This House is Haunted (9 page)

“I don’t know why you think we’re bad children,” said Eustace suddenly, frowning as he put his knife and fork down on the table. He stood up and stared at me with a dark expression. “You’ve only just met us, after all. I think it very unfair that you call me false and say that my sister causes fights when this time yesterday you didn’t even know either of us.”

“But I don’t think that at all, Eustace,” I said, reddening a little. “You’re a very polite boy, that’s for certain. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just … well, I don’t know, but I’m
sorry for it anyway. And I’m certain that if Isabella and Mrs. Livermore are not friends then there must be a reason for it. She seems as well mannered as you are.”

“Mama believes that we should speak well and act in a decorous fashion,” he replied. “She insists upon it. She won’t allow either of us to be naughty. She gets very angry when we are.”

“And where is she, your mama?” I asked, wondering whether I might get more information out of him now in the cold light of day. “I’m so looking forward to making her acquaintance.”

He turned away and breathed heavily through his nose. “Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?” he asked. “It will get cold and then everything will have been for nothing.”

I looked down at it but the sight of the eggs spilling out across the meat turned my stomach a little. “I don’t think I will just now,” I said, pushing the plate away. “My stomach is still a little upset after my journey yesterday. I’ll eat something later on.”

“Isabella will be insulted,” he said in a deep voice and I stared at him, uncertain how to respond.

“Well,” I said eventually. “I’ll simply have to apologize to her, won’t I?” I smiled and leaned in, trying to make a friend of him. “Why do you look so worried anyway, does she have a wicked tongue on her? Will she scold me?”

“Certainly not,” he replied, pulling away. “She won’t say anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Isabella says we must never say what we’re thinking.”

“But why ever not?” I asked. He breathed heavily through his nose and looked down at the table, scratching at a groove in the wood with the tip of his thumb. “Eustace,” I insisted. “Why shouldn’t you say what you’re thinking?”

“Isabella says it’s best if we don’t talk about it to anyone,” he muttered.

“Talk about what?” I stared at him, feeling an overwhelming urge to shake him. “Eustace, what do you mean? What is it you’re not telling me?”

He looked up at me, those brown eyes set in a sea of whiteness that could melt the hardest of hearts, and opened his mouth, only to seal it shut again as his glance told me that something, or someone, was standing behind me.

I leaped out of my chair in fright and spun round, uttering an oath under my breath for the girl had been standing so close that I wondered how I had not felt her presence behind me.

“Good morning, Eliza Caine.”

“Isabella,” I said, gasping in surprise. She was as well dressed as her brother—the lace dress she wore might have been something she would put on for a wedding or an appointment at court—and her hair was hanging loose around her shoulders, carefully brushed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I hope Eustace hasn’t been boring you with silly stories,” she said, standing perfectly still, her expression one of pure tranquillity. “Little boys can be terribly dramatic, don’t you think? They make things up all the time. And they lie. That’s a scientific fact. I read about it in a book.”

“I don’t lie,” insisted Eustace. “And I’m not a little boy. I’m eight.”

“That is quite young,” I said, turning to him, and he frowned, displeased. I immediately regretted having said that. It would have been kinder to have simply agreed with him.

“If you’re not going to eat that,” said Isabella, nodding at my food, “should I give it to the dogs? They live out there with Heckling by the stables and would be grateful for it even if you’re not. It’s a sin to waste good food, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “I do appreciate your making it for me but I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite this morning.”

“None of you governesses ever do,” she replied, lifting the plate from the table and marching out the back door. “It’s the most extraordinary thing. I don’t know how any of you manages to stay alive.”

“Isabella!” cried Eustace, and I stared at him, startled that he should seem so appalled by her choice of words, and when I looked back at his sister even she looked a little unsettled.

“I only meant …” she said, her composure fading for once. “Obviously, I didn’t …” She shook her head quickly, as if dismissing all memory of the dialogue, and smiled at me. “I’ll give it to the dogs,” she repeated. “They’ll be delighted and consider me their greatest friend.”

And with that she vanished out into the courtyard, leaving Eustace and me alone together again. He still looked scandalized by what she had said, which I thought something of an overreaction. After all, it was just a turn of phrase. She hadn’t meant anything by it. I went over to the sink and turned the taps on, washing my hands thoroughly in the freezing water.

“Can you tell me,” I asked, “where Mr. Raisin’s office is? The solicitor your sister spoke of last night.”

“Somewhere in the village, I believe,” Eustace said. “I haven’t been myself but I’m sure he has an office there.”

“And is it far? The village?”

“Oh no. And it’s a straight road, it’s impossible to get lost. Did you want to see him?”

I nodded. “I think it’s important that I do,” I said. “Particularly since your parents are not here to greet me. I might go down there now. How long will it take me to walk?”

“There’s a dandy-horse in the front courtyard,” he said. “You can take that if you like. You’ll be there in about fifteen minutes if you do.”

A dandy-horse! I liked the idea of that. Mrs. Farnsworth had brought herself to school every morning on one, oblivious to the stares of Londoners who felt that a lady should not be seen on such a contraption, and so enamoured with it was I that she had allowed me to use it on several occasions and I had managed to pick up the rudimentary skills quite quickly. To board one now seemed like an adventure and the fresh morning breeze would do me the world of good. It might knock some of the silliness out of my head.

“And what will you do this morning, Eustace?” I asked. “While I’m gone, I mean?”

“I have tasks,” he said, employing his mysterious tone once again, and then stood up and abruptly left the kitchen. I laughed. He was a peculiar little boy but I liked him very much already.

Chapter Eight

I
MADE MY WAY
out to the front of the house, where, just as Eustace had said, a dandy-horse was propped up against one of the columns, its heavy wooden frame and seat pivoted over two strong wheels. I wheeled it away, throwing my leg over the saddle as I began to progress down the driveway, hearing the pebbles crunch beneath me. To my surprise, considering I had only been at Gaudlin Hall for little more than twelve hours, I felt a curious sense of relief at putting distance between the house and myself.

Eustace wasn’t wrong in his directions or timings. The journey towards the village was a pleasant one, my mood improving considerably as I made my way along twisting lanes, the recently harvested fields turning to green on either side of me, the fresh air blowing in my face and offering me a sense of well-being. Why would anyone live in London, I wondered, dirty, fog-fouled, smog-smothered London, with its murderers and its streetwalkers and its criminality on every corner? The stinking, twisting river polluting our bodies, the empty palace mourning its absentee Queen, the calamitous weather, the striking workers, the filth in the
streets. Here, in Norfolk, I might have been in another world entirely. It was idyllic. And the countryside provided not the dispiriting experience of the previous night at the hall. No, there was something far more enriching to be discovered on this land, and as I made my final turn and the path opened up into a picturesque country village I felt, for the first time since Father’s death, that the world was a good place and my part in it was to be valued.

Arriving at the village, I left the dandy-horse propped up against the church railing and looked around, determined to discover what kind of place my new home was. I was here to find Mr. Raisin’s office, of course, but was under no pressure of time so a little investigation of this new locale seemed appropriate. The church itself was quite striking, not large but with an intelligent design that made the most of its footprint, and I took a few moments inside to examine the carvings, the elaborate ceiling work and an enormous stained-glass window, which presented an image of Moses standing atop Mount Horeb, removing his sandals and turning away as the face of God appears in the burning bush before him. It was very beautiful and I wondered whether the glazier was a local man or whether the window had been imported from elsewhere. I could recall Father taking me once, when I was a child, to Whitefriars to see the production factory of Powell & Sons, the intricacy of whose designs rather fascinated me, as did the signature monk design they placed in the corner. I leaned forward now to see whether any similar autograph had been included here and noticed an image of a swallow-tailed butterfly, similar to those I had seen in the corridor at Gaudlin Hall, and I wondered whether this was an insect peculiar to the region. Father would have known, of course.

The church was quiet, the only other person present being an elderly lady seated at the furthest edge of a pew halfway down the aisle, who turned her head to look at me, nodded and smiled, but then seemed to think better of it for her expression darkened as she turned away. I thought nothing of it—she must have been in her late eighties and was quite possibly touched in the head—and continued to wander along the nave, where I found a small chapel with room for perhaps a dozen churchgoers before a plain altar, and sat down. Looking around, I was struck by the gruesome nature of some of the carvings, violent creatures with crazed eyes staring back at me, griffins and trolls, figures that seemed more appropriate to medieval folklore than a place of worship.

Behind me, I heard steps approaching, but when I turned round, a chill passing through my body, they became quieter and finally vanished. The elderly lady had gone now but the footsteps could not have been hers, for she had a pair of canes propped beside her seat and these steps were vigorous and youthful.

I stood up and made my way along the aisle to a lectern, where a book was open before me, a collection of biblical verses presented one for every day of the year, and I read the lines for that day:
Then I heard the Lord say to the other men, “Follow him through the city and kill everyone whose forehead is not marked. Show no mercy! Have no pity! Kill them all—old and young, girls and women and little children. But do not touch anyone with the mark.”

The lines disturbed me and I turned as an organ in the upper gallery began to play and then, quite suddenly, stopped, and I felt that I had spent enough time and made my way quickly outside and into the graveyard, where I examined the headstones,
most of them for elderly people, a few unfortunate children, a fresher grave for a young woman named Harkness who had died only a few months previously. She was only a couple of years older than I, poor soul, and I felt a rush of unease at this intimation of mortality. I paused—why did that name mean something to me?—but my memory failed me and I walked on.

Returning to the street, I noticed a small tea shop on the corner and, realizing how hungry I was, since I had barely eaten any of the breakfast that Isabella had prepared for me, I stepped inside and ordered a pot of tea and a scone with some of their locally made gooseberry jam.

“New to the area, are you, miss?” asked the young girl behind the counter as she served me. She had a rough look to her, a childhood spent in manual service I thought, but wore a welcoming expression, as if she was pleased to have some company. The dimples in her cheeks offered her a certain charm but her eyes were a little askew, the left looking directly at me, the right pupil positioned towards the edge of the socket, and it took from her; it was difficult not to stare. “Or are you just passing through?”

“I’m here to stay, I hope,” I told her. “I only arrived last night so thought I should take a look at the village this morning. You have a lovely tea shop here. Do you run it alone?”

“It’s me mam’s,” she explained. “Only she’s taken to her bed with one of her sick headaches so Muggins is left alone to run things.”

“That must be terribly hard,” I said, hoping to ingratiate myself with the local tradespeople. “It gets rather busy at lunchtime, I imagine.”

“Easier when she’s not here, if I’m honest,” said the girl, scratching her head furiously. “She don’t half make mountains
out of molehills. No, when I’m on my own I can just get things done. Do you know what I mean, miss? I have my ways and she has hers and sometimes the two just don’t fit together.”

“I do, most certainly,” I said, smiling and offering her my hand. “Eliza Caine,” I said. “It’s a pleasure.”

“And you, miss,” she replied. “Molly’s the name. Molly Sutcliffe.”

She stepped back behind the counter and I took a seat by the window, relishing my tea and scone, watching the world go by. A copy of the
Illustrated London News
had somehow found its way here and was lying on the table next to mine and I reached for it but then changed my mind; it was that newspaper, after all, which had advertised Mr. Dickens’ reading, and had Father not seen it, he would most likely still be with me. I had turned against the paper on account of it. Instead, I simply watched the villagers as they passed along the street. I noticed a vicar, a surprisingly young man, tall and thin, making his way towards the church, a small puppy in tow. The pup could not have been more than a couple of months old and was still accustoming himself to his lead for he stopped regularly, twisting his head to try to bite through the cord to set himself free, but the vicar was diligent, never pulling the dog along too fiercely, and stopping every so often to pat him and whisper affectionately in his ear, at which point the dog would offer licks and kisses so that trust could be established. On one of these occasions, as he stood up again, the vicar glanced in my direction and our eyes met and he shrugged his shoulders, smiling, and I found myself laughing and continuing to watch the pair as they made their way through the gates of the churchyard.