Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

by Catherine Griffin

  ‘I might be scared if that hadn’t already happened. Look, I just want to talk to you for a minute.’

  ‘The Horror’ll drink your blood,’ she snapped, and slammed the door in my face.

  'Thank you for your time,' I said to the door.

  At dinner, Enfield and Rickett glowered at each other like caged bears, speaking only in monosyllables. Even passing the salt felt like a dangerous operation. Hack had wisely decided to eat with Madame at The Hanged Man. Langstone slouched in his chair. There was a grey tone to his skin, and his eyes were sunken. He had barely spoken all day.

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘I saw a robin outside the workshop today. It reminded of that line from Tennyson: In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast.’

  He turned to me as if expecting a response.

  ‘In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ Langstone looked me in the eye as he said the words. ‘That’s the one, isn’t it?’

  Sam blushed. ‘Uh, yes. Locksley Hall. Are you fond of poetry, Dr Langstone?’

  Langstone smiled. ‘Not especially. At my age, I’m afraid one doesn’t think of love so lightly as one did. What do you think, Enfield?’

  Enfield started. He glanced at me and colour rose in his face.

  ‘Huh. Love.’ Rickett snorted. ‘Live with a woman for twenty years, then you can talk of love.’

  An awkward silence descended. Cutlery scraped on china.

  I blurted out a question which had been on my mind since the encounter with Alice Mudd. ‘Have any of you heard of something called the Horror?’

  Everyone stared at me.

  Langstone laid down his knife and fork. ‘Where did you hear about that?’

  ‘One of the villagers mentioned it in passing. I wondered what it was.’

  ‘It’s a folk tale, of sorts. Do you like that sort of thing?’

  I nodded. I don’t have much patience with ghost stories in general, but I was curious.

  Langstone settled back in his chair. ‘According to local legend, the Horror is a monster. It has the shape of a man, but its skin is white like the belly of a fish. It has shark’s teeth, silver eyes, and a long slimy tail dragging behind. When the moon is dark, it comes from the sea at night, and walks among the houses while everyone’s asleep in their beds.’

  He spoke with unusual animation as if he enjoyed telling the story. It sounded a pretty standard bit of folklore to me, ideal for keeping children and young women in their beds at night.

  ‘It’s said to drink the blood of its victims. Preferably people, of course, but it will take animals if nothing else is available.’ Langstone smiled, a sudden flash of white teeth.

  Across the table from me, Sam had gone very pale. The fork poised over his potatoes trembled.

  ‘Load of rubbish,’ Rickett said.

  ‘Quite interesting, I think. Possibly a survival of an earlier tradition, a memory of some pagan god of the sea.’ Langstone turned his wine glass, staring into the depths of the red liquid.

  ‘I saw it,’ Sam said quietly.

  Rickett glared at him. ‘Gi’over, boy.’

  ‘I did. At least, I saw something.’ Sam straightened in his seat. ‘Weeks ago. I saw a man, I thought it was a man. But white, walking outside at night.’

  ‘So you saw a man. What of it? Probably a poacher.’ Rickett set down his cutlery emphatically. ‘What were you doing up at night, anyhow?’

  ‘It didn’t move like a man. There was something strange about it. Something unnatural.’

  Cold air touched the back of my neck. I shivered. The lamp hanging above the dining table swayed as the draught caught it, sending our shadows sliding along the wall.

  Langstone laughed without any mirth. ‘Young Sam has a vivid imagination. Perhaps he should turn his hand to fiction.’

  ‘Don’t encourage him. He’s always reading them books when he should be working, filling his head with nonsense. What good will it do him?’

  Sam stared at his plate, his face pale and tense.

  I recalled the night I arrived. Through the mist I had glimpsed a white figure crossing the park at night. Afterwards I wondered if I had dreamed it, but Sam’s account suggested it had been real. I held my peace though. Bloodthirsty sea-monsters aside, the mysterious figure had to be a man, whatever Sam thought he’d seen.

  After dinner, everyone retired to their own corners. Rickett buried himself under The Times and a thick cloud of pipe-smoke in the sitting room. Enfield and Langstone played chess in the drawing room where Sam sat by the fire, reading a volume of Wordsworth’s poems. I went to the library so I could think without being disturbed.

  The vicar’s story had made parts of the mystery clear. Templeton had a back problem, and the witch’s potion had apparently done him good. Since they were friends, the Professor must have known. And the Professor had made his fortune from medicines. He wouldn’t ignore a potentially valuable new drug. He must have taken an interest.

  So the Professor’s treasure wasn’t money or jewels. It was a drug. Had the Professor found out from Alice what was in her potion, or was that what he expected me to do?

  Then there was the other illuminating thing the vicar had said. Templeton had been withdrawn, had hardly come out of his house. It might not mean anything, but it sounded a lot like Langstone.

  Even when I went to bed, my mind still churned over the Professor’s puzzle. What exactly had he wanted me to find? Had I missed an obvious clue? I tossed and turned, unable to rest. Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because I woke in pitch darkness.

  My heart was pounding. Something had alarmed me, woken me from a sound sleep in near panic. I was reminded again of my first night in the house as I strained to hear any sound.

  From what seemed immediately above my head came a loud creak. Someone stepping heavily on a loose floorboard. I sat upright, holding my breath. Someone was in the attic. Another creak followed, quieter this time, as if further off.

  I strained to listen, but there was no more noise. Why would someone be in the attic, in the depths of night?

  Was it a person, though? Old houses made strange noises, the timbers creaking as they cooled and warmed. Perhaps that was all it was. In the stillness of night, any noise seems louder and closer. Mice. A house like this must have mice. Or rats even. No, better not to think about rats. Really big mice.

  I heard nothing further, and eventually, I slept.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I TAPPED ON the laboratory door.

  ‘Dr Langstone?’

  No reply. I didn’t expect one. Langstone had been up late discussing spiritualism with Hack. As usual, he hadn’t been at breakfast. The others had eaten and departed to their work, but Langstone rarely appeared before midday. The lab should be empty and the silence from inside suggested it was.

  I gripped the door handle and turned. The handle rotated but the door didn’t move. It was locked. I let out the breath I had been holding.

  ‘Can I help you, Miss Wright?’

  I jumped a foot. Mrs Jones must have silently emerged onto the landing from the back stairs while I was trying the door. Had she seen me do it?

  ‘No. I was just looking for Dr Langstone. But he isn’t here.’

  ‘He’s ill,’ Mrs Jones said. She shook her head, frowning. ‘I took him his breakfast but he hasn’t eaten.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is he very unwell?’

  Mrs Jones stepped towards me. ‘Don’t think I don’t see through your little game,’ she hissed. ‘He may not see it, but I do. Don’t fool yourself he’s interested in the likes of you. The last housemaid got ideas. You don’t want to end up like her. Stay away from the other men too. You think you can swan in here, with all your little airs and wiles and snag yourself a husband…’

  ‘What?’ The sheer outrageousness of the accusation took my breath away. ‘I’m not looking for a husband.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’ She sniffed. ‘What wi
th Molly running round all hours and Mr Hack’s painted Jezebel, this place is practically Sodom. It’s no wonder there’s ghosts. It’s a judgement, it is. A judgement.’

  There was no answer to this. I mumbled something apologetic and sidled past her to get to the stairs. When I reached the sanctuary of the library, I shut myself inside and stood with my back to the door, getting my thoughts in order.

  I had been curious about Langstone’s research before, but it was a more pressing concern now I believed it related to the Professor’s treasure. Since I’d run out of other clues to pursue, I had to get into the lab. Now I knew the room was locked when not in use, what could I do?

  I could wait and hope Langstone left the door open, or try to obtain a key. Obviously, Langstone had one. If another existed it would be on the big bunch carried by Mrs Jones. Separating either one of them from their keys seemed problematic.

  In novels, when the villain locked the heroine into a cellar, or attic, she would whip out a hat pin and pick the lock. Of course, it might not be so easy in real life, but household locks usually have a simple mechanism. I climbed back up the stairs to my own bedroom.

  The lock on the door was tarnished brass, the key chunky. All the locks on this floor were the same type, probably fitted at the same time. The lock on the lab door was also brass though different in style. I didn’t have a hat pin, but a small screwdriver or a piece of stiff wire might do the trick. I could practice on my own door until I got the hang of it. Once proficient, I just had to find a time when Langstone wasn’t around.

  With a clutch of Rickett’s indecipherable receipts in my hand and a cold sea wind at my back, I walked over to the workshop later that day. The dull roar of an engine greeted me, rattling the old windows in their frames.

  'Aye! You see, Sam!' The engine coughed, spluttered once, twice, and chuntered into silence. 'Bugger the thing. Well, there’s no help for it. Gi’me that wrench there, boy.'

  'Excuse me. Do you have a moment, Mr Rickett?'

  Rickett wiped his glistening forehead with an oil-stained handkerchief. ‘Now then. Can it wait? We’re in the thick of summat here.’

  ‘I just need your help with these receipts.’

  He fished his glasses out of his pocket and having settled them delicately on his nose, peered down at the scraps of paper.

  ‘Uhh. What on it?’

  ‘I need to check what they were for. For the accounts, you see.’

  He grunted. ‘I’ll have to look at my notes.’

  When he turned away, I sidled along the workbench to where Sam was mooning over the engine. ‘Have you checked the piston rings?’

  He flushed. ‘I don’t know a piston ring from my elbow,’ he said in a low voice, with a guilty glance at his father’s back. ‘Don’t care either.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I hate this. I want to be a poet.’

  ‘Oh.’ I suppose if someone wants to write about the beauties of nature, or love, or whatever, they are welcome to do so. Even in rhyme. Personally, I would rather take an engine apart. ‘Well, if that’s what you want to do, you should go do it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’ However bad a poet he was, he was unlikely to cause fatalities. The same couldn’t be said for him as a mechanic. ‘You should follow your dream.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He straightened out of his slouch. ‘It means a lot to me. Would you like to read some of my poetry?’

  I smiled sweetly. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Rickett reappeared with the necessary paperwork, but I already had what I most wanted. A few useful tools had slipped into my pockets while I was talking to Sam.

  ‘What are you at, boy? Stop meithering and get on with your work.’

  Sam pulled a face.

  ‘I would check the piston rings,’ I said.

  ‘Was there owt else, Miss Wright?’ Rickett said pointedly.

  ‘No, thank you. But I’ve been meaning to remind you that you’ve spent most of your grant.’

  ‘Do I look stupid? Everything's accounted for in breakdown. I have most of the parts, anyhow.'

  'I just thought I should mention it.'

  Langstone appeared for lunch. He did look unwell. Haggard, almost. His hands had a pronounced tremor. But when I enquired after his health, he snapped that he was fine.

  Since it was Saturday, I had the afternoon free. I rushed away from the luncheon table, intent on practising lock-picking, only to be accosted by Enfield.

  ‘Do you have plans for the afternoon?’ he said.

  ‘No. Yes. I’m reading. A book.’

  ‘Oh. I just thought, if you weren’t doing anything special, you might like to go for a walk? It’s a nice day.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The offer was a surprise, though a pleasant one. ‘Another day, maybe? It’s rather cold out, and I have a little headache.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Of course. I have work to do, anyway. Enjoy your book.’

  As he strode away with his shoulders hunched, Sam sidled up with a sheaf of paper in hand. I groaned mentally.

  ‘Miss Wright. I’d be honoured if you’d look at these.’ He pressed the paper into my hands. ‘It’s just some poems. Of mine, that is. I’d value your opinion.’

  ‘I don’t really know much about poetry.’

  He flushed, his cheeks turning quite pink. ‘No one understands me. It’s only when I write.‘ He stopped. Whatever he was trying to say, the enormity of it wouldn’t fit into words. He spread his hands, grasping after his idea.

  I patted him on the arm. ‘I’m sure they’re very nice poems. I’ll read them. Later.’

  ‘Sam,’ Rickett barked. ‘What are you doing? Hurry up.’

  Sam jerked into motion and hurried off, with a parting look of dog-like devotion. Oh dear. I would have to speak to the boy one of these days. But not now.

  After practising in my spare time for several days, I had mastered locking and unlocking the doors on the second floor with my improvised lock pick. I felt ready to try the lab door. In the early hours, I crept from my room. The house slept around me, dark and silent. I softly pushed open the door to the first-floor landing.

  A figure in white stood before me, her back to me as she soundlessly drifted along the landing. Wild black hair trailed down her back. I held my breath. The apparition passed the door of the lab and stopped by the next door, Langstone’s bedroom. As she turned towards the door, the candle she held illuminated her face.

  It was Mrs Jones.

  I quickly pulled the door to, leaving only a small gap to peek through. She tapped on the bedroom door. She waited, then tapped again, slightly louder. Still no answer. She turned back towards me then, and I fled back to my room. My body shook as I stifled hysterical giggles.

  After a few minutes laughing into my pillow, I recovered enough to think. I knew enough of the world, or so I fancied, not to be overly shocked. Mrs Jones was a widow and Langstone a single man. Their relationship was no business of mine. I even felt a twinge of sympathy for her situation.

  She must love him, but what could he feel for her? He would never publicly acknowledge their relationship. Fear and anger and guilt powered her spite to me, or any woman who might tempt him, which knowing Langstone, was any woman at all.

  Enlightening as this new information was, it gave me a problem. If Mrs Jones was in the habit of wandering the first-floor landing at night, then there was no safe time to try breaking into the lab. I needed a new approach. Could I turn my discovery to my advantage?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH the next day, as I descended from my room and emerged onto the first-floor landing, I heard voices from the hall below.

  ‘No, of course not.’ The speaker was Mrs Jones. Her voice had a strident quality which carried well, especially when she was annoyed.

  ‘You searched thoroughly?’ Langstone said, his lower voice less distinct.

  After a split-second hesitation, I crept towa
rds the head of the stairs.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Jones said.

  I didn’t catch Langstone’s next remark. I needed to be closer. Crouching below the banister, I inched down the stairs.

  ‘You know how important this is,’ Langstone said.

  I froze. Below me, on the other side of the stairs, was Hack. He sat on the step with his back to me, his attention also focused on the conversation. Outrage flooded through me. I had always had my doubts about Hack. Now I knew for sure he was up to no good.

  He half-turned and looked straight at me. Our eyes met in mutual recognition of guilt. He’d seen me eavesdropping, and I’d seen him. He knew, and I knew he knew. And he knew that I knew he knew.

  Below, Langstone and Mrs Jones moved off. The door into the back of the house banged shut behind them. I jumped up and ran downstairs past Hack, my face burning. I went straight to the library, shut myself in and stood with my back to the door. If only I could rewind time. Would Hack tell Langstone? It seemed unlikely. But what was he up to? How much did he know?

  I hadn’t even learnt much from the little I had overheard. Langstone evidently wanted something found. For all I knew, he could have lost his pipe, but his manner had seemed intense, almost threatening.

  Time passed, and Hack did not seek me out, as I had half-expected him to do. Perhaps he was as startled and confused as I.

  When I was a small child, Father once showed me a grass snake the gardener had caught.

  ‘It’s quite harmless,’ he said. ‘A snake is always more afraid of you than you are of him.’

  I was terrified. The snake didn’t look at all worried. Still, I believed him then and I tried to hold that belief now, although I didn’t know if it applied to the human variety of snake.

  I would have to face him at dinner, and I couldn’t blush, or act in any way differently than usual. I schooled myself to calm, trying to focus on work. The report for Bentley still had to be finished. I started the same page ten times and never got more than halfway through without making a mistake. The clock ticked on, slow as glacial ice and as implacable. Six o’clock. Seven o’clock. Eight o’clock. The gong rang for dinner.