Mortlock

by Jon Mayhew

  Gimlet was dead, of that she was sure. And now I’ll join him, she thought. It was all over.

  .

  .

  .

  Part the Second

  Rookery Heights

  .

  .

  The cock does crow, the day does dawn,

  The worrying worm does chide;

  And if we’re missed from where we came

  Sore pain we must abide.

  ‘The Wife of Usher’s Well’, traditional folk ballad

  .

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Lights on the Marsh

  Warm blankets swaddled Josie, hugging her. She twisted and stretched, screwing her eyes tight. For a moment she thought she was on Gimlet’s sofa, but the stabbing ache in her temple brought her back to reality. Josie’s body pulsed with a dull pain that reminded her of the previous night’s horrors. Gimlet’s bleeding face, his screaming at her to flee, the rattling, bone-shaking ride. After that, she had vague memories of being lifted higher and higher, of vomiting into the freezing black air as sharp talons dug into her shoulders and whisked her into the night sky.

  She opened her eyes. Josie lay in a huge four-poster bed, old and carved with vines and birds. It dominated the room, leaving a small area to her left for a dressing table, a chair and a mirror. These matched the bed – heavy, dark and crusted with carving. To Josie’s right, the narrowest of gaps separated the bed from a bay window that let the grey light of a winter’s afternoon stream into the dusty room. Outside, Josie could see flat, washed-out marshland. In front of her, two chairs and a small table stood before a crackling fire that leapt in the small hearth. Josie touched her head gingerly – it was swathed in a large bandage.

  A girl a few years older than Josie sat in one of the chairs. Dressed in plain black with a white apron, her red hair tied back in a tight bun, she looked like a maid or servant. Her thin, angular face was pale and freckled, but her blue eyes were soft and her mouth held the faintest trace of a smile as she returned Josie’s stare.

  ‘Where am I?’ Josie said, sitting up and shivering as the blankets fell away. The chill of the room caressed her neck and shoulders. She looked down at the thick nightgown she was wearing. ‘What day is it? Where are my clothes? Where’s Alfie?’

  ‘Settle down,’ the smiling girl said, coming over to the bedside. ‘My name’s Arabella. You’ve had a nasty accident. It was lucky we found you out on the marsh road there or you’d be dead with the cold for sure . . .’

  Panic washed over Josie. ‘I need to see Alfie,’ she said, throwing back the blankets and swinging her legs out of the bed. Immediately her head began to spin. She fell back on the pillows, groaning.

  ‘There, there, don’t worry. You’re safe now,’ said Arabella, easing the covers over her. ‘You’re at Rookery Heights. Alfie must be the boy what was with you. He’s down the corridor. You can see him soon enough but you must take it steady. Your head’s badly cut and you’re covered in bruises. I’ll get you some soup.’

  Arabella left the room. Josie tried to sit up but slumped back again. Alfie was safe. But Gimlet? She covered her face with trembling hands. Tears trickled through her fingers. Gimlet was her one connection with Cardamom. Apart from Alfie, he was all she’d had left. Losing him was more than she could bear.

  When she looked up again, Arabella was stood by the bed with a steaming bowl of soup and chunks of bread on a tray.

  ‘Come on. Get some of this down you and get your strength up.’ She gave a sad smile and placed the tray on Josie’s lap as she sat up and wiped the tears away.

  ‘How did I get here?’ Josie asked, blowing on the surface of the soup to cool it. The smell of chicken and vegetables made her mouth water. How long had it been since she had eaten? She felt guilty for feeling so hungry. Gimlet was beyond hunger now.

  ‘The ladies of the house found you as they returned from London,’ Arabella said, glancing out of the darkening window. ‘Your trap had gone off into a ditch. Thought you was dead at first. You’ve been out cold all day – it’s nearly night-time again.’

  Josie sipped at the soup. She could guess who the ladies of the house were. Part of her screamed to escape but she had to stay calm. She had to find out as much as possible if she were to stand any chance of escaping. Arabella was right: she’d need all her strength.

  ‘Who owns Rookery Heights?’ she asked between mouthfuls of soup.

  ‘Lord Corvis.’ Arabella lowered her voice. ‘The new lord, the son. He’s not long taken over . . .’

  ‘And you work for him?’ Josie said.

  ‘My family have worked on this estate for years and years but . . .’ Arabella stopped and glanced at the door.

  ‘But?’ Josie leaned forward, wincing a little as she moved.

  ‘Things have changed lately.’ Arabella’s voice had fallen to a whisper. ‘Since the ladies came and Lord Thurlough took over. I mean, things were never perfect. The Corvis family have always been cold fish – but they were fair. Now the rents have gone up, our houses don’t get repaired and the crows –’

  ‘Crows?’

  ‘Everywhere.’ Arabella pulled a disgusted face. ‘Hundreds of ’em. Peckin’ at crops, stealing our eels. Mrs Sullivan in the village even had to shoo one off her baby’s cradle last week. Lord knows what would’ve happened if she hadn’t heard the crying.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’ Josie asked, though she could guess. She’d seen how the Aunts attracted crows, using them for their evil ends.

  ‘Crows ’ave always lived in and around Rookery Heights. That’s how it got its name, so they say.’ Arabella sniffed. ‘But never so many and Lord Corvis made it worse, that’s for sure, when he dismissed the gamekeeper after he killed a score of them. And there’s other things, too . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Josie said. Her soup bowl was abandoned as she listened to the girl. A movement distracted her and Josie glanced over to the window. An enormous raven perched on the sill outside. Its feathers glistened with blues and greens, like oil on water, and from between the feathers speared the longest and cruellest of beaks.

  Arabella had also seen it. ‘Oh, look at me, scarin’ you with my chatter,’ she chirped, her voice overly bright. ‘Don’t you pay me any heed, miss. I just get carried away with myself. Drink yer soup up and get some more rest . . .’

  ‘But I want to see my brother. I want to see Alfie.’ Josie pulled herself up, groaning with the effort. Her whole body ached and her head felt as though it might burst out of the tight bandage. She glared at the raven as it ruffled its feathers and grazed the tip of its enormous beak across the glass of the window. It had unnerved Arabella. Josie wished she had something to throw.

  ‘All in good time, miss. Look, you’re spillin’ what’s left of yer soup there.’ Arabella frowned and snatched the bowl away. She eased a hand against Josie’s shoulder, pushing her back into the pillow. After all she’d been through, Josie felt too weak to resist. ‘It’ll be dark soon and your brother needs his rest, too. Nasty gash he had across his face. You can’t go disturbin’ him now.’

  Arabella bustled off with the soup bowl. The rattle of a bolt as Arabella left told Josie she was locked in. Exhaustion weighed down her eyelids but jabs of pain snapped her to attention again. She rolled to her side, struggling to find a comfortable position. Her thoughts gave her no peace either. Cardamom had told her to find the Amarant. Had he hidden it? She racked her brain, trying to think of places they had visited. How secretive he had been! He’d told her virtually nothing about his past. Their lives had moved between the theatre and Bluebell Terrace. And what about Mortlock? Was he out there now, searching? Hunting for the Amarant just as the hideous ghuls were? If he had vanished years ago, why did she feel his presence lurking in every shadow? Why did his name crop up time and again?

  Time dragged on. Evening shadows crept up the bedroom wall, darkening the room. Josie was staring out of the window, still lost in thought, as Arabella returned with a
lit paraffin lamp. Something glowed feebly in the distance, a light punctuating the flat line of the horizon. Josie had to squint to be sure it wasn’t a reflection of the lamp.

  ‘Is that another house?’ Josie said, catching Arabella’s elbow. The girl glanced over and gave a gasp.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said, forcing a laugh. ‘No, probably just the gamekeeper after some poachers . . .’

  ‘You said Corvis dismissed the gamekeeper,’ Josie said, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Did I?’ Arabella gave another foolish giggle and almost ran for the window. ‘Maybe a barge out to sea, then. Could be anything really. You get some sleep. I’ll draw them curtains; it’s cold out there.’

  And with that she had gone. Josie sat up in bed for a while with the lamp turned down, wondering about the dim glow out across the darkness. If it wasn’t another house, what could it be? And why had Arabella reacted so nervously when Josie asked about it? If only she could talk to Alfie. She shivered and huddled under the covers. She had no idea what the night might hold.

  .

  .

  ‘What will ye leave to your sister Anne?’

  ‘My silken scarf and my golden fan.’

  ‘What will ye leave to your sister Grace?’

  ‘My bloody clothes to wash and dress.’

  ‘What will ye leave to your brother John?’

  ‘The gallows tree to hang him on.’

  ‘The Cruel Brother’, traditional folk ballad

  .

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lord Corvis

  Josie’s night passed miserably. Her lamp sputtered and died, leaving her in total darkness, her nerves prey to every scratch at the window, every rustle. Floorboards creaked, the wind moaned across the marshes and rattled her window in its frame. Josie was used to the sounds of the city: carriages clattering on cobbled streets, costermongers crying out to attract custom. The noises here were alien to her.

  Cackling magpies and crows brought the first feeble suggestions of dawn. Josie limped out of bed to the window and looked out across the flat grey landscape. It was empty but for a few scrubby trees, a dilapidated windmill and a hangman’s gibbet standing stark and black against the washed-out marshland. The house stood on raised ground and looked down on the marshes as they spilled out towards the sea. Rust-red squares dotted the distant waterline, the sails of Thames barges plying their trade along the coast. Josie remembered seeing them at the docks in the city once. But they were far from London now. A tumbledown brick wall marked a perimeter of sorts around the house and a pitted drive led to its front door.

  Few plants bothered to grow in the land surrounding the house. But rooks, ravens and crows of all descriptions lined the ledges and roofs of outlying houses, huddling and bickering together in the cold dawn. Wherever a bird roosted, smears of white crusted the surfaces and dripped down the walls. Josie pulled a face and peered over to where she thought the light had been in the night. Nothing interrupted the grey line of the horizon.

  She hobbled to the door and turned the handle. It was bolted from the outside. Josie cursed under her breath. Not that she had any intention of escaping; she wasn’t fit enough yet. But she needed to see Alfie, to know he was safe and well. When Arabella finally arrived with breakfast on a tray, Josie was pleased to see her and straightened up in bed, wincing with each bend of a limb or twist of the body.

  But Arabella looked pale and drawn.

  ‘Breakfast, miss,’ she murmured, placing the tray down. Josie frowned. Where was the smiling girl from yesterday? She looked like a hunted mouse, shoulders slumped, head to one side, staring at the carpet.

  ‘Can I see Alfie today?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, miss,’ Arabella said, stepping back and giving a sidelong glance to the door. Josie’s stomach lurched.

  Aunt Mag leered from the threshold, hands clasped in front of her, dark eyes twinkling with triumph. She took a step forward.

  ‘I trust you’re comfortable, Josie Chrimes,’ Aunt Mag hissed with a yellow-toothed grin. ‘Don’t get used to it. Lord Corvis is interested in the pair of you for now, but it is the Amarant he truly wants. Come with me.’

  Josie caught a glimpse of Alfie’s face behind Aunt Mag, a livid scar coursing across his white cheek. His eyes met hers and widened. Josie threw herself forward, sending the breakfast tray crashing to the floor. ‘Alfie,’ she cried, hobbling to the door and hugging him, ignoring Aunt Mag’s sneer.

  ‘Owww,’ Alfie groaned. ‘Steady on.’

  Josie stood back, grimacing at her complaining joints and her smile dropped. ‘You look terrible,’ she said.

  It was true, the gash across his cheek stood out blue and angry. He swayed and gave a feeble grin.

  ‘Thanks, yer no oil painting yerself,’ he said, wincing and grabbing her shoulder for support. He looked like a little old man, so frail and colourless.

  ‘Enough! His lordship is waiting,’ Aunt Mag snapped. She led them along dusty passageways. Even though it was morning, the house was dark and shuttered. Aunt Mag’s oil lamp cast a globe of light in the shadows.

  ‘It reminds me of a mausoleum,’ Alfie whispered. Every now and then a cracked oil painting of a lady in silks or a tarnished suit of armour would pass through their little illuminated bubble.

  ‘Everything here needs a good dusting down,’ Josie whispered back. Dull unpolished tables supported vases of brown desiccated flowers, which in turn supported a tangle of thick, dusty cobwebs. ‘Uncle may not have been too fussy about housework, but at least Bluebell Terrace was clean.’

  ‘Got a strange taste in ornaments, too,’ Alfie murmured. Here and there, hideous statues and carvings snarled out of the gloom: ancient gods with many arms, tusks and fearsome scowling faces, weapons raised, frozen in mid blow.

  ‘Horrible,’ Josie said.

  Aunt Mag pushed on the large double doors into the dining room and there at the end of a long polished table sat Lord Corvis. Aunt Mag swept past them and stood at Corvis’s shoulder, her black eyes locked on to Josie, cold and steely. Josie slipped her hand around Alfie’s and gave a squeeze. His skin felt cold and clammy. He squeezed back.

  ‘Welcome,’ Corvis said. Josie had never seen such a neat, well-groomed man. He sat very tall in his chair, regarding them with imperious, ice-cold eyes. His pointed features were tanned brown, a clear indication that he’d been away from the grimy winter streets of London for many years. His coal-black hair shone. The creases of his suit were pressed razor sharp, from the lapels of his tailcoat to the hem of his dark trousers. A single diamond sparkled on the end of the pin in his black silk tie. Corvis smoothed his pencil moustache. ‘You’ve led me a merry dance. Sit down.’

  Josie and Alfie edged into the room, both of them eyeing Aunt Mag nervously. They sat at the end of the table, on either side of Corvis’s seat. Corvis turned to them, leaning his elbows on the table.

  ‘I’m not going to burden you with questions just yet, children,’ Corvis began, reaching for a china teapot. ‘You’ve been through quite an ordeal and need time to recover.’ He stopped pouring his tea and peered at Alfie. ‘Though not that much time, it would appear. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were healing before my very eyes. Remarkable.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’ Josie said, glaring at Corvis.

  ‘We’ll discuss all that once you’re feeling better, my dear,’ Corvis said, stirring the tea slowly. ‘For now you are our guests. Isn’t that right, Mag?’

  Aunt Mag said nothing, but Josie noticed her bony knuckles whiten as they gripped the back of Corvis’s chair.

  ‘Feel free to move around the house,’ he said and took a sip from the china cup. ‘But please don’t try to leave. I have forbidden the ladies from harming you, but you’ve seen what they can do. I wonder how much restraint they would exercise should they have to . . . apprehend you.’ Corvis gave a tight smile and put down his cup. The audience was over, Josie could tell. ‘Mag, take them back to their rooms.’

  Arabella
stood waiting in Josie’s room with some bread and cheese on a tray to replace the ruined breakfast. ‘You’ve met him, then. What d’you think?’ she said, putting the tray down.

  ‘Gave me the bloomin’ creeps,’ Alfie grumbled, cutting a corner off the cheese.

  ‘His eyes reminded me of the ghuls,’ Josie said. ‘To think he was Uncle’s friend once. I wonder what changed him . . .’

  ‘I can’t imagine his lordship bein’ anyone’s friend,’ Arabella said in a low voice.

  Josie knew from her manner that she held no love for her master or the ladies. But does that make her an ally? Josie wondered. The girl was clearly frightened of the Aunts. Did she know what they really were?

  ‘Thanks, Arabella,’ Alfie said, smiling at her and waving a crust.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Arabella blushed. She shook herself. ‘Anyway, I can’t stand round here gossipin’ to you two. Make sure you rest and if you want anything ring the bell. I’ll hear it.’ She bustled out of the room and Josie eased herself on to the end of her bed.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ she asked.

  ‘Like death,’ Alfie replied. ‘Gettin’ better by the minute, though, I can feel it. I can’t remember much after the ghul slashed me. Gimlet – is he . . . ?’

  ‘He must be. I saw him covered in blood.’ Josie nodded and stifled her tears.

  ‘Why didn’t they see us off?’ Alfie said, looking down at his hands.

  ‘Corvis still thinks we know where the Amarant is,’ Josie whispered, fiddling with her bandage.

  ‘I wish we did. We could work out how to destroy it and that’d be an end to it.’

  ‘Whatever they want, we’ll play along,’ Josie replied, winking at Alfie. ‘Until we’re feeling better and we’ve worked out how to escape – and then we’ll burn this place to its foundations and get back to London!’

  ‘Don’t think I can sleep with those things under the same roof as me,’ Alfie said.