Sir Geoffrey Harris saw the lights go off in 19 Emery Place one by one from his vantage point in the small park opposite the house.
He had been waiting in the dark mauve shadows of the mild June dusk from before nine o’clock and it was now nearly eleven, but he wasn’t tired. His expectations of the night ahead had him on tenterhooks and sleep was the last thing on his mind. She was in there - turning off the lights, doing the housekeeping act she was so good at - secure in the knowledge she now had money of her own and could thumb her nose at all of them when she had a mind to. His money. Twenty thousand damn pounds’ worth.
He breathed in deeply through his nose for a few moments, his mind cautioning him as it said, Steady, steady, your time will come, the plans have been made.
A fierce surge of excitement and power rose in him, and helped control the frustrated rage which had been burning to a greater or lesser degree for months, but which had reached its climax two weeks before in his father’s study at Fenwick. An allowance. An allowance, blast her. He still found it hard to believe his mother had done that to him, especially as he’d begun to talk her round that last couple of months when he’d visited so regularly . . . or he thought he’d talked her round. But she’d been worked on, oh yes, and by an expert. And that same expert had got Margaret digging her heels in and talking about visiting rights.
Visiting rights. His eyes narrowed and his lip curled. He’d give her visiting rights, he’d make her regret the day she was born, once he was back in and she was under his control. But that wouldn’t happen until the other one was out of the way, he knew that. And then, what with the fancy lawyers pleading his case and him sweet-talking that frigid bitch of a wife of his round, he’d come into what was rightfully his. He could handle Margaret. He had always been able to handle Margaret.
He glanced at his watch, a quiver of excitement making his fat buttocks clench. Another few minutes and then Eileen could do her bit.
Eileen . . . The name warmed him, causing him to move a stealthy hand to his crotch and rub gently at the swelling there. The girl was a natural whore if ever he’d met one. At fifteen he had half expected her to be a virgin, but there had been others there before him - several others judging by what she knew between the sheets. She’d go far, that girl, and he’d follow through on his agreement to set her up in a little flat somewhere once all this was settled. He’d never gone to those lengths before, but for Eileen . . . Yes, he could see himself visiting her for a good few years yet.
He’d enjoyed the illicit meetings on her time off over the last few months, since he’d first approached her after she’d been working for his mother for a few days. He’d thought he would have to work at it, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. A couple of nice presents, a bit of sweet-talking, and she’d been putty in his hands. Course, she’d enjoyed knowing she was sleeping with the master, that was part of it. He smiled to himself. She was a cheeky little piece, but he’d had to warn her a sight too often lately not to get cocky - he hadn’t wanted any of them at the house catching on. That was always the trouble when you picked them from the gutter. They got ideas.
Although the night was a warm one there were no people about as he rose slowly from the wooden bench on the perimeter of the park at exactly a quarter past eleven, and glanced casually about him. Any activity was always in the centre where the smooth stretches of grassland were dotted with flowerbeds and bushes and trees; there were plenty of courting couples making use of that area until the early hours.
But he wanted comfort for what he was about to do, and the timing was perfect with Margaret and the children out of the way at Fenwick. He’d see to Eileen first and keep her happy, it’d get him in the mood for what he’d got in mind afterwards anyway - not that Eileen knew anything about that. He felt a little quiver in his loins, his manhood surging, but it wasn’t the thought of Eileen that was making him sweat. He was going to have that little stuck-up tart of a housekeeper tonight, he’d waited long enough, and if she was foolish enough to say anything afterwards, it would only be his word against hers that he’d ever been in the house. Eileen would keep quiet, she was no fool and she’d got too much to lose to cross him, and he’d already got his alibi nicely set up. Old Charlie Menton would swear black was white for a few bob. Money could buy anything.
His fingers caressed the small bottle of chloroform wrapped in cloth in his pocket. Mind you, by the time he had finished with her tonight she wouldn’t say a word about what had transpired. The things he intended to do to her she’d never be able to repeat to a living soul, and she was a proud piece if ever he’d seen one. She would rather die than let on. But he would let her come fully round before he started; once the gag was in place and she was secured, she’d be docile enough. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d taken one that was unwilling.
He walked quickly across the road, and right on cue Eileen opened the door for him, her pretty face dimpling up at him. ‘Good evening, sir.’ It was a laughing whisper, but he frowned, shaking his head as he stepped inside the hall. ‘It’s all right, they’ve all been abed since half ten,’ she added softly as she reached up and kissed him on the lips.
They mounted the stairs quickly, and he didn’t pause outside Sarah’s room, pushing Eileen into hers and shutting the door behind them.
Neither of them had noticed the tall thin shadow that had followed them up the stairs, and now stood hesitating on the dark landing. Florrie was finding it difficult to sleep in a strange bed, and when she had heard a noise in the hall, the sound penetrating the monotonous drone of Maggie’s snores, she had slipped quietly from under the covers and padded over to the door, opening it a crack just in time to see Eileen reach up and kiss Sir Geoffrey. Florrie had recognized him instantly from the family portrait hanging in the drawing room, and her heart had pounded with mingled fear and shock when, in the next instant, the big portly man and little maid had disappeared up the back staircase.
She had followed them without even thinking about it, unsure of what the pair of them were about, and now she looked down at the heavy brass ornament she had grabbed from the hall table, and saw her hands were shaking. But she would have used it on him, oh aye, she would, if he’d gone to their lass’s door. By, this was a rum do . . .
She stood for some minutes more outside Eileen’s room but there wasn’t a sound from within. Not that she needed a diagram to work out what they were up to, she thought grimly. What should she do? It was clear the little maid had been expecting him, and from the welcome she’d given him, Lady Harris’s son was no stranger to her. Hilda had told her on the quiet the girl was a trollop and she was right, aye she was. But to let him in the house, and after all that had gone on? The girl wasn’t all there, she couldn’t be, to act so foolishly.
She glanced at Sarah’s door, and then down the corridor to Rebecca’s but almost immediately dismissed the idea of waking the two girls. Sir Geoffrey was a big man, and from what Sarah had said he could be violent, but knowing Sarah she’d be straight in there demanding he leave, without a thought for her own safety. And if he turned nasty, who knew what could happen - for all she knew he had a weapon on him. These gentry sort were always out shooting and the like on their estates, weren’t they? And Rebecca had the bairn with her.
But was Eileen his sole reason for being in the house? He’d got a grudge against their lass, and Sir Geoffrey wasn’t the sort of man who would care tuppence about doing a bunch of servants some harm. But, as Florrie was to admit afterwards, she didn’t really think Sir Geoffrey intended anything more than a bit of slap and tickle with Eileen in the luxury of his mother’s house, so cocking a snook at his wife and Sarah whom he saw as the ones who had denied him access.
After another few minutes on the chilly landing clad only in her nightie, Florrie’s teeth were beginning to chatter, and she came to a decision, nipping quickly back down the stairs and, after consulting the telephone directory next to the phone, gingerly lifting the receiver. She dialled R
odney’s number with shaking hands, praying all the time he wouldn’t be out on a call. She didn’t like this and she needed to ask him what to do.
It was a good thirty seconds or so before she heard his sleepy voice, and then she dare only speak in a whisper. There was a moment’s silence the other end, before Rodney’s voice, alert and sharp now, said, ‘Who is this?’
‘Florrie, it’s Florrie.’
‘Florrie?’ The high note of amazement would have made her smile on any other occasion; as it was, she spoke rapidly and softly into the receiver as she detailed what she had seen. Again there was a moment’s silence when she finished before Rodney’s voice said, ‘I’ll be straight over. Can you let me in?’
‘Aye, aye, I’ll be waiting.’
‘Don’t wake Sarah or Maggie unless you have to, right? And keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘I will, Doctor, I will.’
‘And, Florrie?’
‘Aye?’
‘Bless you.’
Florrie tip-toed through to her room, where Maggie was still vibrating the air with her snores, and, after finding her dressing gown and thrusting her feet into her old felt slippers, climbed the stairs once more to keep a watch on the landing, positioning herself outside Eileen’s door until she heard Rodney’s knock at the front door. But Sir Geoffrey wasn’t in Eileen’s room . . .
In spite of Eileen’s bravado she had been scared to death once Sir Geoffrey was in the house, and that, added to his impatience to get to the real meaning of his visit, meant their copulation was over almost before it had started.
After cleaning himself up he smiled at her, his voice faintly teasing as he said, ‘I’ll let myself out, girl, I know the way.’
‘But I thought you were going to stay a while and talk about the flat. You said—’
‘I know what I said.’ He smiled again, but this time let his face become straight as he added, ‘But you’re on edge, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you in your own place; I promised, didn’t I? Now you go to sleep, and here’ - he passed a jeweller’s box to her - ‘a little trinket for you.’
‘But I’ll have to come and bolt the door behind you, else they’ll know someone’s been in.’
No, that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all. He thought quickly and said, ‘No, don’t worry for now. There’s a few papers I want to have a look at in the morning room, on the quiet, you know, so I’m going to spend an hour or two in there before I go. You just make sure you come down first thing in the morning, before the others are awake, and slip the bolts then, that’s a good girl.’
‘You aren’t going to take anything that might be missed?’
‘No, no, girl. What do you take me for?’ He gestured at the little box in her hands. ‘Have a look at what I got for you, then, and just make sure you’re down first thing, and everything will be fine.’
He left her oohing and ahhing over the pendant, and stepped out on to the landing, shutting the door quietly behind him before creeping stealthily along to Sarah’s room. The door opened silently at his touch, and he was in the room and leaning against the closed door in a trice as he fetched the chloroform and cloth out of his pocket.
Sarah was in such a deep sleep she barely struggled as he held the soaked wad over her face, and when he was sure she was unconscious he stood for a moment just staring down at her, anticipation making him rock-hard. His hands were trembling as he stripped back the bedclothes, but he made no attempt to remove her white lawn nightie. He wanted her conscious when he peeled that off - oh yes, he wanted her conscious for it all.
He used a thick linen handkerchief to gag her, before reaching into his pocket again and fetching out a long piece of thin cord, with which he tied her hands together over her head, fastening the rope securely to the bedhead. He left her legs free, he wanted those to be able to flail and writhe.
And then, once he was sure she would be unable to make a sound, he settled himself down on the edge of the bed to wait for her to come round. Funny, he thought to himself, but he was going to enjoy that moment more than any other that followed. He wanted to see the look in her eyes when she realized what had happened, and that she was helpless, vulnerable and exposed . . .
Rodney’s gentle tap on the front door was so quiet as to be almost soundless, but Florrie heard it. Once she was down the stairs and Rodney was in the hall, he said, ‘Is anyone else awake? Sarah? Maggie?’
‘No one.’
‘Right. Show me Eileen’s room, would you, Florrie. He’s probably going to put up some sort of a show, but if we can get him out of there and downstairs before the rest of the house wakes up, all to the good. It’s going to give Sarah one hell of a fright as it is.’
Rodney didn’t knock on Eileen’s door, and she didn’t make a sound beyond whispering, ‘Geoffrey? You’re back?’ as Rodney loomed through the darkness.
He reached the bed, and putting his hand over her mouth, said, ‘No, not even nearly right, Eileen. Where is he? And answer me in a whisper if you know what’s good for you.’
As he removed his fingers the little maid shot up in bed, but her voice was barely audible as she said, ‘He - he’s gone. He’s left.’ She was too terrified by the sudden turn of events to prevaricate.
‘He didn’t get past me, lad.’ Florrie had followed him into the room and now her stage whisper brought him upright. It was the first time she had ever addressed him so familiarly but neither of them were aware of it.
‘If he didn’t get past you, he must have left the room when you phoned me . . .’ His voice dwindled away, and then bit out with the force of a bullet as he said, ‘Sarah’s room, where is it?’ He had swung round to Florrie before he finished speaking, and as her eyes widened in horrified recognition of what he was saying, she pointed to the lefthand wall and he was out of the room before she could move.
If he lived to be a hundred Rodney would never forget the picture that confronted him when he burst into Sarah’s room. She was just beginning to stir, and Sir Geoffrey was crouched over her on the bed, his two hands on the front of her nightie which he was clearly going to tear from her body.
The cry Rodney gave as he leapt across the room was blood-curdling, and his sudden entrance took Sir Geoffrey by surprise, but the older man recovered almost instantly, swinging round and landing a punch on Rodney’s jaw as their two bodies connected. Rodney didn’t even feel it. The momentum of his lunge took them both to the floor by the far side of the bed, and now Rodney was hammering the twisting figure beneath him, who, in his turn, was fighting back with hands and feet and teeth.
Rodney was aware of noise - someone, he thought Eileen, was screaming, and Florrie was in the room, he could hear her shouting - but the red mist in front of his eyes was concentrated on one thing and one thing only, and that was stopping Sir Geoffrey Harris from ever laying hands on Sarah again. The doctor in him, the healer and compassionate restorer of minds and bodies, had vanished. He was merely a man who had seen his beloved trapped and attacked by something foul.
It was Maggie, having bumped herself upstairs on her bottom step by step on hearing the shouts and screams, and gathering enough from the scene in front of her to fear that Rodney was going to kill Sir Geoffrey, who - together with Florrie and the others - hauled Rodney sideways momentarily, and the brief respite was all the other man needed to leap up and make for the stairs.
Rodney flung the women off him as he struggled to his feet, reeling forward, his head spinning from the effect of Sir Geoffrey’s blows, and giving chase. He could never quite remember afterwards whether he had grabbed Sir Geoffrey before he started to fall, or whether it was his dive at the other man that started the impetus that took them both flying down the stairs in a tangle of limbs, accompanied by screams from the women above. He was aware of Sir Geoffrey’s flailing body along with his own panic as he tried to save himself from serious injury, but then he hit the floor, every bone jarring with the impact, and everything went black.
He c
ould only have lost consciousness for a few seconds at the most, because the women - first Eileen, quite hysterical, then Florrie and Rebecca with their arms round a half-fainting Sarah, followed by Maggie hotching down on her well padded bottom, with Hilda making the rear, were still coming down the stairs in formation when he raised his head.
Sir Geoffrey was lying partly beneath him, and he knew at once the other man was dead from the impossible angle of his neck. He levered himself upright with the help of the banisters, shaking his head to clear the muzziness, and then moving to one side to try and shield Sarah from the sight of Sir Geoffrey’s grotesquely twisted body.
‘Here, let me have her.’ He took her from Florrie and Rebecca, lifting her off her feet into his arms as he looked down into her wan, bleached face rigid with shock, and then turning to the others said, ‘Someone call the police,’ before stumbling through to the drawing room, his own legs far from steady.
Alone Beneath The Heaven Page 34