The Poisoned House (7 page)

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Chapter 14

The kitchen was still warm from the range as we ate our dinner, which on a Sunday was always better than other days: skins from the potatoes roasted in leftover fat, cuts of meat from Lord Greave and Mrs Cotton’s joint, cabbage and sprouts stewed with cloves. The table was silent as we gorged. Every so often the bell would ring and Mr Lock would go up to tend to the diners’ needs.

Lizzy had not spoken more than a few words to me since our argument, but below stairs such animosity couldn’t survive for long. Resentments couldn’t be brushed beneath the carpet – they must either be addressed or allowed to fizzle out.

I asked her how her sister was, for that was where she had been until the evening.

‘She’s well,’ said Lizzy. ‘The baby’s good as gold.’

There was a rustle in the wall.

‘Bloody mice,’ said Cook. ‘The sooner Rowena’s up and running, the better.’

‘Them’s not mice,’ said Rob. ‘I saw a rat the other day. Big as my foot, he was.’

‘Well then,’ said Cook. ‘Get some poison down, lad. There’s some in the cellar, I think.’

Greave Hall had been erected over the remains of another building, so my mother said, and there was another room below the kitchen and the scullery. It was enclosed within the foundations and lined by timber beams, with sagging walls. It was just a box, really, with no lights, and barely five feet high. The wine was kept down there, together with ice if we had any – and, as I now discovered, rat poison. I hadn’t known about that till now.

Rob stood up from the table and went over to the hatch. It was opened by an old iron ring that was set into the floor. He looped a finger into the ring and gave a sharp tug. The hatch opened, bringing up a blast of damp air.

‘Pass me a light, will you, Abi?’

I lit a candle with a spill from the fire in the range and carried it over.

I didn’t like to go down in the cellar at all, and thankfully there was seldom need to. When I was just seven, I’d hidden beneath the hatch in a game of hide-and-seek with Samuel, and had somehow become trapped. It took him over an hour to find me, and all that time I was in the pitch darkness, feeling the cobwebs tickle my face.

From above I saw Rob searching. I made out a pile of rope, some broken furniture and some old pans. There were a couple of lengths of piping too, though they looked rusted in the orange light and good for nothing.

After some rummaging, Rob came up with a tin. He handed it to me together with the candle while he climbed back up the stepladder. Then he closed the hatch again, dusted himself down and returned to the table, placing the tin beside him.

‘Mind you don’t get that mixed up with the suet, Miss McMahon,’ he said.

Cook’s eyes flashed. ‘And what would you be meaning by that?’ she said.

Rob, who had been laughing, stopped. ‘Nothing, ma’am, of course. It was just a little jest, is all.’

‘Well, kindly keep such humour to yourself,’ she said.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table, with the only sounds the scraping of cutlery and Mr Lock’s toothless slurping on his soup.

My mother had barely eaten anything after she fell ill, and what she had consumed seemed to pass straight through her racked body or be vomited up again. But Cook had prepared it all and, of course, everything she had eaten before her illness.

I shot a sideways glance at the great, red-faced woman. She was sucking the marrow from a bone. Her lips glistened and her eyes were screwed shut.

Soon after, Rob stood up. ‘Well, I must be seeing to Lancelot’s feed,’ he said.

Cook grunted something and began to collect up the plates.

I was left to wash the pans and dinner plates while Cook cleaned the hearth. In the reflection of a copper pot, I saw her reach inside her apron and sneak a sip from her bottle. We all knew she drank, of course, and that much of her wages went on the worst sort of gin, but none of us pried. I think even Mrs Cotton must have known.

Mr Lock came in to collect the last of the china and lock it in the closet, safe for the night. ‘Will they be wanting coffee?’ Cook asked.

‘Just for Mrs Cotton,’ said Mr Lock. ‘His Lordship has retired for the night.’

‘Abi,’ said Cook, ‘make the coffee, would you, and take it in.’

I did as I was asked, taking water from the range and pouring it over the ground beans. The rich and bitter smell wafted to my nostrils. I placed the filter in the pot and set it on a tray along with a jug of milk and bowl of sugar.

The rat poison, I noticed, was still on the table. What would happen, I wondered, if I put a little of it in the steaming pot? Cook was in the scullery and wouldn’t know. The coffee would surely mask the taste.

The bell rang from the drawing room, shaking me from my idle thoughts. That’s quite enough of that, I told myself.

I carried the tray quickly upstairs. The house was quiet now, and the windows were all dark. The clock chimed nine. I was looking forward to sinking into bed.

I balanced the tray on one hand and knocked on the drawing-room door. Mrs Cotton’s voice bade me enter. She was sitting at one end of a chaise longue, wearing a blue dress with a navy cardigan over the top. Around her neck hung a string of pearls, which presumably had once belonged to her sister. I set down the tray in front of her.

‘Would you like me to pour?’ I asked.

‘And risk spilling on the carpet?’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘I think not.’

‘Will there be anything else, ma’am?’

‘Yes, there will,’ she said. ‘I asked you to clean the windows earlier, did I not?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘I did them all.’

‘You’re lying to my face, girl,’ she said. ‘The windows in Master Greave’s room have not been cleaned. In fact, it looks as though you’ve been
pawing
them with your filthy little hands.’

I didn’t understand what she was saying. I’d made sure all the glass was spotless, especially that in the library.

‘I shall look now, ma’am,’ I said, turning to leave.

‘Wait!’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘Let me see your hands.’

I held them out, turning them slowly so the housekeeper could see both sides. I had just been washing in the sink, so they were red raw but spotless. She shot out a hand and gripped my wrist.

At first I thought she just wanted to look more closely. She pulled my hand towards her so that I had to bend down. Only when I came near the coffee pot did I realise this was something else.

I tried to pull away, but she held me fast. She was so much stronger than she looked. All the time her fierce eyes held mine. I thought about calling for help, but who would have come? Mrs Cotton made the rules, not me.

When my hand was an inch from the burning pot, she stopped.

‘You hate me, don’t you, Miss Tamper?’ she whispered.

It was as if she could see into my heart and knew what I had considered doing in the kitchen.

‘Answer me,’ she said. ‘Do you wish me dead?’

Tears welled in my eyes, not from the anticipated pain so much as the humiliation that she could cause them so easily.

‘I do,’ I said.

At that, she smiled and released me. ‘At least you are sometimes honest,’ she said. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

I rushed from the room.

Behind the door, I was breathing heavily. Mr Lock passed me, carrying a tray of his own. On it were Lord Greave’s crystal decanter filled with cognac, and a single glass. It rattled as the old butler ascended the main staircase. It was one of the many rituals of the house – His Lordship’s drink before bed. In times gone by Sammy had taken it to him, but now it was left to the old butler.

I went into the library and lit a candle. I couldn’t understand what Mrs Cotton had said about the window, but as I held the light up to the glass I saw that it was true. Not just one print, but perhaps a dozen were spread across the pane – too many to have been caused by any accident. I fetched a cloth from the downstairs cupboard, wondering who might have done such a thing. Perhaps Lizzy, in anger at our cross words over Henry.

I set to wiping. The marks came off easily, but I was troubled. It seemed so trivial, so petty – not like Lizzy at all. As for Mrs Cotton, she could have dreamt up a thousand worse privations to torment me. There was one print that wouldn’t come off: a full hand, stretched out as if it had been pressed against the glass. I wiped over it twice, but it didn’t even smear. I spat on the cloth and tried again. Still it remained.

My heart quickened as I realised why. It was on the outside.

I stepped back from the window, staring into the blackness of the garden beyond. It had not been there earlier, I was sure, but somehow someone had left their mark on both the inside and the outside. The window was locked.

I crept forward slowly and put my nose to the window pane. The garden was still, the plants and trees waving softly in a light breeze. The sash would only go up so far, and from the position of the print in the upper pane, I realised it would have had to be someone in the garden.

Out of curiosity, I placed my own right hand against the mark, so my fingertips met the contact points on the glass. Whoever had done this had hands slightly larger than my own.

I went down to the kitchen, and told Cook that I’d be going out to wipe away a mark on the library window. She was sitting in a chair beside the dying hearth with a ball of wool on her lap, the needles clicking against each other as she knitted.

‘Don’t be long,’ she said, smiling. ‘One search party a week is quite enough for me.’

Mr Lock hadn’t yet secured the back door. The air was cold and dry, the sky clear but for a few shreds of cloud that swathed a full moon. I shivered, hurrying into the rear garden. The candle still burned in its stand where I’d left it in the room, casting thick shadows up the walls. Even stretching, I could not reach the mark, so I found an upturned vegetable crate in the stable yard and brought it round.

I stood precariously on top of the crate and raised the cloth. But something was wrong. I looked first at my own hand, then back at the mark.

The handprint had changed.

What had been a left hand pressed up to the glass was now the mark of a right hand. Doubting my own sanity, I again placed my right hand against the glass to check. There was no questioning it. Fear tickled along the back of my neck, lifting the hairs there. I rubbed the mark away, climbed quickly down from the crate and peered into the garden.

‘Is anyone there?’ I said.

Silence. The only light came from the clouded moon and the dim glow from the candle in the room behind. I could make out the tall rear garden wall and the trees, the clumps of bushes, the path running like a black river through the centre of it all.

‘Hello?’ I said, louder this time.

‘Robert Willmett!’ I said, trying to sound scornful. ‘If this is your idea of another joke, then Cook is right and your sense of humour is sorely lacking.’

The only answer I got was the faint rustle of leaves above.

A deeper darkness fell across my shoulders as though someone had moved close behind me. I spun round.

The candle in the library had gone out.

I couldn’t help a yelp of fear and edged quickly along the back wall of the house towards the door. I kept my eyes strained against the gloom of the garden, certain that someone, or something, was there. With a shaking hand I found the door handle and pushed it down, then fell back inside, tripping over a bucket with a great clatter.

‘What on earth is it, child?’ said Cook. She sat where I’d left her, knitting in her chair.

‘Did anyone else go out there?’ I asked.

‘Why would they?’ she replied. ‘It could chill the cloven feet of Satan himself if that draught is anything to go by.’

I took her hint and closed the door, turning the key in the lock.

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Chapter 15

The following morning the house buzzed with anticipation. Samuel was expected before noon, and Lord Greave came down dressed in his finest clothes. According to Mr Lock, he was pacing the main rooms, checking that all the living arrangements were in order for the return of his son.

It was not until after ten, when I had emptied the pots and cleaned the first-floor water closet, that I heard the clop of hoofs. My first thought was that Samuel had arrived earlier than expected, but a glance through the front window told me it was Adam. Monday was when he came by to pick up the grocery orders for the rest of the week, but there was something else I needed him for. I ran down the back steps.

Cook was handing over a list when I got there, saying that last time the potatoes had been mealy, so Adam’s face brightened when he saw me. He was a little cleaner today. I followed him back out to his cart, empty but for a few open crates, and gave Archer a stroke on the nose.

‘I need you to do me a favour,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And what might that be?’

I looked back at the house to make sure no eyes were on us, then pulled out my letter to Dr Reinhardt. ‘I need you to deliver this, but I have no money.’

Adam took the letter in his grubby hand and studied it closely. I knew he could read a little, but I couldn’t afford for this to go wrong.

‘It’s for a Dr Reinhardt, 11b Argyle Terrace,’ I said. ‘Do you know it?’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘’Bout a mile from here.’ He looked at me, puzzled, but I remained silent.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘You going to tell me any more?’

‘Not now,’ I said. ‘Will you do it for me?’

‘What’s in it for yours truly?’ he said. ‘I’ll be traipsing halfway across London.’

I let my shoulders sag. ‘I don’t have anything. Not now. Maybe later.’

Adam folded his skinny arms and made a show of looking unimpressed. ‘I’ll do it for a kiss,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ he said. He turned his cheek to the side and pointed to a spot. ‘A kiss, right there, and I’ll take your letter.’

I checked back to the house again, then leant forward. He had closed his eyes, I noticed. I chose the least dirty spot I could see, and planted a peck on his cheek.

He opened his eyes, blushing.

‘And can you wait for a reply, please?’ I asked him. ‘I don’t want anyone here knowing I’ve sent a letter.’

Adam tut-tutted and turned to Archer. ‘It’s a good thing all our customers aren’t so demanding, ain’t it, fella?’ he said.

I thanked him again, and watched the cart trundle off down the road. I’d put all my hopes in that young boy and Dr Reinhardt. I prayed they wouldn’t let me down.

Before I went back indoors, I hurried to the stables to check on Rowena. Sure enough, three kittens were snuggled up by her belly, suckling with their eyes closed. Another, I noticed, lay still in a corner. Three out of four alive wasn’t bad, but with Adam already on his way, I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I went across the stable to get another handful of straw, and placed it carefully around them, then I crouched beside Rowena and gave her a stroke. The little ones cheeped blindly like baby birds.

‘Clever girl,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll come back later.’

By noon, there was still no sign of Samuel. Two visitors arrived first, and their presence sent the staff below stairs into a spell of wretched anxiety. Dr Ingle was admitted with his satchel. He brought another man with him who, we were told, was his son David, in training to take over the practice after his father retired.

David Ingle was a fresh-faced young man of twenty-two, with a nervous, fidgeting air and short sandy hair. They talked for some time with Lord Greave in the drawing room and inspected the library where Samuel would be staying. Dr Ingle Senior departed shortly afterwards, leaving his son with His Lordship.

Duties were forgotten in the tense hour that followed. Lord Greave and David ate a hasty repast of bread, cheese and jellied fruit, which Mr Lock took up to the sitting room. At just after one, the doorbell rang.

We all looked at each other nervously as Mrs Cotton went upstairs.

A few minutes later, the housekeeper summoned us all. We were to line up in the front hallway to welcome back her nephew. Cook smoothed the wiry springs of her hair back under her shawl and Lizzy and I stood close beside her. Across the hall stood Rob, straight as a rod. He opened the door as hoofbeats sounded in the road.

A carriage with military insignia waited outside, and Lord Greave and Mr Lock shared hurried words with the driver. We saw His Lordship peer through the carriage’s window and his body stiffen. He called for Rob.

Lizzy gave my hand a squeeze.

The driver opened the carriage door. I knew it was improper to look, but I glanced quickly from the corner of my eye. Rob reached into the interior, and when he emerged, an arm was draped over his shoulders. With some difficulty, he and the driver hoisted Samuel Greave from the carriage.

I quickly turned back to face front, but in my brief glance I’d seen enough. Samuel was in his uniform – the blue pantaloons and gold braiding of the 13th Light Dragoons. I had not studied his face in any detail, but I saw he still had the dashing moustache, grown in a hurry once his orders had come through. His right leg was heavily bandaged from knee to ankle and his foot was bare.

He was helped up the front step, leaning heavily on the footman and the driver.

‘This way, sir,’ said Rob.

I caught a peek at his face again as he was supported through the door and towards the library. A sheen of sweat glistened across his pale skin, and his lips were drawn back across his teeth in a grimace of pain. The bandages on his leg looked clean enough, but with him came a smell that reminded me of meat which has turned in the heat. He hardly seemed to see me as he passed by.

As he was made at home in his new room, Rob fetched in three cases from the carriage as well as two crutches. He deposited them in the library then left, closing the door behind him. Lord Greave, Mrs Cotton, Mr Lock and David Ingle remained inside with Samuel. Muffled cries came through the door and seemed to echo up the stairs, filling the house. He had been suppressing his agonies for our sake.

‘Poor lad,’ said Cook. ‘Poor, brave boy.’

I suppose she too was remembering the Samuel of a year before, returning from the stores freshly kitted out. He had strode down the back steps and into the scullery to show us his new uniform, his face flushed with pride, his hand on the tasselled hilt of a sabre.

I had been too eager with anticipation, then numbed with shock, to feel much, but seeing the tears in Cook’s eyes made my own prick – for Samuel certainly, but for my mother too. For she had been in the scullery that day, alive and well, and had said how handsome young Samuel looked.

Mrs Cotton came from the room shortly after, her face unreadable.

We quickly dispersed. I had to clean away the plates from His Lordship’s luncheon in the sitting room – a room I hadn’t entered since the fearful night of Dr Reinhardt’s visit. Now, with the furniture righted, the fire blazing in the hearth and the sepia light of the afternoon sun coming through the windows, it was hard to believe what I had witnessed in there.

I could do nothing until I spoke to the doctor again, and diverted my attention by going to Rowena. When I was sure Mrs Cotton was back in her bedroom, I ran out to the stables. The three little kittens squeaked in panic as I placed them one by one in my apron. Rowena seemed to know I was there to help. She let me pick her up and carry her back indoors. I kissed her on the neck and whispered, ‘You’ll be warm again soon.’

There was only one place I could think to take her, and that was the spare bedroom at the back of the house. No one ever went in there, as far as I could tell, so the new mother was unlikely to be disturbed.

Once she was installed behind an old wardrobe, I soaked some bread in milk and took it up. She ate hungrily and purred in contentment. The kittens latched on again quickly and resumed their single-minded sucking.