The Unseen (47 page)

But then nonchalance fills her, and a touch of mischief. Let the vicar come upon them. What is it to her? She is half curious to see what will happen – to see how Albert Canning will react, and how the theosophist will try to argue out of it. A tiny smile touches her lips, and onwards she goes, not wild like before, but walking steadily. Long strides, pointing her toes. She keeps her arms wide or held back behind her, fingers stretched out. She turns in slow circles, her face to the sky; just fast enough for the dress to swirl, to lift away from her legs, following the movement. And soon she is caught up in it again, this dance of hers; steady and hypnotic this time. Her mind empties and the rhythm captures her, and the sun lights the sky a little more as the seconds tick by, and she forgets about the vicar and the theosophist, and notices only that she is alive. And soon to be free; so soon. Clear lungs, clear head, the clear, resolute beat of her heart.

The vicar stands up from the grass to the west of the willow tree. He has slowly come close to them, low to the ground, concealed by barley, foxgloves and wild irises. Now he stands, right in front of her, so that she stops with a gasp, and lets her arms drop. The theosophist is behind her, lying on the ground.
Will he
photograph this?
she wonders. The expression on the vicar’s face. For it is quite a picture – pale skin, pale blue eyes so wide they might drop out of his head. His jaw hangs slack, tongue pressing softly behind his teeth. There is spittle on his bottom lip, tiny traces at the corners of his mouth, a little of it shining on his chin. Cat smiles, can’t help herself. She wonders whether to make him a bow, to end her performance thus, but something about him stops her. He recognises her, this she sees. And changes are working, behind the shifting muscles and lines of his face. Tiny twitches as the last of thought vanishes from his eyes and leaves nothing behind. An emptiness that suddenly scares her. Cat stops smiling, stands still. Only for a heartbeat, two heartbeats or three. She should move; her muscles begin to tighten. She should step aside, run to meet George and let the two men work this out between themselves; make order of their lies and beliefs and strategies, if they may. In the glare of the vicar’s vacant eyes, Cat is suddenly desperate to urinate, and the air seems to trickle from her lungs. But it is too late. The vicar’s arm comes up into the air. His binoculars, heavy and black, tremble in the hand at the end of that arm. Cat sees them, high above her head. An odd, unnatural outline against the far sky. Then they fall.

In darkness, Cat can hear voices. They waver and lurch, distorted out of all sense and meaning. In her head is a blinding pain, and even when she thinks she has opened her eyes, still she sees nothing. Her throat is wet, full of a warm liquid; what little air she can snatch must come past this, bubbling slowly, using all of her strength. She tries again to open her eyes, to see. Light fills her head like an explosion; the pain is excruciating. She shuts them again, holds them fast. The ground is swelling underneath her, shifting like water, rising and falling.
The sea?
she thinks, at once happy and uneasy. She can make no sense of it. The voices start again, high and then low, fast and then slow.
Hush
, she thinks.
Too loud
. Gradually, the voices even out, become just one voice, high with fear and disbelief.

‘Oh, God – what have you done? What have you done!’ She knows that voice, struggles to place it. A beautiful face, cruel too; laughing eyes.
Robin
. She tries to ask him what has happened, where she is. Why her head hurts and her eyes are blind and her mouth is full of blood – salty, tinged with iron. ‘Albert! You’ve
killed
her! You’ve … you’ve killed her! Albert!’ More words. Their meaning sifts slowly down to her, through layers of pain and confusion. She is puzzled.
Who is killed? I am not killed!
she says, but the words remain inside her head. She can’t make her mouth move, can’t make her tongue shape the words. Their disobedience enrages her. She tries to take a deep breath, to steel herself for the effort of moving, of sitting up, but her throat clogs and everything is too heavy, too painful. Her head is made of stone, and slowly crushing itself.

For a while, the voices fall silent. It could be seconds, minutes, years. Cat cannot tell. She drifts, rising and falling. The sun touches her face and she thinks it is the fire she built, to keep her mother warm as she died. The silence booms inside her head, thumping like a vast, vast drum, over and over. It’s her heartbeat – the pressure of it in her ears. ‘They … she … she must not be found, Albert. We must say nothing of this! Everything will be ruined … Take these, take the dress – Albert! Listen to me! Everything will be destroyed … all our work … Albert!’ The voice starts up again, fast and manic now, full of fear and trembling and wild desperation. Rough hands move her, manhandle her. Hands that jerk with panic. She is jolted about, her hair is pulled. She wants to protest at this, wants to be left alone. Each movement is torture, puts spikes of pain through her skull, worse even than the Holloway feeding tube, forced into her swollen and bloody nose for the tenth day running. She must get to George. He will chase them all away, he will protect her from these hands, these voices; he will help her to sit, to cough and clear her throat. ‘Albert! Take these. Oh, sweet Jesus … her
face
… Albert.
Take these –
take these!
Go back to the house and say nothing. Do you hear me? Albert? Say
nothing
!’

Cat is lifted up. She feels like she’s flying, just for a moment, but then she’s jolted again and the pain clouds everything. Time has disappeared, no longer has meaning. The voice has a new sound now. Wrenching, coughing; as strangled as she. ‘Oh, Cat … Cat. Oh, God …’ He’s crying, she realises.
Put me down!
Cat says silently. She is uneasy now. She wants to get to her feet; she wants to open her eyes. The booming in her ears is getting slower, and quieter, and while this should be a relief, it is not. It is not.
George!
she tries.
Help me. Please
. The theosophist’s breathing is hard and ragged, the jolting faster and harder. There’s a whispering sound, a gentle rushing.
Trees? The canal?
Robin is gasping and sobbing. ‘I’m so sorry, Cat!’ he says, over and over. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Now Cat is afraid, horribly afraid. With a violence of will she did not know she possessed, she opens her left eye. Light staggers into it, veers drunkenly into her thoughts. Trees, the canal, the bridge by the edge of the meadow where the lane crosses. How did they get here? A figure, in the distance, so familiar, so beloved.
George!
She screams, without a sound. He is running along the path towards her, fast and desperate. Then she is in the water, feels it closing over her face. For a second it eases the pain, folds her into a cool, green darkness. She does not breathe, no longer seems to need to; she is calm. George is coming. He will help her, protect her, take her up and make good her escape. She waits, and sure enough she feels his arms around her, the familiar heft of them, hard muscles over strong bones. She is lifted up, and the world is once again bright and fierce, spinning. She wishes she could open her eyes and look at him, wishes she could smile. There is a smile in her heart, to know he is holding her. She is safe. The pounding in her ears stutters into silence. She lets it go, and there is nothing else. Not even darkness.

*

Hester seats herself at her dressing table, stares into the mirror and tries to find some way, with powder and rouge, to mask the corruption of her face. She sees it in the outline of every feature, in every hair of her head. The tiny moist corners of her mouth; the crease of her lower lip into her chin; the space between her brows where a fine line is forming. Traces of the theosophist’s adulterous touch are everywhere. She can’t think how Albert, how everybody, can’t see it too. Except that Albert sees nothing, of course. Nothing but fairies and Robin Durrant. Her eyes are puffy, since she cried again in the night. Hester almost calls for Cat to bring up some slices of cucumber for her eyelids, but she can’t bring herself to. Can’t face the girl’s knowing expression, the way her black eyes see so clearly. She can’t help thinking that Cat will see her guilt – recognise it in an instant and pour scorn on her for what she has done. The thought is unbearable. Because Cat warned her, after all – not to trust the man, and to be rid of him if she could. And instead she’d let him take advantage of her, let him take the maidenhead she’d saved for Albert for so long. So very long. Her eyes blur so she can’t see to put on make-up. What right has she to hide her ugliness, anyway? The ugliness of what she has done. Hester rubs her eyes viciously, and rises to go downstairs.

As her foot hits the bottom step of the stairs, Hester pauses. She knows at once that something is wrong, something is different. As if a strange smell filled the air, or a clock that should have been ticking had stopped. She pauses and listens, and tries to place the source of the feeling. Mrs Bell is clattering the breakfast things as softly as she can in the kitchen, the sound drifting up through the floorboards. The hall clock’s deep tick in fact still plods; the library door is shut; light still pours through the ornate glass above the front door. But not from the dining room or drawing room. These other doorways opening into the hallway are dark, and this is what Hester isn’t used to seeing – what she can’t remember ever seeing.
She peers into each room, her stomach twisting when she looks at the drawing room window. The shutters are still tightly closed. She listens, holding her breath. The silence in the house, aside from the kitchen, is complete. More so than usual, she thinks, but can’t be sure. Cat moves on soft feet, just like her namesake. Hester goes to the cellar stairs, and down into the kitchen.

‘Good morning, Mrs Bell,’ she says, as the housekeeper lifts a steaming kettle from the stove and begins to mash a pot of tea.

‘Morning, madam,’ Sophie replies, putting down the kettle and wiping her hands on her apron. ‘How is the vicar? Is all well?’

‘Well, yes – that is, I haven’t seen Albert this morning … yet. Why do you ask?’ Hester frowns slightly. She feels the housekeeper appraising the state of her face – the pallor of it, the purple shadows under her eyes. Hester looks away, ashamed.

‘I thought he might have cut himself somehow – when I came down I found this dish towel by the sink, all bloodied.’ Sophie points to the stained cloth, in a pail of water by the door. ‘I put it in to soak straight away, and Cat can scrub it later, but I can’t promise all the stains will come out of it, madam. There was quite a lot of blood on it.’

‘Oh! How horrible … I do hope …’ Hester pauses. For some reason, her stomach is fluttering so much that her chest constricts, too tight to speak. She presses her fingers into her diaphragm, steadies herself. ‘Sophie,’ she says, in a voice that comes out odd and strained. ‘The shutters are all still closed upstairs. Where is Cat?’

‘Still closed? She’s not still in bed, surely – I turned the lock and banged on the door to be sure she was awake. Well over an hour ago.’ Sophie scowls.

‘But you haven’t seen her?’

‘No, but where else could she be? I locked the door when we went up, just as I’m supposed to …’

They are interrupted by a loud knock on the door. The two women pause, listen for the sound of footsteps going to answer it.
There are none. They exchange a glance, and then Sophie begins to undo her kitchen apron.

‘No, no. I shall answer it, Mrs Bell. Please don’t trouble yourself,’ Hester says. She goes up to the hallway, and past the deafening wrongness of the dark front rooms, still shuttered to the bright morning outside. A man in smart uniform is at the door, young and fair, his moustache little more than a reddish blurring of his upper lip. Hester recognises him from church. His cheeks are flushed with excitement.

‘Constable Pearce, isn’t it?’ she says, and her effort to smile produces nothing more than a slight tremble of her mouth.

‘Good morning, Mrs Canning, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m afraid I come with grave news, very grave news indeed. Is your husband at home? I would very much like to speak with him,’ the young policeman says, all in a rush.

‘I don’t … that is, he may be in his study, but he is often out at this hour … I would have to …’ She pauses, clasping her hands so tightly in front of her that the muscles begin to cramp. ‘What news is it? Please tell me.’ Constable Pearce shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, and his eyes fill with uncertainty.

‘I would much rather speak to your husband first, Mrs Canning. What I have to say is not suitable—’

‘Young man, if you have information regarding a member of my household, then please disclose it at once!’ Hester snaps, her heart racing so fast that it shakes her. The policeman flushes an even deeper colour, reluctance written all over him.

‘It’s your maid, Mrs Canning – Catherine Morley. I’m afraid she’s been found dead this morning.
Murdered
, I’m afraid,’ he says, not able to keep the thrill from his voice.

‘
What?
’ Hester whispers. For a second, everything is hung, everything pauses. Time seems to slow, and the halt between the tick and the tock of the clock stretches horribly long, and the air rushes out of Hester’s chest and will not return. She blinks and
says: ‘No, you’re quite mistaken.’ But even as she speaks, she turns, goes back to the stairs and begins to climb them.

‘Mrs Canning?’ Constable Pearce calls, uncertainly, still hovering on the threshold, but Hester ignores him. Her walk becomes a run, and then a scramble, up the attic stairs and along the corridor to Cat’s door. She throws it open, and in her head she pictures the girl leaning her elbows on the window sill, staring out into the sunshine. So clearly can she see this – short dark hair growing in the shape of a V down the back of a fragile neck – that she manages to be shocked when Cat is not there. The bed is neatly made, and no trace of the girl’s possessions is left. Her gaze sweeps the room desperately, as fear pours into her, cold as ice, and her eyes light upon a small white envelope on the wash stand. Downstairs, she hears Sophie Bell begin to wail. Sophie, who never could help but to find things out from people.