The Poisoned House (16 page)

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Chapter 35

Dr Ingle and Alexander left as well, and Samuel retreated to the sitting room. He looked utterly defeated, sitting with his head buried in his hands. I went to him and rested my hand on his good leg.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

‘There’s nothing anyone can do,’ he said. ‘I simply don’t understand it.’

‘What did that man mean?’ I asked. ‘That he’d served the family.’

‘That was Wallis Carter,’ said Samuel. ‘My father’s solicitor. I was hoping that if I got them together, the doctors and the lawyers, then they would see my father would be better off elsewhere.’

‘You mean the –’ I was going to say ‘madhouse’, but that wasn’t right. ‘You mean an asylum?’

Pain was etched on Samuel’s face. ‘A hospital,’ he said. ‘I want him to be looked after. By God, Lock can barely get up the stairs without clutching at his chest. Rob’s heart’s in the right place, but he can’t give my father the necessary care . . .’ He ran his hand through his hair again and looked at me with wretched eyes. ‘Abi, they think I want his money, for heaven’s sake!’

I felt powerless. I could see both sides.

‘Well, he seemed to be much better today,’ I offered. ‘He was very – what was the word Alexander used? – very lucid.’

‘But what about tomorrow?’ said Samuel. ‘And the next day?’ His voice had risen. ‘What about when he decides to thrust his hand in the fire because he’s feeling cold, or steps under a carriage when his mind’s elsewhere? Oh, Abi, I don’t know that I could live with myself!’

He was distraught. ‘But I could look after him,’ I said. ‘Now that we know the truth. I’d be glad to, after all he did for my mother and me. And there’s Mrs Cotton, of course –’

‘Lillian!’ Samuel exploded. ‘Abi, I’d no more trust my aunt to saddle Lancelot than to look after my father. The first chance she got, she’d –’ He broke off.

But I had caught his meaning, and wanted more. ‘You think she means him harm?’ I said.

‘Forgive me, I’ve spoken out of turn.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Go on, Sammy.’

He leant back on the sofa, and didn’t speak for a long time.

‘I shouldn’t say this,’ he said, ‘but you’re one of the family now; you need to know.’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘I think that Lillian might have been taking advantage of my father, in his less lucid moments. I spoke to Lock, but the old chap was too damned reticent to say anything. I think she might be taking his money.’

I nodded, ready to tell him about all the other things: the dinner parties while he’d been away, the borrowed clothes and jewellery from his mother, the beatings. I saw the conversation in my mind’s eye, building to a crescendo – the accusation that I’d harboured since that first visit by Dr Reinhardt. That she was a murderer.

The door opened, and a breath of cold air blew through the sitting room, bringing with it Mrs Cotton. How long she’d been standing outside, I didn’t know.

‘Do you not have work to do?’ she said.

I glanced at Sammy, who looked suddenly anxious. He gave me a little nod, as if to say, ‘You should be on your way; now is not the time.’

So I went past Mrs Cotton and out of the door, without even a trace of the fear I used to feel. She could do nothing to me now.

Whether it was through contrivance or unlucky chance, Mrs Cotton kept me busy until late at night. I didn’t have a chance to speak with Samuel about the most important matters. I lay in bed, wondering where Lizzy was now. I tried to think of her tucked up safely at her sister’s house.

The next morning, after the fires were done in all the downstairs rooms, I went up to light His Lordship’s. How would he be this morning? I wondered. Perhaps we could have a proper conversation. I felt the overwhelming urge to thank him for all he’d done. For loving my mother and taking her in. For looking after us both.

His room was dark as always, and I knelt beside the grate to get the kindling started beneath the coals.

It was then that I noticed his hand trailing from the side of the bed. My first impression was that such a posture must be very uncomfortable for him. Then I saw that his eyes were open. He was watching me silently. I stood up in sudden fright.

‘Sir?’ I said.

He didn’t answer.

‘Lord Greave?’

I realised then that he was dead.

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Chapter 36

I ran to the top of the stairs and called down. ‘Sammy! Sammy!’ I shouted. Mrs Cotton was first out of her room, with a look of confusion and rage.

‘In the name of God, girl, what are you screaming about?’

‘His Lordship –’

She gripped the banisters and made her way quickly past me. I was trembling where I stood as Samuel next emerged from his room in his dressing gown. His hair, normally so tidy, was flopping over his forehead.

‘Sammy,’ I said. ‘Please, Sammy. Come up.’

He must have understood, because he went back into his room to fetch his crutch.

‘Help me, will you?’ he said. I could see his face already creasing, as if tears were close to the surface.

I went down and took his left arm over my shoulder and together we climbed the stairs. Mrs Cotton was standing over the bed. She wasn’t crying – in fact she showed no emotion at all.

‘He’s dead,’ she said.

Samuel shook his head, but his eyes were fixed on his father’s body.

‘But . . . but yesterday, he was fine. He was healthy. It can’t –’

I had stopped shaking. I’d seen one other dead body before, and that was my own mother. But there was something about this picture of death that troubled me. I couldn’t put my finger on it then.

‘The doctor must be sent for,’ Mrs Cotton said coldly.

Dr Ingle came and went quickly, expressing his regrets to both son and housekeeper. Heart failure, he announced, according to Rob. At about eleven o’clock we staff were confined to the lower ground floor while the undertakers came to take away the body. We could hear them grunting with the exertions of getting it down all the flights of steps. Rob, red-eyed, stood up at one point and said desperately, ‘I should go and help them,’ but Mr Lock insisted it was the family’s business, not ours.

Shortly after, Rob found something to do when he was asked to prepare the carriage. Apparently Sammy would be going to see the funeral directors. He requested that Mr Lock go with him. On his way out, the butler asked that I draw the curtains across the house, in mourning, then clean His Lordship’s room. Sammy, still pale with shock, nodded his approval. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Abi,’ he said.

Rob helped him out to the waiting carriage.

I went to the cupboard on the first floor to get the polishes and brushes, then continued up to the room. The bed was unmade and the imprint of His Lordship’s body was still clear on the sheets. The fire was burning as if the occupant was expected back at any moment.

I looked at the bed and had an odd sensation that something wasn’t right. Then I saw it.

The pillows.

They lay side by side. One had been beneath His Lordship’s head, the other was on the opposite side of the bed.

He never sleeps like that
, I thought.
He always sleeps with two pillows beneath his head
.

Maybe he’d only just gone to bed, and collapsed while getting in. That would explain his arm, flung so awkwardly to one side.

Or else . . . I could hardly bear to think it.

Or else somebody had come into the room the previous night. They’d pulled one of the pillows from underneath His Lordship’s head and held it over his face while he struggled to claw them off. Then they’d put the pillow to one side, not realising how particular the dead man was about his habits.

My legs felt weak. Why hadn’t I spoken to Samuel yesterday? With mounting horror, I recalled what he’d said – that his aunt might … do something if she had the chance. Well, now she’d done it. She’d smothered a weak old man in his bed.

First my mother and now my father.

As I went down the stairs, my resolve strengthened. I had stalled for long enough. I reached the kitchen breathless.

‘Miss McMahon?’ I called, searching the rooms for Cook. ‘Deirdre?’

She wasn’t in the scullery or the kitchen. The water closet was unoccupied. I looked out of the back door, then went through into the laundry. Was she using the opportunity to take a drink somewhere? I wondered. I even checked the pantry. ‘Cook?’

‘I sent her out,’ said Mrs Cotton.

I spun round and pressed myself up against the pantry door.

She stood not four feet behind me, with her hands behind her back. She never stood like that normally, and I sensed she was holding something.

Fear took hold of my stomach and squeezed.

‘Sent her where?’ I said.

She didn’t answer at first, but looked at me as if she could burn me with her eyes.

‘On some errands,’ she said.

I flicked a glance to my left. The door to the servants’ hall was closed. I could get to it before her, but she’d reach me before I could escape.

There was a rolling pin on the sideboard. Just too far away.

Rowena came through from the scullery, lazily licking her teeth in a yawn. She seemed to sense the danger in the room, and scurried away again.

‘Perhaps you’d care to explain this?’ said Mrs Cotton.

She brought her hands from behind her back, and I saw she wasn’t holding a weapon of any sort. It was the Ouija cloth.

‘It’s mine,’ I said, reaching for it. She snatched it back, and with her other hand caught my wrist and pulled me close to her. ‘Devil child!’ she hissed, and a spray of spittle landed on my face.

I tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let go. ‘Give it to me!’ I shouted.

She twisted my arm back, and I cried out as pain blazed through my elbow and reached into my shoulder. ‘You bring this into my house!’ she screamed.

‘It’s not your house!’ I shouted back. ‘It will never be your house. Even if you kill everyone in it.’

She pushed me to the floor and stood over me. ‘
What
did you say, child?’

‘I know you killed them,’ I said. I crawled towards the sideboard, and she came behind me. ‘You killed them both, and I won’t let you get away with it.’

I put a hand on the sideboard and felt for the rolling pin. My fingertips found it, but it slipped away.

A whimper escaped my lips. ‘I won’t let you –’

Her hands were on my shoulder and she yanked me up. I felt my dress tear, then I was dragged backwards through the kitchen. I couldn’t find my footing on the stone floor. We were in the scullery now. One of her hands left me, and I heard the scraping of a door. Too late I realised what it was. The floor seemed to slip away and I landed with a thump in the cold space of the cellar, my ankle twisting painfully beneath me.

Mrs Cotton stood with the trapdoor in her hand, looking down. Her chest rose and fell quickly. She disappeared, then came back with the Ouija cloth. She hurled it in my face. ‘You can stay down there with your devil’s toy for now.’

The door slammed shut.

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Chapter 37

Cradling my ankle in the pitch darkness, I felt gingerly along the bone. Nothing seemed out of place – it was just a nasty sprain. As the adrenalin died, so an ache set in through my other limbs. It was cold down in that cellar and I shivered in my cleaning smock. My headscarf had come loose in the struggle and must have been lost up there in the kitchen.

How long would it be until Cook returned? A couple of hours? More? Had Mrs Cotton planned to put me down here all along, or was it merely that her temper had got the better of her? I thought the latter. I expected her to come back at any minute with a weapon of some sort. What would she use? I wondered. A poker from the fire? A knife?

Fear took over again, forcing my breath out in ragged, uneven gasps. To die down here, bleeding in the darkness . . .

But the minutes passed and she didn’t return. Gradually my breathing slowed, and I began to assess the situation with a clearer mind. If she did mean to finish me off before anyone returned, then she had picked a poor place to do it. She was strong, but would she be able to get my body out of this deep hole without help? And without leaving a trail of evidence?

At the hinge of the trapdoor was a pale crack of light, a narrow gap where the daylight could seep through. My eyes began to adjust to the gloom. There were weapons down here too – wine bottles in the stacks. I could strike her before she even made it to the bottom of the awkward steps.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised this was the safest place to be. All I had to do was sit tight and wait for someone else to arrive home. My shouts would alert them and then I would tell them everything. And that would be the end of Mrs Cotton.

I tried to make myself comfortable against a pile of boxes, and had to shift one which was teetering. It was full of candles! I took one out and reached into my apron to find my matchbox, but it wasn’t there. I must have left it beside His Lordship’s fire. All I had was the wretched wooden fruit from the drawing room. I couldn’t light a candle with that!

I was about to hurl the candle aside when a tiny glow appeared at the base of the wick. I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but the red ember grew, and suddenly the candle sparked into life, burning with a bright flame. I almost dropped it in shock.

The flame flickered – whether with my breath or something else, I didn’t know.

‘You’re here,’ I whispered.

This time the flame didn’t move, but melted wax began to drip over the side of the candle. I wedged it between two crates, staring at it in amazement. The cold cellar already felt warmer. Any lingering doubts were burnt away by that tiny flame.

But with the joy it brought came an immense frustration. She was here, beside me, around me, with me, but I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t hold her or speak to her . . .

Oh! But I
could
.

I had the Ouija. I had the ball.

My heart beat more quickly as I laid out the cloth on the floor. It was hard-packed earth and uneven, but that couldn’t be helped. I placed the ball in the centre and laid my fingers loosely on top.

‘Mama?’ I said. ‘Are you here?’

This time there was no pause. The ball rolled quickly to ‘Aye’.

‘Mama, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘As soon as Sammy’s back, I’ll tell him everything.’

The ball rolled to ‘No’. I hadn’t even asked a question.

I brought it back to the centre. I didn’t understand.

‘Why, Mama? They have to know. She killed His Lordship too. She killed my father – my real father.’

The ball went again to ‘No’. This couldn’t be the uneven floor. It had happened in my room just the same.

I felt like shouting, but there was no one to shout at.

I forced my voice to remain calm.

‘Why not tell me?’ I said. ‘Is there something else? Someone else?’

The ball suddenly felt very warm. It travelled quickly to six different letters. By the time it reached the third, I knew the name it would spell.

When it stopped over the last letter, I picked it up and threw it across the room. It clattered between the wine bottles, then rolled slowly back towards my feet.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to.

The candle flickered and died.

The spirit was gone.

The name it had spelt was Samuel.