Spider Light

by Sarah Rayne

  Miss Weston said she knew exactly what he meant, and there was no particular rush and she could come back another day, but Godfrey would not hear of this. He looked out the keys to the cellars, and summoned the sulky Greg Foster to help carry things up the stairs.

  ‘I don’t mind carrying boxes,’ said Antonia, but this did not suit Godfrey’s idea of what was right, and he swept the unwilling Greg down to the cellars with them, issuing worried warnings to Antonia about the stairs being narrow and rickety, and the lighting a bit dim.

  As she went down the steps, Antonia said, ‘There was a reference to an old asylum in the leaflets as well. Would you have anything on that, d’you think?’

  ‘Latchkill,’ said Godfrey, nodding. ‘Yes, there might be a few fragments. Sad old place, from all accounts, but those places usually were, weren’t they?’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘It was demolished in the 1960s or early 1970s,’ said Godfrey. ‘I think there was some attempt to get it registered as a listed building, but in the end they said it was beyond restoring, and it went.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Antonia, trying not to feel disappointed.

  The large black and white cat appeared from somewhere and elected to accompany them into the cellars, seating itself on a ledge and preparing to watch their exploits with an air of indulgent curiosity. Godfrey said they had better shoo him out in case he got shut in down here, and before doing so introduced him to Antonia as Raffles.

  ‘Raffles?’ Antonia’s mind went to the famous hotel, but Godfrey said, ‘He’s a very gentlemanly cat-burglar. He’s always perfectly polite about his crimes, but if you let him into the cottage, never leave out food.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Raffles took his unhurried leave, and Godfrey burrowed, white-rabbit-like into the packing cases, tea chests and boxes. In a surprisingly short space of time he identified a small carton marked ‘Forrester’, which contained four or five large but very battered manilla envelopes.

  ‘Newspaper cuttings, a few letters and financial statements. It looks as if there’s some stuff from Latchkill, as well. But there isn’t very much, I’m afraid. Would it be enough to give you a start?’

  He looked so anxiously hopeful that Antonia, eyeing the envelopes hungrily, said it would give her more than a start.

  ‘But everything looks terrifyingly fragile. Would it be better if I had photocopies to work from? I’ll happily pay—’

  But Godfrey would not dream of making a charge, and said that copies could be made right away. He would have thought of that himself if he had not been so woolly-minded about machines and technology. Professor Remus was urging him to learn how to operate a computer, which he was trying to avoid, although he supposed it would make the cataloguing a lot easier.

  To her horror, Antonia heard herself say, ‘I’ve got a laptop. And I’ve done a bit of cataloguing work. I’m here for a couple of months, so if you wanted any help—’ At this point she managed to shut up in case she let it out that the cataloguing experience had been acquired by re-vamping the prison library, a project which had gone some way to saving her sanity in gaol.

  But Godfrey was entranced at the offer, and said he would certainly take her up on it. How extremely kind of her. He had a party of visitors due after lunch, which would take up most of today, but perhaps Miss Weston could come back tomorrow and they could discuss it? Should they say half past three? Quire closed at four, so there were unlikely to be many visitors still around.

  The laptop had been a gift from Jonathan. ‘Call it a coming-out present,’ he’d said, giving it to her after their lunch in London, and speaking in the offhand tone of a man who would be torn into pieces by wild horses galloping in different directions rather than admit to a generous action or an emotional response. Antonia had tried to accept the laptop in the spirit in which it had been given. She could not imagine what had prompted her to offer it and her own services to Godfrey Toy this morning.

  It was already surprisingly comforting to see the squat, ugly cottage standing on the edge of the parkland. Antonia approached it buoyantly, because it already represented a degree of safety even with that patch of dark fear in the kitchen. But let’s not think about that. Let’s enjoy unlocking the front door and coming into the sitting room, turning up the heating against the damp autumnal day and seeing the glow of the electric fire reflected on the windowpanes. Recognizing the house’s scents–old timbers and the occasional drift of woodsmoke from the fireplace.

  It was just on one o’clock. She would have some lunch, and while she ate she would read the letters and newspaper cuttings about Thomasina and Latchkill, making notes as she went along. I want to know about you, she said to Thomasina’s ghost. And I want to know about that patch of extreme fear in this cottage. I don’t know if you were anything to do with that–whether you suffered the fear or whether you caused it–but you’re a starting point. A link.

  She went into the kitchen, still thinking about Thomasina, rather than about what might be invisibly in wait for her, and stopped dead in the doorway.

  Raffles was composedly seated on the table, and between his paws were the remains of Godfrey Toy’s smoked salmon.

  The clawing fear leapt out of the room all over again, and it was several moments before Antonia could think or reason.

  Let’s take this calmly. There’s a cat on the table, and it’s eating the salmon. Nothing so very sinister about that. Dr Toy said Raffles was a well-mannered burglar, and any cat will trade its virtue and barter its soul for fish. But how did he get in?

  The likeliest explanation was that Antonia must have left a door or window open, and Raffles, in the manner of his kind, had come to investigate. He was, as Godfrey Toy had said, being perfectly polite about it.

  Keeping a firm hold of this probability, she checked the back door which was locked, and then systematically went round the rest of the cottage, determined not to give way to panic.

  Every window was closed. Nowhere was the smallest chink through which even the most accomplished feline thief could have got in. But there must be a chink somewhere.

  Although how had he opened the fridge door, removed the salmon from the foil wrapping and then closed the fridge door behind him?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Forrester Benevolent Trust

  Friday 17th September

  In attendance: Miss Thomasina Forrester, Matron Freda Prout, Reverend Skandry, Dr Daniel Glass.

  Nurse Bryony Sullivan taking notes of proceedings.

  Matron Prout proposed the closure of Reaper Wing, on the grounds that it was costly to maintain, and a large proportion of the nurses did not like dealing with the inhabitants. There was a certain biblical superstition.

  Dr Glass strongly opposed this. Said the inhabitants of Reaper Wing had, in the main, been cast off by squeamish or snobbish families, and must not be cast off by people dedicated to helping the sick. Added that there was nothing in the least biblical about Reaper Wing patients, and offered to talk to the nurses in question.

  Reverend Skandry was of the opinion that we should be charitable to those less fortunate than ourselves. When Dr Glass said that this remark did not further the meeting’s purpose, Rev Skandry said he would pray for the poor souls in Reaper Wing.

  Matron Prout then proposed that funds be diverted from the Forrester Benevolent Trust to help with treatment of Reaper Wing patients, who often had to be sedated. By way of support for this proposal, she passed round bills, pointing out that items such as sulphate of quinine (frequently given as an infusion in carbonate of ammonia), were becoming very costly.

  Miss Forrester asked if any of the patients in Reaper Wing could be regarded as men or women of quality, which is a particular requirement of money from the Trust being paid out. Matron Prout said, they were people of quality, and appealed to Dr Glass to confirm this.

  Dr Glass said he could not confirm it because he had never noticed and he did not care anyway. He expressed himself as bein
g opposed to using the Trust in the way Matron was requesting. If Reaper Wing–in fact if any patients at all–were so severely disturbed that regular sedation was needed, the cost of treating them should be borne by public monies such as the Poor Law funds, and not have to come from charitable bequests with obscure terms of reference, set up by well-meaning but misguided philanthropists thirty years earlier.

  Reverend Skandry suggested that Dr Glass should apologize to Miss Forrester for appearing to cast a slur on her father, to which Dr Glass replied that in a properly run world all sick people would be given the same treatment irrespective of financial or social standing, and he would like it recorded that he will treat all patients in Latchkill regardless of whether he is paid for his services or not. (So recorded.)

  Reverend Skandry seconded the proposal that the Forrester Benevolent Trust be drawn on for ministering to Reaper Wing.

  Dr Glass put a counter-proposal that if Trust funds were to be used for basic medicines, they might as well also be used to provide better food for all patients.

  Objection made by Matron Prout, who said if the Trust permitted this, the next step would be that the patients would expect all manner of luxuries, even down to wine with their dinner, and chicken and game for their supper. Dr Glass said he did not see why patients should not be given chicken and game–stewed venison very nourishing. Pointed out that partridge presently in season, and poachers as likely to supply Latchkill with birds as anywhere else. Said that for himself he had no objection to eating misappropriated partridge and did not suppose Latchkill’s patients would mind either, and that a particularly good way to cook it was au choux. Added that if it was Matron’s intention to administer prison diet to the patients, then Dora Scullion might as well bring on the bread-and-skilly now and have done.

  Original proposal carried. Dr Glass’s counter-proposal not seconded.

  Today had been the first time Byrony had taken the notes for a Benevolent Trust meeting and it had been quite an experience. The Reverend Arthur Skandry had spent most of his time staring at Bryony’s ankles, and Thomasina Forrester had spent her time staring at her bosom. Neither of these things were entirely a surprise, although Bryony would have preferred not to have Thomasina eyeing her in quite that manner.

  Dr Glass had not eyed Bryony at all; there was nothing in the least bit ogle-some about Dr Glass. The Prout sometimes wondered audibly about his private life, asking whether there was not something a little strange about a gentleman of thirty-five or thirty-eight who was not married, but most of Latchkill’s nurses considered this to be pure pique. There had been a story a year or two back that Prout had tried to inveigle Dr Glass into a romantic liaison with her, only to be rejected. This surprised nobody.

  Bryony had no idea if the story was true, but it was certainly true that most of the nurses were halfway in love with Dr Glass. Byrony was not even a quarter of the way in love with him, although she would not have minded if he had stared at any part of her during today’s meeting. But he was far too much of a gentleman to do any such thing.

  Maud could not imagine how Thomasina could bring herself to go to Latchkill–to go through those gates and walk along the gloomy tree-fringed drive, and step across Latchkill’s threshhold–but Thomasina said it was something that had to be done. Her father had set up a trust to help some of the poor souls in the place, and the mantle of that had fallen on Thomasina’s shoulders, so to speak. Noblesse oblige and all that.

  Maud had said, ‘Oh. Oh, yes, I see,’ but had to repress a shudder at the thought of Latchkill with the spider light inside its rooms, and the deep badness at its heart.

  There had been quite a lot of shudders to repress since coming to live at Quire House not connected with Latchkill but with what Maud thought of as ‘It’.

  ‘It’ had happened about a week after she had gone to Quire. She had been enjoying her stay, and she had liked the bedroom Thomasina had given her and everything had been very nice indeed. And then, one night after Maud had retired, Thomasina came into the bedroom and sat down to watch Maud get undressed. This was disconcerting, but Maud was still a bit over-awed by Quire and by Thomasina’s friendship. Thomasina had already given Maud several beautiful silk and velvet gowns and had talked about how they would go into Chester one day soon to buy brushes and painting materials so Maud could set up a proper artist’s studio while she was here.

  So Maud did not want to seem ungrateful, and it was silly to feel embarrassed about taking one’s clothes off–it was not like undressing in front of a man. So she undressed, trying not to shiver as she did so–it was September, but the night was warm, and she could not possibly be feeling cold–and put on the delicate lawn nightgown laid out on the pillow for her. This, it seemed, was another of Thomasina’s presents, and so Maud said how pretty it was.

  ‘White,’ said Thomasina. ‘Wear it tonight, will you?’

  It was a bit worrying to see Thomasina watching her so intensely. Maud had never before noticed what red, wet-looking lips Thomasina had, but probably that was only the glow from the gas jets. Once in bed with the sheets pulled up to her chin, Maud felt better. Safer. Less vulnerable.

  She did not feel less vulnerable for long because Thomasina then undressed. It was embarrassing to see this important lady taking off her clothes, and noticing that her thighs were lean and a bit stringy-looking, and that she had a lot of coarse hair between her legs–much more than Maud had. Maud shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep, but Thomasina climbed into the big soft bed, and turned down the gas so the room was dark. The wet red lips began to kiss Maud so intensely and so probingly that she could scarcely breathe. She began to feel frightened; it had not previously occurred to her that ladies got into bed together or kissed one another with such fierceness. When Thomasina’s hands began to explore her body in the most surprising fashion, she had to fight not to push them away.

  She did not do so because of not wanting to offend Thomasina, and also in case this was something people did when they were grown up. Thomasina murmured how Maud was the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world, which was not something anyone had ever said to her before. Perhaps it was not so unpleasant to be stroked and kissed in this way. Maud was aware of a sudden surge of power when, some little time later, Thomasina’s usually stern face twisted and she cried out with joy.

  The prodding and stroking seemed to be over, and Maud was able to lie back on the pillows. She had not really understood why Thomasina had cried out and suddenly seemed so weak, but as she drifted into sleep, she thought that if having done this–maybe even having to do it again–meant she could stay in this beautiful house and be given silk gowns and a real studio, then perhaps she could manage it. Father was always complaining about how much things cost nowadays, and saying, ‘Oh my goodness, just look at the household books this month’, or wondering how he could afford to get the roof of Toft House repaired, and Maud thought she would enjoy not having to hear about that.

  But as she finally tumbled over into sleep, she was guiltily aware of hoping that this was not something Thomasina would expect to happen very often.

  But Thomasina expected ‘It’ to happen a great many times–practically every night and sometimes during the night as well. There were even some mornings when ‘It’ happened straight after they woke up. Maud hated the early-morning times most of all; she always felt crumpled and stale when she woke up, and thought that if she had to be prodded by Thomasina’s hands and fingers and be made to prod Thomasina back, she would have much preferred to get out of bed and wash, clean her teeth and brush her hair first.

  But there were compensations. Three days after that night they had driven into the nearby town to talk to someone about artists’ materials, and had returned to Quire House with the forward seat of the carriage piled with packages containing silky paintbrushes, sticks of charcoal, blocks of satiny paper and–best of all–a real easel which was to be set up in the music room.

  ‘That will be your very own
room,’ said Thomasina watching Maud unpack her parcels and smiling indulgently. ‘And next week we’ll see about a new piano.’

  So really, being prodded and licked a few times each night (and some mornings), was quite a modest price to pay for such bounty. Maud thought that surely to goodness she could learn to put up with it.

  Apart from the inevitability of ‘It’, Maud’s days at Quire were filled with good things. Sketching in the park where you could make the trees appear to have faces–‘How very macabre,’ Thomasina said when she saw them–and mastering new piano pieces. She was trying to move away from the delicate filigree sounds of Chopin and Debussy, to more ambitious works: Mozart, Beethoven, Paganini.

  ‘That’s a bit gloomy,’ said Thomasina, listening to Maud playing Schumann’s piano arrangement of one of Paganini’s Caprices. ‘What’s it supposed to represent?’

  Maud had already realized that Thomasina, so kind and generous, had absolutely no glimmering of the intriguing darknesses you could find inside music, or the way it had a voice that told you things you had not known. But she tried to explain about Paganini, who had composed beautiful eerie music, and had been such a virtuoso on the violin that at one time he had even been suspected of being in league with the devil.

  ‘I’m not surprised after hearing that,’ said Thomasina caustically.

  And then, on the very evening of Thomasina’s meeting at Latchkill, while they were having dinner, came the bolt from the blue.

  Thomasina said she wanted Maud to have a child.

  At first Maud stared at Thomasina in bewilderment, because although she had only the sketchiest idea of how babies were born, she did know that a man had to be involved.

  But Thomasina said what a lovely thing it would be–a little baby of their very own to look after and bring up. It would mean that Thomasina would have an heir (or heiress) for Quire House and the farms and cottages. This was not the main reason of course, but it was something to consider.