‘I don’t think so,’ Langstone said. He glanced at Mrs Jones, who began clearing the soup plates.
‘Oh. Well, perhaps at a later date.’ Hack coughed into his napkin.
‘I trust you had a pleasant journey from London, Miss Wright?’
The question took me by surprise. ‘Yes. Not unpleasant, anyway.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet here.’ He smiled, toying with the stem of his wine glass. ‘We must find something to keep you amused.’
‘I’ve come to work,’ I said. ‘The quietness won’t be a problem.’
‘Huh,’ Rickett said. ‘You hear that, Sam? Work? Something you might try.’
Sam grimaced.
Mrs Jones brought in stew. It was brown.
‘How’s your cabbage?’ Rickett said to Enfield.
‘Growing. Pass the salt, please.’
Enfield ate with his fork, keeping his hook out of sight beneath the table. He had separated the food items on his plate and lined up his carrots from short to long.
‘Mr Rickett, I was most impressed by your machine earlier, but I’ve been thinking,’ I said. ‘Isn't it rather late to be building a new war machine? I mean, there won't ever be another war, will there?'
'I hope not. But if we’ve better weapons than the other side, then they won’t start nowt, that’s what I say.'
‘Nonsense,’ Enfield said. ‘If you make weapons, someone will use them. It’s human nature.’
Mysteriously, Mrs Jones had produced potatoes cooked to mush on the outside, yet hard as rocks inside. I prodded one with my fork. Langstone had only picked at his food.
‘Oh aye, and cabbage will save us all?’ Rickett’s tone was sarcastic.
‘Brassicas. And I’ve never said any such thing.’
Rickett snorted.
‘Gentlemen,’ Langstone said. ‘I know you have strong opinions, but I would appreciate your expressing them in a moderate and civilised manner. At least while we’re eating.’
‘My apologies,’ Enfield said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Wright. We should behave better.’ He looked pointedly at Rickett, who was cleaning gravy off his plate with his knife.
‘What are you hoping to achieve with your brassicas, Mr Enfield?’ I said.
Enfield looked at me sharply as if unsure if I was serious. ‘An easily produced, highly nutritious food, cheap enough for even the poorest in society.’ He drew a circle on the tablecloth with his finger. ‘A vicious circle, you see. Poverty causes malnutrition, which causes ill health, which causes more poverty.’
Rickett muttered under his breath.
‘Did you say something?’ Enfield said.
‘You’re an idealist.’ Rickett sneered the word, making it an insult.
Enfield’s hook thumped the tablecloth. ‘Better an idealist than a…’
'Spotted dick?' Mrs Jones put the pudding down in front of Langstone.
The distraction of pudding and custard allowed the tension to subside into black looks. Quiet mastication resumed. The lamp above the table swung slightly as a draught caught it. Our shadows danced among the portraits.
‘I was surprised to see you have electric lights here,’ I said.
‘There’s a dynamo in the cellar,’ Langstone said.
‘Is it running now? I don’t hear anything.’
‘It’s run in the morning to charge the accumulators, I believe. The lights run off the stored charge.’
When Mrs Jones came in to clear, the men began to leave the table. It seemed dinner wasn’t a prolonged affair here. Or perhaps they had just had enough of each other.
‘Dr Langstone, would it be convenient for you to show me my duties now?’ I said.
‘Of course, I’d be delighted.’
Hack watched us leave. He’d been silent through most of the meal, but had hardly taken his eyes off Langstone for a second.
Langstone showed me across the hall to a door that opened into a small, book-lined room. I switched on the electric light. The 8-candlepower bulb revealed dark green curtains hiding large windows. Most of the wall space was taken up by bookshelves. A typewriter squatted on the round table in the centre of the room. Beside the door hung a portrait in oils of Professor Dernstrum himself, larger than life, with the full beard and benign smile so familiar from patent medicine bottles before the war.
'I hope this will be suitable.' Langstone hung back in the doorway as I entered. ‘For you to work in, that is.’
'Yes, I suppose so.’ This room felt colder than the hall as if there was a draught. ‘I’m afraid I don't really know what my duties are.'
He ran a hand through his tousled hair. 'I understood you would do the accounts. Type letters. Help the researchers with anything they require.’
‘I see.’ It seemed rather vague, but I didn’t want to expose my ignorance by asking too many questions. ‘Is there anything in particular I should start with?’
‘Mr Bentley is expecting a report. State of the finances, what progress the researchers have made. I used to write it myself, but I’ll outline what is expected and then you can typewrite it. You’ll need to bring the accounts up to date.’ He pointed to the shelves. 'There’s a small safe behind that panel. We keep the petty cash and accounts in there.'
He showed me how to open the safe, and we spread the books on the table. His long fingers moved over the columns of figures. As he explained the system, he moved closer to me. His hand brushed against mine once, which might be accidental, and then again, which certainly wasn’t.
'Any questions?'
I stepped away from the books and him. ‘I think I understand.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘I can’t say I was happy when Bentley informed me you were coming. I didn’t feel a secretary was really needed. But now I’ve met you, I’ve quite changed my mind.’ His smile was tentative and rather endearing.
‘Thank you, sir.’ I bit my lip. ‘I hope you won’t mind me asking, but if I’m to work here, I mean, if your illness is likely to affect…’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Entirely reasonable for you to ask. It’s a nervous complaint. I need peace and quiet, that’s all.’
‘Well, I hope I can be of some help. By doing the administrative work.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll do me a deal of good.’ He smiled, showing white, even teeth, and his eyes met mine.
The moment stretched uncomfortably.
‘Doctor?’ The voice of Mrs Jones broke the spell. I turned away. My hand trembled as I turned the pages of the accounts. ‘Can I do anything else for you this evening?’ The housekeeper stared at me, eyes narrow. I felt warm.
‘I don’t think so. Thank you, Mrs Jones.’
‘Breakfast is served at 8. Sharp,’ she said to me.
I nodded. She remained standing there, fixing me with her basilisk glare.
‘Well. Unless you have any questions, Miss Wright? No? I’ll say good night then, ladies.’ Langstone strode away.
With a parting sniff, Mrs Jones followed him. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and they spoke to each other briefly before parting. He to climb the stairs, she returning to her own below-stairs lair.
I took a last look around my new workplace, then turned out the light. It had been a long day and it would be an early start tomorrow. Better get some sleep.
My room seemed even more dreary by night. When I switched off the light, absolute darkness filled the room. The bed was as hard as it looked and the thin mattress lumpy, but I folded myself under the blankets gratefully, unable to keep my eyes open.
I woke with a start and lay staring into the darkness, wondering what had alarmed me. A sound of some kind, I thought, but there was absolute silence now. The town was never this quiet. Even at night each time had its own noises -- the clatter of tradesmen closing or opening their shutters, vehicles passing, lamp lighting, the collection of refuse, the regular tread of a policeman, the shouts of a drunkard.
The
faint glow of moonlight outlined the curtained window. Blood rushed in my ears like waves on a shingle beach. Or could I really hear the sea?
I sat up in bed and lifted the curtain so I could peer out of the window. My breath clouded the cold glass.
The waxing moon rode among ragged cloud, bright as a new shilling. White mist blanketed Uggley-on-Sea. Roofs rose above it like islands. No light showed from the village. Twisting further, I could look across the mist-shrouded parkland towards the mainland, where an orange glow on the horizon marked the existence of a town.
I shivered and drew my blanket around my shoulders. It was cold. I should go back to sleep. As I was about to let the curtain fall, movement caught my eye.
A pale figure strode across the park. I saw it only for a moment and at some distance, then it vanished into the mist. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stared, searching the landscape for any flicker of motion, but nothing stirred.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD ARRIVED on Friday. I spent Saturday morning wrestling with the accounts, which I thought at first would be straightforward. The three pages on the subject of bookkeeping in ‘Introduction to Secretarial Work for Ladies’ were quite easy to understand and I could certainly manage the arithmetic. Unfortunately, the Institute’s books were in a sad state of confusion. Langstone had begun well, then the updates became irregular and the adding up riddled with errors. Then no updates at all, and a sheaf of oily receipts and indecipherable invoices, some weeks or months old.
I wasn’t expected to work Saturday afternoon or Sunday, so I occupied my time by exploring my new surroundings and beating Sam at cribbage. Enfield and Rickett were usually working. Langstone surfaced for lunch, never breakfast, and sat up late smoking his pipe, playing chess with Enfield or cards with whoever was willing.
On Monday morning, I entered the library full of optimism despite the overcast sky. A bunch of snowdrops lay on the typewriter. They hadn’t been there on Saturday. Someone else had been in here over the weekend and left them for me to find.
The delicate flowers were already wilting. Who could have left them? I was curious but it was hardly important. If I had an admirer in the house, he’d make himself known before long. I put the flowers in a glass of water and settled down with the accounts.
I was interrupted by a tap on the open library door.
'Scuse I, miss,' Molly said.
'What is it?'
'There's a man here for to see Dr Langstone. Only the Doctor’s not up yet.'
'Does he have an appointment?'
'I don’t spose so. Tis Mr Cheever from Up Uggley, he's me mam's cousin's brother-in-law. Only he's awful angry and he won't go, miss.'
'I'll talk to him.'
Molly scooted away, obviously relieved to have unloaded the responsibility. I went to the front door. The man standing on the door step was as wide as he was tall. His face was weatherbeaten to a uniform red, his grizzled eyebrows remarkably large over shrewd brown eyes and a bulbous nose. A black and white collie dog lay a few feet away on the gravel, keeping one eye fixed on him.
'Good morning, Mr Cheever. I'm Miss Wright. Can I help you?' I extended my hand, determined to take charge of the encounter.
He shook it automatically, his hand hard and leathery and slightly greasy. 'Morning. But I'll speak to man in charge, and no other. Where’s he at?'
His accent was so thick, it took a few seconds to decipher what he was saying.
'Why don't you come in and have some tea, and tell me what the problem is while we try and find him for you?'
Whether it was my smile or the offer of tea, I don't know, but his frown softened.
'Ah. Right enough.'
I left him in the library while I went in search of tea. I’d not previously had any reason to enter Mrs Jones’ domain, the rooms at the back of the house. It felt like a foray into foreign territory. The smell of gravy led me to the kitchen. This cavernous room had once served meals to a large family and their many servants. Apart from the installation of electric lighting and a new range, nothing had changed since those days. The walls were decked with copper pans of every shape and size. On the range, pots bubbled quietly in a pall of steam.
Molly was scrubbing the kitchen table, the wood of which was dished and gouged by many years of hard female labour.
‘Could you bring tea for two to the library?'
She stared at me in dull confusion. 'Mrs Jones don't serve no morning tea.'
'I'll make it myself, if you'd rather. Where's the teapot?'
'Oh, I'll do it, miss. I don't mind.'
'Do we have any fruit cake? Biscuits?'
'There’s shortcake, or summet?'
'Fine.'
Molly nodded without looking up from the tea things, so I left her to it.
I had hoped leaving Mr Cheever to himself in the calm surrounding of the library would have cooled his temper, but he seemed to be maintaining an even simmer.
'Tea is on its way.' I sat down, pushing my paperwork and the typewriter out of the way. 'Now, perhaps you can tell me what you need to speak to Dr Langstone about, if it isn't a private matter?'
'A private matter? Tis a police matter, that's what it is. I’ll tell ee, but I'll speak to man in charge afore day’s out, or the police’ll be in it.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'Sorry? Thee'll be right sorry, the lot of ee.'
Molly bustled in with the tea tray.
'Sugar, Mr Cheever?'
'Three. No milk.' He stirred his tea, the spoon tiny in his thick fingers.
'Shortcake?'
'Thank ee.' He inspected the biscuit, brow creased in suspicion. 'But what I want to say is, what will you do bout my yow?'
'Your what?'
'My good yow, that's dead.'
'I'm sorry, I don't think I understand. What has happened to your… yow?'
'It's dead, that’s what.' He slurped his tea.
'Yes, but what does that have to do with Dr Langstone?'
'Twenty year I grazed my sheep on Uggley Park. Nivver seen any beast dead nothing like thissun. Tis blame of thee foreigners, or I don't know what.'
'Perhaps you had better show me. Where is the animal?'
He leaned back, his big red hands splayed on the table. 'Now, tis no sight for a lady.'
'I'm not a school girl. I have a strong stomach.'
'Well, if ee must. Tis over the park away.'
I followed him out, collecting my coat on the way. It was a grey day with a fine mizzle from the west, the grass wet from overnight rain. Puddles lay in the gravel. We trudged across the park, the collie dog slinking behind. In the distance, I saw Enfield at work, digging on his experimental plots.
We walked for ten minutes or so. I trotted after the farmer, a little out of breath from trying to match his effortless stride. I was about to ask him if it would be much further when I saw the dirty white mound lying on the ground. I hesitated, wondering just how strong my stomach might need to be. But when the farmer looked back at me and raised his eyebrows, I took a deep breath and strode towards the remains.
The sheep's throat had been torn out. It lay with its head twisted awkwardly back, raw red flesh and fragments of white bone exposed. The upturned eye had been eaten by scavenging birds, leaving only a pink socket. It was gruesome, but not much worse than a butcher's counter. I bent down to examine the injuries.
'This could have been done by a dog. Couldn't it?'
'Do ee think I don't know a dog’s bite when I sees it?'
'Well, I don't know about these things.' What other animals lived in the country? 'A fox? A badger?'
He shook his head. 'I heard as you folks keep a monster in your cellar. Maybe ‘tis that. Happen tis Uggley Horror for all I know. Do ee see them scuds, thur?'
With his finger, he indicated long weals on the sheep’s face and legs. It looked like a knitting needle had been driven under the animal’s skin. Black dried blood streaked its muzzle and fleece.
‘That
is strange. How long has it been dead, do you think?’
He inspected the wounds again. ‘Two, three days. Her was walking last week, I mind I seen her.’
The sheep died around the time of my arrival, then. Odd thought.
'Mr Cheever, I can’t see how this can have anything to do with the Institute, but I will speak to Dr Langstone.'
'That's right good of ee, miss,’ he said sarcastically. 'But I don't reckon twill do her much good now.'
'Well, what do you want us to do?'
His expression grew crafty. 'Tis a good yow. Her won prizes, she did. For twenty pound, I won't go to police. Can't say fairer.'
Twenty pounds seemed an awful lot of money for a sheep. My immediate reaction was to tell him to get lost, but it wasn’t my decision to make.
‘I'll have to speak to Dr Langstone about it. We'll let you know by the end of the week. Is that satisfactory?'
'Aah,' he said grudgingly. 'But tis twenty pound or police’ll be in it. And them newspapers.'
After another bone-wrenching handshake, he went on his way, the dog bounding after him as he strode over the rough ground.
When I got back to the house, Hack was in the hall grappling with a large camera which seemed to have a mind of its own.
'Are you planning to take some photographs?'
'Spirit photography. Interesting ambience here, very promising.' The tripod fell apart in his hands, leaving him cradling the camera. 'Oh.'
'Are you having some difficulty?'
He handed me the camera. 'Perhaps your mechanical genius can resolve this puzzle.'
'I’d love to help, but I have to speak to Dr Langstone.’ I dropped the camera back into his hands. 'I think you need to turn those screws to lock the legs.'
‘Oh. Thanks. I’ll take your picture later on. If you like.’
I waved to him as I climbed the stairs. After several days acquaintance, Hack still puzzled me. He was nice enough, but not what I would have expected a spiritualist to be like. Not that I had much experience of spiritualists. But then, if he wasn’t what he said he was, what was he? And why was he at the Institute, pretending to be doing research? It certainly wasn’t for the food.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 3