The Hidden Evil

by R. L. Stine

  Maggie felt her stomach twist. She pressed herself more tightly against the carriage floor.

  “I would not miss such a hanging for all the tea in China,” joked the old driver. “Giddyap!”

  Another shake of the reins.

  At last—they were leaving the prison grounds.

  Maggie didn’t sit up. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was far, far away from the prison. And the noose.

  Several miles later, the carriage came to a halt. The man with the mustache opened the door and helped her out without a word. He rushed her over to a shabby wood building and led her inside.

  A short, round woman stood waiting. “She is all yours, Priscilla,” the man said, his walrus mustache twitching. “I must get myself a drink before my heart bursts. What a business!”

  “Seems you always have an excuse for taking a drop, Otto,” Priscilla muttered. To Maggie, she said, “Come, miss. This way.”

  The round woman took Maggie by the hand and ushered her into the dingy parlor. She shut the sliding door behind her.

  “Put this kerchief on. It will hide that cropped head of yours. Such a cruel thing, to cut a woman’s hair like that. Well, it will grow back. And no one will hurt you anymore, miss, if we can help it.”

  It had been so long since Maggie had heard a kind word. “God bless you,” she mumbled as she covered her hair with the kerchief. She tied a tight knot under her chin.

  “Now I will turn my back, miss,” Priscilla added, “while you change into these clothes.” She held out a pile of clothing. “It is not the finery you are used to, but I am afraid it is the best I can offer. And besides, my husband thinks these poor clothes might offer you a better costume. Everyone will be looking for a rich lady, after all.”

  “If only there were some way I could repay—”

  “Do not worry about that. Did not my son Thomas explain why we are doing this? Now hurry. I have packed some corn bread for you in this traveling bag. And all the money we could spare to help you on your journey.”

  My journey? thought Maggie. Where am I going?

  But she did as she was told. And the next thing she knew Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs had her back outside, back into the coach.

  “Where?” she asked. In her confusion, she felt unable to form the question any more clearly than that.

  “Out of the city, miss,” said Priscilla. “And it would be better if you never came back.”

  Maggie pictured Henrietta smiling at her through the grate of her cell door. Rage burned in Maggie’s heart. I can’t let her get away with it. I can’t let her get away with the murder of my father.

  She tried to climb back out of the carriage, but Mr. Dobbs blocked her way. “You do not understand, sir,” she told him. “I have found my father’s true murderer. I must have her arrested at once!”

  Mr. Dobbs paled. “If you stay in the city, you will only get yourself hanged. And everyone who helped you to escape will be hanged along with you.”

  Maggie had not thought of that. Mr. Dobbs was right. She had to leave her old life behind forever.

  At least she would never face anything worse than her months in prison. Or so she thought.

  Chapter

  7

  Boston, 1858

  “Maggie had to start a new life,” Timothy told his friends as they sat around the fire. “And that life began with a position as a governess for a family called Malbourne here in Boston. Her charges were two little boys whose mother had recently died of influenza.”

  “Maggie took on a new name—Maggie Thomas. She felt certain the worst time in her life was over. But she was wrong.”

  The door to the library swung open.

  All heads turned sharply, with alarm.

  It is the mood of the story, thought Timothy. The story has begun to work its evil upon them.

  “Pardon the interruption, Master Timothy,” said Lucy, the Fiers’ mousy little maid. She bowed her head. “Your stepmother thought you would want some light.”

  Outside the windows of the library, darkness had fallen. An icy winter wind howled.

  Lucy moved quietly around the room lighting the wicks of the gaslights in the wall sconces. None of Timothy’s friends said a word. They just watched as, one after another, the tiny flames sprang to life.

  Even when they were all lit, the glass lamps left much of the room in shadow.

  Lucy curtsied and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  All eyes turned back to Timothy.

  He paused to take a sip of cider. The hot, dark liquid seared his throat. He still felt half-frozen from his day outside in the snow.

  Or was it the story itself that chilled his bones?

  “I say, Timothy, since you have stopped, I must lodge a complaint,” Henry Clinton interrupted. “You promised us a ghost story. And so far you have told us only of a cold-blooded murder.”

  The group of youths all laughed. But not with the same ease as they might have before Timothy started his tale.

  “I am coming to the ghost presently,” Timothy answered. “Believe me, you should not be in such a hurry to hear of it. It is a ghastly business. And you have broken your promise, Henry. I said no interruptions. Now if you wish me to stop—”

  “What?” cried Henry. “Never!”

  “Oh, please go on!” urged Betsy.

  “Yes, Timothy, please,” called Phillip Eastwick with a grin. “We shall not break our promise again.”

  “Very well,” said Timothy.

  Outside, a horse’s hooves clattered over the cobblestone street. The animal whinnied as if frightened.

  Timothy picked out one member of the group who was half-hidden by the shadows.

  It will be easier to tell this tale to one person, he thought. Focusing his eyes on the shadowy figure, he forced himself to continue. . . .

  Chapter

  8

  Boston, 1847

  Maggie peered out the carriage window at the cloudy, gray day. She saw a red-breasted robin tug a worm from the ground with its long, sharp beak.

  Then she spotted a wooden sign that read Tanglewood. Carvings of berries and brambles surrounded the word.

  We’re here, Maggie thought. We have reached the Malbourne’s estate—and today I begin my position as governess. Nervousness fluttered in Maggie’s stomach.

  You have had several governesses, Maggie told herself. It should not be difficult to act as one for two little boys.

  The lane curved sharply and the estate sprang into view so suddenly she almost gasped. So big. With twin towers rising up from its ivy-covered walls.

  Maggie shivered. She could not help being reminded of another building with towers like a fortress.

  The prison.

  A feeling of gloom settled over Maggie. She shook her head. This is no way to start a new life.

  Tanglewood is a house of mourning, she reminded herself. Of course there is a sad air about it. But you will help change that.

  The carriage stopped in front of the flagstone path leading to the front door. The driver opened the carriage door, and Maggie climbed down. He pulled her lone traveling bag off the roof. Thump! He dropped the bag at her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “My goodness. It certainly is a vast and impressive home, is it not?”

  The servant nodded gravely.

  What a disagreeable man! Maggie thought. “Where will I find Mr. Malbourne?” she asked.

  “You will not find him,” the man told her gruffly. “He is not at home.” And with that news, he climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Git!” he cried to the big gray horses. He snapped the reins over their backs.

  Maggie watched as the carriage rounded the drive. He must be returning to the stables. She picked up her bag. It’s light, she thought. One of the good things about owning so few possessions.

  She walked up the wide path to the huge front door. A brass lion’s head knocker snarled down at her. She reached up and rapped it twice. Clang! Clang!
>
  She knocked several more times. Then she tried the door. Open. She let herself into the vast entry hall. A cold draft blew down her neck.

  “Hello? Anyone about?” Her voice echoed in the huge room. She took a few more steps—and an icy hand laced itself with hers.

  Maggie squealed and jerked her hand away. Who did that?

  She stared down—and found a child of seven at most. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “You gave me a scare! Where did you come from?”

  The little boy giggled. “I’m good at sneaking up on people,” he confessed. “Cook!” he hollered. “The new governess is here! Come and see! She is beautiful!”

  “And who might you be?” Maggie asked. “Andrew or Garret?”

  The boy grinned up at her. “How do you know our names?”

  “Because your father wrote to me about you and told me what fine young sons he has. Now which son are you?”

  “Andrew,” the boy announced.

  My word, thought Maggie. All my fears about starting this new job, and look at this boy. He’s sweet and friendly, and he’s adorable with those blond curls and that little blue suit. It will be a pleasure to care for such a child.

  “And what is your name?” the boy asked her cheerfully.

  “You may call me Miss Thomas,” Maggie answered.

  “Miss Thomas,” the boy dutifully repeated.

  Now what? Maggie thought. She had little experience in speaking with children. She noticed a ring on one of his fingers. The letters A.M. had been ornately inscribed on a shiny red garnet stone.

  “That is a beautiful ring, Andrew,” Maggie said. “Was it a—”

  Before she could finish her question, a bony woman in a black uniform bustled into the entry hall, drying her hands on her white apron as she came.

  “I am so sorry,” the woman told Maggie. “I was in the larder and did not hear you arrive. Welcome to Tanglewood. I am Cook, or so they call me here. I see you have already met Master Andrew.” Cook patted the boy’s blond curly head.

  “So I have,” Maggie answered.

  “I trust you did not have too horrid a journey,” Cook rushed on. “You must be tired, and starving to boot.”

  Cook is the one who appears to be starving, Maggie thought. She is so bony and skinny. I can’t believe she eats much of her own cooking!

  “I have a lunch prepared for you,” Cook continued. “Mary! Come in and meet our new governess!”

  A young maid hurried in and stammered out a greeting.

  “She is new, and quite shy,” Cook whispered.

  “Hello, Mary,” Maggie said. The maid blushed in response.

  Maggie felt a twinge of jealousy as she noted Mary’s thick hair done up in a bun. It was almost as fiery and coppery as her own.

  In the months since her escape, Maggie’s hair had grown out enough for her to stop wearing a kerchief. But it would be a long time before it was as glorious as it once had been.

  “Take Miss Thomas’s bag to her room, Mary, while I feed her. We have left the poor starving thing all alone in the entrance hall and given her a terrible first impression of Tanglewood.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Maggie assured her.

  The maid curtsied. Then she bent down and picked up Maggie’s bag. She hurried up the staircase that wound around one side of the entrance hall.

  “But I must say, the man who drove me here did seem to be in rather poor spirits,” Maggie continued.

  Cook crossed to the window and peered outside. “That is Mr. Malbourne’s personal manservant, George Squires, and a sourer gentleman you will never find. But I suppose he has reason to be.”

  She lowered her voice and put a hand to her mouth to shield her words from young Master Andrew. “I am afraid his wife has run off and left him,” she confided.

  “Oh, I see,” Maggie answered.

  “Andrew, go call your brother to lunch, please,” Cook asked.

  Andrew didn’t move.

  “Hurry along now,” Cook said more sharply.

  Andrew grabbed Cook by the hand and pulled her away from Maggie. Cook smiled apologetically, then leaned down to listen to Andrew.

  Maggie could only catch a word here and there. “What if he . . . something bad . . . like the others . . .”

  Embarrassed to stand there listening, Maggie wandered around the entrance hall. She admired the fancy paintings that hung on the walls. The Malbournes appeared to be even richer than she once had been.

  Maggie stopped in front of the portrait of a lovely blond woman. Probably the boys’ mother, she thought. A shiver ran through her. I must be standing in another draft.

  But she didn’t move. The painting fascinated her—although she felt almost frightened when she stared at it.

  It is simply a painting of a poor young woman who died here, Maggie scolded herself.

  She heard a small sound behind her. Someone is watching me! she thought. The short hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Right at the spot where the prison guard’s shears had done their nasty work.

  She turned around.

  No one there.

  Then she gazed up. A boy stared down at her over the edge of the balcony.

  “You must be Garret,” Maggie called.

  The boy didn’t answer. His face twisted into a scowl. He leaned farther over the railing and threw something at her.

  The object hurtled toward Maggie’s head!

  Chapter

  9

  Maggie jumped back.

  A heavy vase shattered on the floor at her feet.

  For a moment, Maggie stood frozen to the spot. Then she gazed up at the balcony. The scowling little face was gone.

  Cook and Andrew ran over to her. “Oh dear, oh goodness,” mumbled Cook. “Are you all right?”

  “I—I am fine,” Maggie said. She stared down at the broken vase and her knees began to tremble. It had come so close, so close.

  That would be a fine twist of fate! she thought. To escape from the hangman’s noose, only to be killed by a falling vase!

  Cook glared up toward the balcony, her long, thin face flushing red. “Garret,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  Andrew tugged Maggie’s hand. He appeared terrified. “Are you sure you are all right, Miss Thomas?”

  “Yes, Andrew, I am. Thank you.”

  “Did Garret do that?” Andrew asked. His voice quivered.

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m sure it was an accident,” she told him. She turned to Cook for support. But the other woman didn’t say a word.

  Of course it was an accident, Maggie told herself. Garret did appear to have thrown the vase. But he has no reason to want to hurt me. I have only just arrived in Tanglewood.

  Cook started up the stairs, with Andrew at her heels. Maggie followed them. What a strange beginning, she thought.

  They reached a long hallway. It must stretch all the way from one of Tanglewood’s towers to the other, Maggie thought. They turned right.

  “Garret!” Cook cried. “Master Garret!”

  With his little legs, Andrew had to run to keep up with Cook as she strode down the hallway. “He has been very upset lately,” Andrew told Cook.

  Cook marched over to a wooden door that was framed by two wooden pillars. She tried the tiny brass knob. Locked. She pounded on the door with her fist. “Open this door at once, you unholy little creature!”

  No sound from inside the locked room.

  Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, remembering her days in prison. The locked doors. Guards pounding on the bars with their clubs.

  “Open up!” yelled Cook. “Do you hear me?”

  No reply.

  “Cook?” Andrew asked. “Perhaps we should leave him alone. You know how he can be when . . .” The boy shot a glance at Maggie and his words trailed off.

  What? Maggie thought. What did Andrew intend to say?

  “Let me try,” she blurted. Maggie moved closer to the door and rested her hand on the polished wood. She hesitated
a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she called Garret’s name softly.

  No response.

  “It is Miss Thomas, Garret. The new governess. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you ever since—”

  Bang! Something heavy slammed against the door. Andrew jumped back, and Cook clutched Maggie’s hand.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  It is Garret, Maggie realized. He’s throwing himself against the door.

  “Garret, please stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Maggie begged.

  “Go away!” he screamed. His voice shook with rage. “All of you! Go away! It was an accident! Now leave me alone!”

  Maggie felt her stomach twist. His shrieks reminded her of prison. Of the insane creatures who lived in those dark, tiny holes . . .

  Stop it, Maggie ordered herself. You are no longer in prison. You lived through that torture, and you can certainly handle an eight-year-old boy. It is time to show everyone—including yourself—that you can handle your new duties.

  “Cook,” Maggie said, trying to sound calm, “do you have a key to this room?”

  Cook’s eyes widened. “Why yes, but—”

  “May I have it?”

  “Of course.” Cook slowly removed a large ring of keys from her pocket. She pulled one off and handed it to Maggie.

  “No!” cried Garret, pounding on the other side of the door. “You better not come in here, I am warning you! If you come in here, I will poke out your eyes!”

  Cook fingered the cross she wore around her neck. Maggie tried to meet her gaze—but Cook kept her eyes locked on the floor.

  “Perhaps we should let him calm down first,” Andrew suggested again.

  “Thank you, Andrew. But I will speak to him now. Cook, please take Andrew downstairs.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Maggie waited until they had gone. Then she took a deep breath and fitted the key into the lock. Garret continued to shriek at her.

  She flung open the door—and caught Garret in the act of running across the room. He threw himself into a small rocker by the window and rocked furiously, his face turned away from her.