Thorn (6 page)

Thalia stood up. ‘I'd hoped this wouldn't be necessary,' she said to Flora. ‘But you'd better come upstairs. John, will you come as well? And George? But the rest of you had better stay here.'

Imogen's room was not quite in darkness, and the curtains had been dragged back from the windows to show the wintry blackness beyond.

Thalia and Flora stood in the doorway with John Shilling just behind them. The bedroom was filled with creeping shadows, and with the dry rustling of the wind in the ivy on the outside wall. It was impossible to avoid thinking that it sounded exactly like dozens of dry, bony hands being rubbed together with evil glee.

The casement window was closed, and the lattice of lead strips that made it rather charming in the daytime cast its silhouette harshly across the bed, like iron bars on a prison floor. Beyond the window, less distinct, was the ghostly outline of an old oak tree, gnarled and twisted, its leafless branches like huge-knuckled hands against the night, lifted, ready to snatch up its prey.

Flora said abruptly, ‘I drew the curtains and switched on the bedside lamp. It wasn't really dark outside yet but I thought it would be friendlier for the child. She was tucked into bed and half asleep when I left her.'

John Shilling said, ‘Someone's opened the curtains. And someone's switched the light off.'

And someone's lying in bed with blood-dabbled hands and blood-smeared jowls
. . .

Imogen was lying amidst the tumbled blankets, sound asleep. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks, and her hair was dishevelled. She looked impossibly young and unbearably innocent. She wore a thin cotton shirt, a rather masculine garment that only emphasised her femininity, and in the shadowy room it was impossible to tell if it was white or cream or pale blue. But across the front were several dark, irregular splashes and the hand that had fallen loosely over the side of the bed was stained with the same dreadful, thick darkness.

Because blood turns black in the moonlight, my dears
. . .

Across one cheek was a smear of blood, and John and Flora – the one a slightly drunken and thwarted romantic, the other a practical, shrewd feminist – shared a vivid, sickening picture of Imogen leaning over the drugged bodies of her parents, her hair falling about her face, and pushing it impatiently back with a bloodied hand. Like someone baking and leaving a floury mark without realising, thought Flora.

Thalia said, in a soft voice, ‘Do you see there on the floor? Under her hand?'

Just beneath the outflung hand, lying as if it had slipped unnoticed from Imogen's grasp, was a long-bladed kitchen knife – a bread knife or a carving knife. The handle still bore marks of bloodied fingerprints and the blade was covered in blood to the hilt.

A
unt Dilys could not stop crying. ‘She was such a pretty little girl,' she kept saying. ‘So lovely. So bright and clever.'

If Dilys – if anyone – was going to become maudlin, it must be nipped in the bud at once. Thalia took the seat behind the desk again, and drew in breath to speak.

She was forestalled. Rosa said briskly, ‘Lucienne was beautiful. So, apparently, was Sybilla. She was a Beauty in the days when they gave it a capital B.'

‘And,' said a sepulchral voice from the back of the room, ‘we all know what
those
two did.'

‘Lizzie Borden,' remarked a frivolous cousin who worked in advertising in Bloomsbury, and was told to hush.

‘I don't see how you can know about Lucienne when all the photographs were burned,' began Cousin Elspeth querulously.

‘Oh, don't latch on to trivialities, Elspeth. The thing is,' said Aunt Rosa, glaring round the room, ‘to consider what's to be done. The rest of us don't know the details, and from the look on Flora's face I don't think we want to know, but I take it there's no doubt about the child's guilt?'

‘No. Dear God, no. Must have stabbed both of them several times, judging by the amount of blood—'

‘The knife lying there in her room, and her own nightgown drenched in gore—'

George and Flora both spoke at once and stopped and begged one another's pardon.

‘Didn't either of them struggle?' asked someone. ‘Or call out?'

‘They were both drugged,' said Thalia. ‘Dr Shilling gave them both sedatives.'

John managed to say, ‘It's likely that neither of them knew what was happening.'

Aunt Rosa said briskly that this, at least, was one mercy, and looked round the room challengingly. ‘I can't speak for everyone,' she said, ‘but for myself I don't mind admitting that I think we should consider covering this up if we can. For the sake of everyone here, and for the sake of the child herself.'

Dilys emerged from behind her handkerchief to point out all over again that it would not be the first time they had covered up something dreadful in the family; you could almost say it was history repeating itself, or even nemesis, or the sins of the fathers visiting on the—

‘Yes, but look here,' hastily interrupted Cousin Elspeth's husband, who could put up with a good deal but not Aunt Dilys becoming Biblical, ‘this is – well, it's murder. We can't connive at murder.'

‘Certainly not.'

‘Couldn't agree to it for a second.'

‘Surprised you even suggested it, Rosa.'

Thalia said, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, ‘But you know, it would be the most appalling scandal if the truth ever got out.'

‘Oh, I don't think we should let that weigh—'

‘Quite right. Duty before inclination.'

‘But have you thought,' said Thalia, ‘how much damage the truth would do Ingram's? I mean as a business concern? As a
profitable
business concern.'

There was an abrupt silence. This was putting a rather different complexion on matters. All of the aunts had inherited shares in Ingram's from grandfathers or uncles, and all of them enjoyed a modest affluence as a result. Dilys and Rosa were part of several very pleasant little social circles in Battersea, which would not have been possible without their twice-yearly dividends. Elspeth was married to George who was thought to make a reasonably good living out of exporting porcelain, but it was unlikely that he could have run to the very expensive country club in Maidenhead or the delightful cottage in Stratford without his wife's income. The frivolous cousin, whose name was Juliette, dashed around London in an open-top BMW and had a flat near Kensington High Street, both of which were certainly beyond her salary. And even Flora, with the pensions of two dead husbands and the alimony of a third live one, found herself hesitating and remembering such things as season tickets for Glyndebourne and the Royal Ballet, and first-class travel.

She said, rather sharply, ‘But even if we agreed, how could we do it? It would mean deceiving undertakers, coroners . . . The – well, the actual wounds would have to be disguised as well. Could we really do all that?'

There was a thoughtful silence. After a moment Thalia said, as if still considering the matter, ‘It might be possible. We would have to trust one another absolutely, of course. If we went ahead, there'd have to be no attacks of conscience afterwards.'

‘If anyone wants to bow out, they'd better do so now,' said Rosa. ‘Just get up and go. No one will think any the worse.'

Juliette murmured, ‘Leave now or for ever hold your peace,' and Aunt Dilys said very firmly that they were only
considering
the idea.

Cousin Elspeth's husband, who was as anxious as anyone to avoid a scandal, said, ‘But what about all the – well, the practical things? Could they be coped with? It would mean – well, for one thing, it would mean cleaning up the room before the undertakers were let in.'

‘They could be taken to another bedroom. Royston and Eloise. And, well, laid out tidily.'

‘Could we do that?'

‘Well, George, we'd have to.'

‘So long as nobody expects me to do it.'

As if a signal had been given, everyone stopped talking and stared at one another.

Flora said, in a voice of horror, ‘We're talking ourselves into it, aren't we? Listen to us. We aren't asking
if
we're going to do it, we're asking
how
.'

From his slightly removed seat by the window, John Shilling was aware of a remnant of medical integrity nudging him into speech. He said, ‘If we do agree to this, and if we can work out a foolproof plan, what about Imogen herself? What would happen to her?'

‘She can't be left at large,' said Rosa at once. ‘I couldn't agree to that. I hope nobody thought I meant that.'

‘I certainly wouldn't agree to it,' said John.

Several people said they could not agree to it either.

‘Well, has anyone any suggestions? Flora?'

Flora said, thoughtfully, ‘The idea of some kind of private nursing home presents itself. Somewhere discreet and comfortable, but secure.'

‘Strict but kind.' This was Aunt Dilys.

‘And a longish stay until we are sure – until we have evidence one way or the other as to her state of mind.' Flora looked at them all. ‘If necessary, an indefinite stay. I would far rather put her somewhere like that than let the state put her in gaol or Broadmoor.'

‘Or somewhere like Thornacre,' whispered Aunt Dilys.

Thornacre.
The word dropped into the sudden silence like a deadweight dropping into a black, fathomless pool. Thornacre had never really belonged to the Ingrams but all of them knew its history, both the past and the more immediate. They all knew how the house had been built for Sybilla by the rich mill-owner she had married and how they had eventually been forced to shut her away in one wing of the place with a keeper and bars on the doors. Thornacre had long since passed into the hands of the Northumbrian authorities, but the name still brought a shiver of horror to most of the family. It was like having a bruise that never quite healed so that it hurt if someone pressed it. It had hurt last month when Thornacre had been on the national news, one of the mental homes investigated by the Rackham Commission.

Rosa was the first to speak. She said, very briskly, ‘Look here, wherever we put her, whatever Royston wanted or didn't want, there's still the matter of the death certificates.' She looked challengingly around the room. ‘Has anyone thought about that?'

Every eye turned to John Shilling, and as if the words were being scraped out of him, he said, ‘Royston had been suffering from angina pectoris. An infarct – that's a coronary thrombosis –wouldn't be unexpected. It might even have been the actual cause. And his medical records would be consistent with that verdict. Yes, I could sign a certificate to that effect, and with reasonable honesty.'

‘And Eloise?'

Eloise . . . For the first time, John realised that he was something of a linchpin in this bizarre situation, and the knowledge steadied him slightly. ‘That's a bit different,' he said. ‘Unless a doctor's been in attendance for the fourteen days immediately prior to death, a certificate can't be given and the coroner has to be informed.' He paused. ‘I was treating Eloise for several minor illnesses but none of them were consistent with – with sudden death.'

‘Ah. A pity.'

‘It would mean tampering with existing medical records, making out a false death certificate. If I was caught, I would unquestionably be struck off. I would probably be imprisoned for several years.' The enormity of it showed briefly in his eyes. ‘I oughtn't to be even having this conversation . . .'

‘But the very fact that you are . . .' Thalia let the sentence remain unfinished.

‘If ever there was talk, if ever an exhumation was called for—'

‘Can't that be got around by having them cremated?' asked George.

‘Oh no, that's out of the question. For cremation, two signatures are needed on the death certificate.'

‘We can't risk that,' said Rosa at once.

‘We're asking too much of you,' put in Aunt Dilys. ‘Yes, of course we are.'

Asking too much of him . . . John Shilling stared round the room.

After a moment, Thalia said gently, ‘It would save Imogen, John. It would save Eloise's daughter from an almost certain life sentence as well, if not in gaol, then in Broadmoor.'

‘Or Thornacre,' said Dilys.

‘Oh, I don't think we should even consider that as a possibility,' said Rosa. ‘And anyway—'

‘Lucienne was put in Thornacre, wasn't she?' asked Cousin Elspeth.

‘Yes, she was actually,' said Thalia. ‘I think it was privately funded in those days. Pre-NHS and welfare state, of course.'

Juliette asked if Thornacre was going to be allowed to continue as an asylum after the findings of the Rackham Commission, and was rather glad that she had thought of a word other than madhouse.

‘Yes, I think so,' said Thalia.

‘Well, I'm very surprised to hear that,' put in Aunt Dilys, ‘after all the scandal. A nightmare place, they called it. The attendants used to lock the troublesome patients into the old outbuildings so that they couldn't hear them screaming. Wash houses and sheds. And there was a really bleak part which was once the workhouse in eighteen fifty-something – they put the really difficult ones in there and left them for days with only a trough of water and no proper sanitation or anything. And to think that Lucienne was once—'

‘Dilys, it would have been very different in Lucienne's time,' Thalia pointed out.

‘Is it National Health Service now?' asked George, and hoped this did not sound as mercenary as he feared.

‘Oh yes.'

It was at this point that John Shilling suddenly saw that although he had never been of much service to Eloise during her life, he could be of service to her now. He could save his untouchable and untouched lady from the prurient curiosity of the world, and in the process he might save her daughter as well. Gaol or Broadmoor. Or Thornacre. Dear God, Aunt Dilys was right about that. Wherever else Imogen went, she must not go to Thornacre. Royston would not have wanted it, and Eloise, so fastidious, so
private
, would not have wanted it either.