father were glad of the extra money.

Mrs Cotton slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open, letting me pass through first. In the tilting mirror opposite, I saw her cross herself and mutter some silent words before following me in.

Certainly it was cold in there, almost like walking out of doors, and I could see my breath in the air. I used to think that death lingered in a place. Unlike the rest of the house we only cleaned this room, and the small adjoining nursery, once a week.

‘Clean the nursery first,’ said Mrs Cotton, scanning the room quickly. ‘I’ll be back shortly to check.’

The nursery brought back painful memories for me, and Mrs Cotton knew that. It was here that Samuel had spent his first years. Later, when he took a larger room at the front of the house, it became my room. My mother had died in the throes of cholera in the nurse’s chamber next door.

It wasn’t only that. The room also reminded me of the carefree childhood I had lost. My mother had told me the story many times, to make me know how lucky we were. When she told Lord Greave that she was pregnant, a few months after my father’s death, she expected to be thrown out at once, for who would want a nurse with her own baby? But by then little Samuel had already taken a shine to her, and so it was decided that she could stay on permanently, moving into Greave Hall.

Goodness knows how she coped! My mother never tired of describing Mrs Cotton’s face when she heard of the planned arrangement. Nothing could have been further from the housekeeper’s sense of decorum. I could imagine her biting her tongue but wanting more than ever to counsel His Lordship about the proper etiquette. A servant’s child, living under his roof? Indeed!

In some ways, Mrs Cotton and I were the same. We both lived on the fringes of the family and were afforded privileges unheard of for servants. Between the ages of one and ten I lived a blessed life. Mama and I never ate with the family, of course, but took our meals with the other servants, and when I was old enough I took a share of the chores. But Sammy looked after me, and His Lordship always gave me a fond smile. How Mrs Cotton seethed!

Now, though, both of my protectors were gone.

I set about cleaning the nursery and nurse’s room. The former had a connecting door to Lady Greave’s old bedroom, so the mistress of the house could see her child if she wished. Somehow, dust got in here too.

I spread damp tea leaves on the floor, then brushed them across the carpet to fetch up the dust. I was sweeping them back into the pan when I heard a wail from the room next door. Rushing in, I found Mrs Cotton pressed against the wall with her hand to her throat. She glanced at me and pointed at the wardrobe – the door was open.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘You did this, Abigail Tamper!’ she said.

‘Pardon, ma’am?’ I said. ‘Did what?’

She approached the wardrobe slowly and pulled out a dress. I realised it was the one she’d been wearing the night before – one of her late sister’s. But now, pinned to the breast, was a brooch in the shape of a rose which I had never seen before. Mrs Cotton stared at it, as though doubting its very existence.

‘I shall get to the bottom of this!’ she said, then strode out of the room, hauling the garment with her.

I didn’t understand what the fuss was about, but as I was brushing a cobweb from the picture rail I noticed that there was a scuffed footprint on the inside of the windowsill. It was faint, but definitely there. Someone had climbed into the room from the outside.

Smiling, I took my cloth to wipe the mark away.

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Chapter 6

It was only after Lizzy and I had gathered up the dirty laundry that I found out my suspicions were correct. The housekeeper had us lined up in the hallway – me, Rob, Lizzy and Cook. Mr Lock looked on, as though unsure whether he was to join our group or not. Strictly speaking, he didn’t fall under Mrs Cotton’s rule, but she seemed to exert her power over him regardless. She was holding the brooch in her hand.

‘I put a great deal of faith in you,’ she began, ‘and one of you has let me down. One of you entered my poor dead sister’s private room and meddled with her property. Do any of you have anything to say?’

I dared not look at any of the others; Mrs Cotton’s eyes held us in our place like moths on pins.

She fixed me with the longest stare, as though trying to wring an admission out of me. ‘When I find out who was responsible, there will be consequences,’ she said. ‘Now, back to work.’

As soon as she had gone, Mr Lock shook his head and ambled off to polish the silver. Cook said something under her breath about ‘children’s games’, and Rob winked at me.

On the stairs, I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You need to be more careful, Mr Willmett,’ I said. ‘You left a mark as clear as day. She might have seen.’

‘Did I?’ he said, shrugging. ‘She was too busy running from the room chased by Lady Greave’s ghost, I reckon.’

‘How did you do it?’ I said. ‘Get up there, I mean.’

‘Simple,’ he said. ‘Mr Lock asked me to clean the gutters, and I took a ladder up the back of the house. I was in and out in less than a minute. Found the brooch in the jewellery box, fixed it to the dress Mrs Cotton was wearing for New Year’s Eve.’

‘Rob, you are
wicked
,’ I said. ‘Her face was a picture.’

‘Well, I’ll not have her making your life a misery without something to pay it back,’ said Rob. ‘And look at her, wearing Her Ladyship’s clothes as though they were her own!’

We parted ways as Mr Lock shambled past with the post. Life at Greave Hall was always like this. Starved of contact, we snatched conversation when we could. But what Rob said was true. And it wasn’t just the clothes and jewellery. With Lord Greave confined to his bed more and more, Mrs Cotton had even taken to having friends round for dinner once or twice a week, treating the house like her own. More than once Rob had asked Mr Lock where it would stop, and if His Lordship even knew what was going on. The butler, ever proper, had told him to mind his own business.

Come back soon, Sammy,
I thought.

Lord Greave came back to the Hall at about six o’clock, his face lined with worry and leaning heavily on his stick. Mrs Cotton announced that they’d take their dinner together, and an hour later, preceded by Mr Lock, His Lordship came down the stairs dressed in his jacket and tie. He had even shaved. Mrs Cotton was wearing one of her sister’s better dresses, but her bloodless lips were pressed into a scowl.

The kitchen was hot, with Cook bustling around the roasting jack. A joint of mutton dripped into the gravy tray, and Rowena lay stretched out beside the doorway. With her stomach swelled so large, it couldn’t be long.

‘Abi, peel us some carrots, will you?’ said Cook.

I set to work, my mouth watering at the rich scents of the food. There’d likely be at least some broth for us later, made from the leftovers.

‘His Lordship wants a celebration,’ muttered Cook. ‘Well, it’s a celebration he shall have.’

‘Has there been more news of Samuel then?’ I asked.

‘Only that he’s expected in two days’ time,’ said Cook, ‘and that he was wounded in an act of bravery that saved the lives of many men.’

I felt as proud as if he really were my brother. Lord Greave had always wanted his son to follow him into the navy, but from a young age Samuel was obsessed with toy soldiers. They still stood on a little shelf in the nursery, waiting for him to return.

Dinner came and went. I went up to my room after finishing scrubbing the pans, my arms aching from all the carrying up and down the stairs. I was getting ready for bed when Lizzy poked her head round the door. ‘It’s freezing,’ she said. ‘Can I come in with you tonight?’

We’d often share on cold nights, and thought nothing of it. Better that than never get warm.

I said she could and we slipped under the sheets. She was chattering away about Henry, a footman who worked for Lord Greave’s friends, the Ambroses; she’d seen him in the Park walking their mastiff, Pericles, and had waved, but apparently he hadn’t waved back. I must have been quieter than normal because she suddenly broke off and asked if I was all right.

‘Just tired,’ I said. In fact, I was more exhausted than I remembered being in a long while. Perhaps it was all the talk of Samuel returning, or the night of my attempted escape catching up with me, but I barely had the strength to blow out the candle beside the bed.

‘We got Mrs Cotton back, didn’t we, Abi?’ Lizzy said. ‘I kept lookout while Rob went up the ladder.’

I chuckled. ‘It was very clever, but you mustn’t do it for me. I don’t want you all getting into trouble on my account.’

‘We’ve got to stick together,’ said Lizzy. She squeezed my arm. ‘We heard her squeal from the scullery. Rob reckons she actually believes there is a ghost. Caught her asking Mr Lock if he’d seen anything “unusual” in the house. She won’t even look at the picture on the stairs!’

‘I’m only saying we need to be careful,’ I said. ‘Mustn’t push it too far.’

Lizzy giggled, then continued talking about the footman. ‘With Samuel back, Alexander Ambrose might be coming over again,’ she said. ‘And if Alexander comes, then he’ll probably bring Henry with him . . .’

I wasn’t really listening and must have fallen asleep, because I woke some time later. The clock was chiming a distant midnight.

Beneath the bedclothes, I shivered. A breeze was tickling my face.

Strange, I thought. The window must be open.

Had Lizzy opened it to let in some air? She was lying with her back to me, her body cocooned in warm sleep. I felt a stab of annoyance. It was hard enough sleeping in a room without a fire – why did she have to go and let in more cold air?

I swung my legs out of bed and my bare feet found the floorboards. Rubbing my eyes, I saw that the window wasn’t open only a crack, but a full arm’s length. The threadbare drapes fluttered. On a January night, indeed! We’d be lucky not to catch pneumonia. What was she thinking?

I considered waking her, but then thought better of it. She’d been so kind since she’d got back. There was no need to start on her over a careless act. I crossed the room and put my hands to the top of the sash, pulling down.

The window seemed stuck. However hard I tugged, it wouldn’t close. I looked across at Lizzy, about to ask for her help, when all of a sudden a gust blew into the room, wrapping me in a cold embrace.

Something colder still tightened on my wrist.

I turned back to the window.

A hand, knuckles white as bone and streaked with dirt, gripped my arm. I saw nails, jagged and broken, as if the person had been clawing at the ground, and the long fingers pressed into my skin. My eyes followed the cords of a starved wrist and a forearm lined with purple veins. There was a face there too – just a shadow in the darkness and the glint of an eye.

I screamed and pulled away, stumbling backwards and crashing into the wall behind. For a moment the fingers of the hand stretched out. I knew, as well as I knew my own mind, that it wanted to latch on to something in the room – to grasp me again.

I watched the fingers flexing, unable to breathe or speak.

Slowly the hand withdrew into the darkness.