This House is Haunted (28 page)

“James Westerley?”

“Yes. What if he, the children and I were all to move to London. Or Paris. Or the Americas, if necessary.”

“Miss Caine, have you lost your reason?” he asked, standing up and raising himself to his full height. “You have seen the condition in which that poor man lies. He needs constant nursing.”

“And what if I was to provide that?”

“Without any training? Without any medical qualifications? Do you think that would be fair to him, Miss Caine? No, it’s out of the question.”

“What if I learned?” I asked, aware now that I had far surpassed my allocated number of questions. “What if I underwent
a nursing course and satisfied you that I knew what I was doing? Then would you let me take him? And them?”

“Miss Caine,” said Mr. Raisin, coming round from behind the desk and ushering me into an armchair as he sat opposite me. His tone softened a little now. “I speak regularly to Mr. Westerley’s doctor. That man will never leave that room. Ever. Even to attempt to move him would be to kill him. Don’t you understand that? He must remain where he is and, while he is alive, the children must remain there too. There is no possibility, none, of that fact changing. You, of course, are free to leave whenever you want, we cannot keep you captive here, but as you have made it clear to me on more than one occasion, you will not leave the children. Does that remain your position?”

I nodded. “It does, sir,” I agreed.

“Well then. There is no more to say on the matter.”

I looked down at the pattern on the carpet, as if I might find an answer to my troubles there. “Then there is no one who can help me,” I said quietly. And in my mind, I thought this: I will never leave until she kills me.

“Help you with what?” he asked, and I was touched by the concern in his voice. I shook my head and smiled at him and for a moment our eyes met and I noticed his flicker just once towards my lips. I held his gaze.

“Miss Caine,” he said quietly, and as the words came out he swallowed self-consciously and a burst of colour came to his cheeks. “I would help you if I could. But I know not what I can do for you. If you could simply tell me—”

“There is nothing,” I said in a resigned tone, standing up now and smoothing down my dress. I extended a hand in the air and he looked at it for a moment before shaking it. Our connection lasted a little longer than necessary and was that his
index finger moving a little along my own, only a fraction, the sensation of skin caressing skin? I could feel a deep sigh at the very core of my being unlike any I had ever known and willed myself to look away from him, but his eyes held mine firmly and I might have stayed that way for a long time or given in to temptation had I not noticed the silver frame on his desk, the image contained within causing me to pull my hand back sharply and look away from him.

“I hope Mrs. Raisin did not protest at your coming home late after our last rendezvous,” I said, saying one thing, meaning another.

“Mrs. Raisin had remarks on the matter,” he said, turning away, his eyes on the portrait now too. She was a hard-looking woman, somewhat older than her husband. “But then Mrs. Raisin has never been shy to state her opinions.”

“And why should she be?” I asked, aware of a faint note of belligerence in my tone. “Of course I’ve never had the good fortune to meet her.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, observing the formalities, “perhaps you should dine with us some evening.”

I smiled at him and shook my head and he nodded, of course, for he was not a stupid man and he understood perfectly.

I withdrew.

Chapter Twenty-one

I
WAS CONDEMNED THEN
. If I was unwilling to leave the children, to leave Eustace in particular, that troubled and vulnerable child, then I would have to stay at Gaudlin Hall as long as Mr. Westerley lived. And I was certain that there was more chance of me predeceasing him than the other way around.

Later that afternoon, I sat in the front parlour of the Hall, attempting to read a copy of
Silas Marner
which I had found in Mr. Westerley’s library. I felt a sense of calm, a quiet feeling of resignation that I was doomed to stay here until I died, however soon that might be. Footsteps on the driveway alerted me to the approach of a visitor and I leaned forward on the couch, peering out the window to see Madge Toxley in conversation with Eustace and Isabella. I watched the three of them, an unusual grouping; Eustace was the chattiest and whatever he was saying was making Madge laugh. A moment later, Isabella started to speak and her laugh faded slightly. She appeared a little disturbed by whatever the girl was saying, a dark shadow crossing her face as she looked towards the house. At one moment, I saw her throw a glance to a top window, turn away, and then in an instant look back, as if she had seen something unexpected
there. Only Eustace tugging at her sleeve made her return her gaze to him but she looked thoroughly unsettled by whatever had just taken place. I thought of going out to them but realized that I did not want to take part in their conversation. Eventually, I assumed, Madge would come to me.

And she did, of course, a few moments later, knocking on the front door and looking behind me with an apprehensive glance when I opened it.

“My dear,” she declared, stepping inside. “You look quite tired. Have you not been sleeping?”

“Not very well,” I admitted. “I am glad to see you though.”

“Well, I thought I should stop by,” she said. “I rushed off a little the other night when you came back from London. I think I might have been rather rude. And Mrs. Richards—do you know Mrs. Richards? Her husband runs the funeral parlour in the village—she told me that she had seen you emerging from the church this morning looking like you were ready to kill someone before storming across to Mr. Raisin’s office.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, shaking my head. “I assure you that I haven’t harmed anyone. Both Mr. Raisin and Mr. Cratchett are quite well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Shall we have some tea?”

I nodded and led her into the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the range for the water to heat. I still felt a certain anxiety whenever I turned the taps on; although nothing but cold water had run from them since the afternoon of my scalding, I was never sure when the presence might interfere with them again and cause me more suffering.

“Your visit to London,” said Madge after an uncomfortable pause. “Was it successful?”

“It depends how you define success, I suppose,” I replied.

“I expect you were tying up the loose ends of your father’s estate?”

“Do you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, and she shook her head and had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“No, I imagine it was something else entirely. I suspect you went in search of Harriet Bennet.”

H. Bennet
. It occurred to me that I had never, in all this time, wondered what the “H” stood for. And now I knew.

The kettle burst into a piercing whistle and I filled the pot and brought it, with the cups, to the table. I said nothing for a few moments. “You were talking to the children outside,” I said finally.

“Yes,” she said. “That Eustace is a funny little chap, isn’t he?

He’s quite sweet really. In a strange way.”

“He’s a dear boy.”

“He didn’t want Isabella to tell me anything about your trip to London. He said that it wasn’t true, that you hated London and would never go back there. I think he’s rather nervous that you’re preparing to leave him.”

A stab of guilt punctured me and I felt a tear spring to my eyes. “Oh no,” I said. “I must disabuse him of that notion if it is what he believes. He has nothing to be concerned about on that matter. Does Isabella think the same thing?”

Madge shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she replied. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure she cares whether you stay or go.”

I laughed. How was I expected to take such a remark?

“Actually,” continued Madge, “she said the most extraordinary thing. She said that you could leave if you wanted to, that it would probably be best for you if you did, but that they weren’t allowed to go, that ‘She’ wouldn’t allow it. I asked her
who ‘She’ referred to but she wouldn’t say. Simply smiled at me, an unsettling smile, as if she was the owner of a great secret whose revelation could destroy us all. Shall I be Mother?”

I stared at her and then, realizing what she meant, nodded as she reached for the teapot, pouring two cups of tea and passing the milk between us.

“Eliza,” she said. “Why did you visit Harriet Bennet?”

“To ask her about her experiences here at Gaudlin Hall.”

“And were you satisfied by her responses?”

I considered this but had no answer. I did not know what responses I had expected from Miss Bennet, nor how I felt about what she had told me. “Madge,” I said, changing the subject slightly, “when we last talked you told me about that awful night that Mrs. Westerley, Santina, killed Miss Tomlin and caused such unimaginable injury to her husband.”

Mrs. Toxley shuddered. “Don’t,” she said, dismissing it slightly with a wave of her hand. “It is my stated intention to try to forget that night entirely. Not that I ever will, of course. It will remain with me always.”

“But you also said that you saw Santina again.”

“That’s right. But I told you that in the strictest of confidence, Eliza. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone, have you? Alex would be terribly angry if he found out. He expressly forbade me from going there.”

“No, I promise that I haven’t and that I will not,” I said. “You have my word on that.”

“Thank you. Don’t misunderstand me, my husband is the epitome of kindness and consideration, but on that subject, the subject of Santina Westerley, he would brook no disobedience on my part.”

“Madge, your secret is secure,” I said with a sigh, wondering
why on earth an intelligent woman like this would feel obliged towards obedience or disobedience in the first place. Was she a child, after all, or a grown adult? An image of Mr. Raisin came into my head, an absurd image of the two of us living in marital harmony, neither of us caring for such words at all, and as quickly as it entered my thoughts I dismissed it. This was no time for fantasy. “But it is very important that you tell me about your last encounter with that unfortunate woman,” I continued. “You said that you visited her in prison?”

She clenched her mouth tightly for a moment. “I’d prefer not to talk about it, Eliza,” she said. “It was a deeply unpleasant experience. For a genteel woman to enter such an environment was quite horrible. To be honest, I’ve always rather considered myself to be the sturdy type. You know, the sort who can put up with any unpleasant situation if I have to. But prison? You’ve never been inside one, I presume?”

“No,” I said. “Never.”

“I wonder that Mr. Smith-Stanley doesn’t do something about the condition of the prisons. I’ve never seen such squalor. Naturally the unfortunate creatures who find themselves in such places are incarcerated for the most heinous of crimes, but is there reason to condemn them to exist in such disgusting conditions? Isn’t the loss of one’s liberty punishment enough for vice and criminality? And think on, Eliza, this was a women’s prison, where one might think that conditions would be a little better. I shudder to imagine what the male equivalent might be like.”

She took a sip of her tea and thought for a long time before looking up and catching my eye and smiling a little. “I can see that I haven’t put you off. Determined to know about it, aren’t you?”

“If you would, Madge,” I said quietly. “I don’t ask for prurient reasons. I am not fascinated by depravity, if that is what you are worried about, nor am I obsessed with the case of Mrs. Westerley. I just need to know what she said to you that day, when death was upon her.”

“It was a miserably cold day,” replied Madge, looking away from me and into the flames of the fire burning in the hearth. “I remember that distinctly. When I arrived at the prison I was still uncertain whether or not I could go through with it. I had lied to Alex, something I never do, and I felt a combination of guilt and fear. Standing outside the prison walls, I told myself that I could still change my mind, that I could turn round and hail a hansom cab and spend the day shopping in London or visit my aunt, who lives in Piccadilly. But I did none of those things. There were reporters outside, of course, for this was the day that Santina Westerley was condemned to die and the case had acquired notoriety in the newspapers. They rushed towards me and asked my name but I refused to answer and knocked on the wooden door instead, hammered on it, until a prison officer opened it, asked my name, and let me into a waiting room, where I sat, trembling, feeling like a convict myself.

“It was probably only a few minutes but it felt like an eternity until a warden came out to ask my business and I explained that I had been Mrs. Westerley’s neighbour, perhaps her closest female friend, and I was informed that Santina was due to hang in less than two hours.

“ ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I told him. ‘I thought that she could do with a friendly face on her last morning. Her crimes were shocking, of course, but we are Christian people, are we not, and can’t you see that a conversation with someone who had
once been a friend might soothe her spirits and lead her to the hangman’s noose with a clearer mind?’

“He didn’t seem too concerned with any of that but said that Mrs. Westerley was entitled to a visitor and as no one else was here he would ask her whether she would see me. ‘It’ll be up to her,’ he insisted. ‘We can’t make her see anyone if she doesn’t want to. And I wouldn’t try. Not on a day like today. We try to make her last hours comfortable,’ he added, apparently feeling that this was a salve to his conscience. ‘She’ll pay soon enough for her crimes.’

“After this, he led me through the prison courtyard, which was filthy, Eliza, simply filthy, and in through another door where I was forced to pass the cells of the unfortunate women, walking between them as they threw themselves at the bars. What were they? Pickpockets, thieves, burglars, streetwalkers, most of them. Who knows what suffering they had endured in their childhood that had led them to such an ignominious fate. Almost all of them were screaming at me, thrusting their hands through their cages. I suppose it was a novelty of sorts to see a lady among them, well dressed and whatnot. Some begged me to help them, claiming that they were innocent. Others shouted vulgarities that would have made a gypsy blush. Some simply stared at me with the most unsettling expressions on their faces. I tried to avoid looking at them but it was truly frightening, Eliza. Truly.”