by Sarah Rayne
Maud listened to all this, and then nervously broached the question of the man, to which Thomasina replied quite casually that there would have to be a man, of course, but that was nothing to worry about. These things could be very easily arranged; she would see to it all, and would tell Maud what had to be done.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thomasina Forrester was not much given to introspection–life was too busy for that–but during these last few weeks she had several times paused to wonder how it was that something could slyly trickle into your mind and end in almost taking possession of you.
A child. That was the idea that had come from nowhere and had gradually come to occupy her mind so overwhelmingly. A child who could be brought up in all Quire’s traditions, and who would one day inherit the place and carry those traditions forward into the twentieth century. People said it was wrong to become too attached to buildings and old customs, that these things did not matter, but they mattered to Thomasina because she had been brought up believing in them. She loved Quire with a fierce possessiveness. She would like to think of it going on and on, lived in by people who appreciated and cared for it, and she would like to think of herself going on and on as well: a local institution, about whom people smiled and said, ‘Ah, Miss Forrester. She represents Quire and everything it stands for. She is Quire.’
Thomasina found this image very satisfactory. It was her forthcoming birthday–her fortieth, such a watershed for a female–that had set her thinking about Quire’s future, and what would happen to it when she died. She was prepared to give death a good run for its money, but even so…
In the early days of her infatuation with Maud she had wondered about leaving the place to her, but she could see now that she must have been besotted to the point of madness even to consider it, because Maud would never cope. She could never control reprobates like Cormac Sullivan, or keep that furtive old lecher, Reverend Skandry in check, or play a useful part in the administering of the Forrester Benevolent Trust, or fight against the impractical idealism of Daniel Glass. Maud would not, in fact, be able to cope with any of the things Thomasina coped with as a matter of course.
And there was something else Thomasina was becoming increasingly aware of. Maud seemed to have what Thomasina thought of as pockets of darkness within her mind. Only last week she had found a sketch at the back of Maud’s wardrobe–purely by accident, of course, she was not one to pry–but really a rather dreadful drawing of a fearsome-looking woman with sly eyes. Thomasina had found the sketch macabre, although it had been difficult to say exactly why. Something about the mouth, was it? Yes, there was something very unsettling about the mouth: it had a greedy, wet look to it. Very unpleasant. In the end, she had replaced the sketch carefully so Maud would not know she had found it, but had resolved to search Maud’s things regularly.
There was no reason for Maud to succumb to these dark moods, and what she had to be macabre about, Thomasina did not know. The child wanted for nothing: she had a beautiful house to live in and a devoted lover and friend to share her bed. The pity was that innocent unworldly Maud did not know just how adroit and practised a lover she did have. Thomasina could have named half a dozen females who would not have been a quarter as skilful as she was with Maud!
But as is so often the way with these matters, Maud’s very prudishness made her even more alluring. That reluctance, that air of not really liking being made love to, of having to be seduced every time was irresistible. A challenge. Thomasina had the feeling that if Maud were suddenly to become eager, she might lose all interest. But for the moment…for the moment it drove her wild, and she could hardly keep her hands off the child.
But how far could Maud be considered as the key to Quire’s future?
As things stood, if Thomasina died Quire would pass to her cousin Simon, always providing he had not drunk himself into an early grave or a debtors’ gaol, either of which were possible. The thought of Quire in Simon’s reckless hands was a bad one, in fact Thomasina would almost rather see someone like that reprobate Cormac Sullivan have the place. There would not be a pheasant left in the woods, of course, and goodness knew the kind of ladies who might be imported into the bedrooms, but Cormac would keep up all the old traditions because he understood about houses and land and would be a far better trustee than Simon.
The only other solution was for Thomasina to marry and have a child of her own. This was out of the question. Not only was the thought of being in bed with a man utterly repulsive, the knowledge that she would have to yield to a man’s authority was repulsive as well. No, marriage was not to be thought of, even with the prospect of a son of her own.
But the idea of a child–a son–would not go away. Was there any way a child could be acquired without Thomasina marrying? How could it be contrived? Who could its father be? For a wild moment the image of the cat-faced child in Seven Dials rose up before her eyes, and she could almost see the son the girl would have: strong and tough and rebellious. The girl would probably do it as well if Thomasina paid her enough, and she could find her easily enough: she had her address on a half sheet of paper, which she kept discreetly at the back of her bureau.
But if there was to be a child it had better be Maud’s, although Maud would have to be coaxed to take part in the conception, never mind endure the birth. Still, there were ways of breaking down the resistance of a shrinking prudish virgin. Not violence, of course, nothing so crude, but perhaps something discreetly stirred in Maud’s food that would make her drowsy? Nothing harmful. There was laudanum which was easy enough to obtain, or even opium which was smoked in certain London clubs. Simon might know how to get hold of opium, or there was the ramshackle house in Seven Dials. A smile lifted the corners of Thomasina’s lips at the thought. The occupants of that house would certainly be able to get opium, although the cat-faced girl would charge at least triple for it. There would be some reason for needing the money–the girl always had a good reason: a sister who was sick was a favourite one.
And then Simon wrote to say he was utterly destitute again and his creditors were chasing him all over London. If there was any possibility of his dearest Thomasina helping him out–for old times’ sake and all that–he would be eternally her slave, and would do anything she asked of him.
Anything she asked.
The plan slid as sleekly and as smoothly as a serpent into Thomasina’s mind.
Latchkill Asylum for the Insane
Day Book: Sunday 26th September
Report by Nurse Bryony Sullivan
Reaper Wing residents allowed in recreation yard last night in accordance with Dr Glass’s instructions. (6.45 p.m. to 7.30 p.m.) However, tonight several displayed reluctance to return to wing afterwards, and two were downright defiant and had to be sedated, although nets did not have to be used this time, which is one mercy.
Matron Prout called in Dr Glass, and asked for his approval in putting a stop to this recreation hour. However, Dr Glass says very firmly that it must continue, since it’s the only fresh air (and degree of normality) Reaper Wing residents are likely to get. Pointed out that isolated outbreak of childish tantrums hardly on level with French Revolution.
Memorandum to Kitchens
Please to ensure that patients in Reaper Wing are only served with plain bread and water for the next two days–a light diet is very beneficial in calming agitated patients.
There is no need for Dr Glass to be informed of this small and unimportant alteration in their routine.
Signed F. Prout (Matron)
Latchkill Asylum for the Insane
Day Book: Tuesday 28th September
7.00 p.m.
Matron caught Dora Scullion and Nurse Bryony Sullivan smuggling supper tray into Reaper Wing. (Vegetable broth and slice of cold roast lamb from midday dinner.)
Both reprimanded by Matron.
Memorandum to Bursar
Please ensure that the week’s wages for Dora Scullion (skivvy) and Bryony Sullivan (nurse) are docked by
three shillings and five shillings respectively.
Signed F. Prout (Matron)
Antonia did not feel like eating, but she heated some tinned soup for herself, and fed the remains of the smoked salmon to Raffles. There would be a perfectly innocent explanation as to how he had got in–perhaps Godfrey Toy had a key to the cottage and had let the cat in by mistake. This did not explain how Raffles had got the salmon out of the fridge, but it was either that or back to the ghosts or Antonia’s own madness. No contest, then. Sorry, Godfrey, for the moment you’ll have to be first suspect.
After the soup, she carried a cup of tea back to her favourite part of the cottage, the dining area by the stairs, and flipped on the laptop. The wall light directly over the table cast a pool of soft light, and the heater near the stairs gave out a pleasant warmth. Raffles padded across the floor to inspect the laptop, and apparently satisfied that it did not provide either a threat or an amusement, curled himself up at the foot of the stairs with the tolerant air of one prepared to keep the humans company until something more alluring turned up. It was rather comforting to have him there; Antonia had forgotten how companionable cats could be. She had forgotten quite a lot about companionship during the past five years.
After the rape in the showers, and after her attackers had gone swaggering back to the block, she had been violently sick. She had managed to turn on the shower taps and crouch shivering beneath the jets of water, trying to wash away the smell and the feel and the taste of what had happened.
She did not intend to report the attack. It did not take much logic to know that to do so would only cause further trouble, but her head and mouth had been knocked against the edge of the shower cubicle, and a small scalp wound was bleeding quite badly. It was noticed of course, and she was taken to the prison’s infirmary. When she came out, she was moved to what was termed the high-risk wing.
In a curious way, this had been much easier. There she was with the real killers and the child beaters, all of them herded together in one section for protection from the rest of the prisoners–it had seemed that the stories about ordinary thieves and drug dealers hating child molesters were perfectly true–but because of her training she found these women much easier to deal with. A great many of them had suffered abuse in their own childhoods, and some of them displayed unmistakable signs of mental illness, but a number of them were intelligent and articulate, diligently attending classes for creative writing or art or taking Open University degree courses. After a while Antonia even formed one or two wary friendships and managed to forget, sometimes for quite long stretches, that these were women who had committed vicious murders or were guilty of violence against children.
Donna Robards knew all about Antonia’s life in prison because she had made it her business to find out.
She had not been drawn into any of the publicity surrounding the trial, and the police had not called her to give evidence. They had interviewed her, of course, and she had told them that her brother’s death and the way he had died would be her life’s tragedy. Disagreements or rows between them? No, not at all. She and her brother hardly ever disagreed, and they certainly never had rows. But although the newspapers had ferreted around to find out about his family, Donna thought they had been looking for something a bit more sensational than an unremarkable sister, and most of them had preferred the angle of Don being alone and defenceless. The tabloids had gone all out for the image of a manipulative, sex-hungry older woman exploiting a younger man’s infatuation. Donna did not think she had been mentioned by any of them.
At the time she had been bitterly resentful at being ignored–she wanted people to know her as Don’s dearly-loved sister–but as the months went along, and as her plan began to take firmer shape, she saw how it would work to her advantage. If people did not know about her–especially the people at Antonia’s hospital–she would be able to work quietly and anonymously against the bitch. In any case, by the time her plan was ready to put into action, anyone who had known that Don had a sister, would have forgotten.
After the first few months they had given Weston a cell to herself, and assigned her to work in the prison library. A very easy imprisonment for the bitch who had killed Donna’s beloved brother, and a very short one, as well! Eight years, that was all they had given her. It was an insult to Don’s memory. On Antonia’s first night in prison, Donna had known that since the stupid courts and the feeble justice system had not been prepared to deal properly with this creature, this seducer of young men, then she would have to do it herself. The hows and the whens of the punishment would need to be carefully thought out, but she had eight years to do that. As for the where…
Donna smiled the secret smile–the smile she had once kept for Don, and that no one else would ever see now. There was only one place where punishment could be properly administered to this murdering bitch, and that was the place of Donna’s own childhood–the place where her parents had taken her and Don every summer.
The tiny market town of Amberwood in Cheshire. Charity Cottage in the grounds of Quire House: the cottage Donna’s parents had liked so much and had rented for a month every summer. A place of great atmosphere, Donna’s mother used to say. So restful.
And on Amberwood’s outskirts was the old mill. Twygrist. Twygrist was not restful. When Donna thought about it–when she thought of what had happened inside it–the smile curved her lips again, and the embryo plan to destroy Antonia Weston took a darker turn. Twygrist.
Could Weston somehow be got to Amberwood when she was released? Once there, could she be lured out to Twygrist?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maud’s birthday present to Thomasina was a framed charcoal drawing she had made of Thomasina standing in the main doorway of Quire House. She had had it properly framed, and had wrapped it in gold-spangled paper. Thomasina was very pleased; she said they would choose a well-lit place to hang it so people could properly admire it. Perhaps the music room would be a good idea.
Maud was glad Thomasina was so pleased, and relieved Thomasina had not seen her first attempt at the sketch. Halfway through she had suddenly seen that she had drawn Thomasina as immensely tall, with dreadful greedy eyes and large teeth, like the ogresses in the stories, whose appetites were inclined towards human children, and who plotted to steal them away. How dreadful of her, after all Thomasina’s kindness.
During breakfast, opening her letters, Thomasina said, in what Maud thought was a slightly too casual voice, that she had invited her cousin Simon to stay at Quire for a week or so.
‘And he’s written to say he’ll be here this afternoon. He’s in financial difficulties again of course–that’s a common occurrence with Simon–but he’s the nearest thing I’ve got to a brother. He spent a lot of his school holidays at Quire; my father always thought him a bit weak and too much of a drifter to ever do any good, but he’s a charming drifter and an entertaining companion so I shan’t mind having him around. If he gets bored he can go rough shooting with Cormac Sullivan.’
Maud thought it was nice that Thomasina’s cousin would be there for her birthday dinner, and Thomasina said they would have a very good evening. After dinner Maud could play some music, providing it was not one of those gloomy pieces by that man who had been refused Christian burial or something, so that his coffin had languished in a cellar for months. Paganini, was it? Well, whatever he had been called, they did not want him tonight.
Thomasina seemed quite excited about Simon’s arrival; Maud even began to wonder if there could be something romantic between them, although that was not very likely. Thomasina had no time for men and she looked on Simon as a brother, she had said so.
But there was a hectic colour in her face which was unusual because she was normally sallow-skinned, and her eyes had a glittery look. Maud hoped it did not mean Thomasina wanted ‘It’ to happen that night. For the last few nights she had pretended to fall asleep as soon as she got into bed, and it was nearly a week since ‘It’ had happened. So Thomasina mi
ght consider it was time for a particularly strenuous session, and since it was her birthday Maud supposed it would be ungenerous to refuse. But the prospect was daunting. There were nights when the stroking and poking seemed to last for hours, and Maud’s hands sometimes ached the next day from doing the things that Thomasina liked her to do.
(‘Dear me, rheumatism at your age,’ Maud’s father had said when she had visited him, seeing her unconsciously massaging her fingers, and Maud had had to laugh and say that of course it was not rheumatism; she had been practising a particularly difficult piece on the piano. It was unthinkable that her father should so much as suspect what she and Thomasina did together.)
At dinner Simon was very attentive to Maud, passing dishes to her and pouring wine into her glass. Maud tried not to drink too much of the wine because she was developing a headache, but Simon said a glass of good wine worked wonders for headaches, in fact it worked wonders for all areas of the body. Thomasina said, rather sharply, that that remained to be seen, and she would prefer Simon to moderate his drinking tonight, but Simon only grinned.
‘Worried about vintner’s droop? I’ve never been known to fail yet, old girl.’
Thomasina said very sharply that the dinner table was not the place for masculine coarseness, and Simon was not to call her old girl. Maud looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
‘We shan’t need anything else,’ said Thomasina to Mrs Minching when the coffee was brought in. She said this dismissively–she could be quite brusque with the servants–and Maud thought Mrs Minching looked cross as she went out.
Thomasina did not seem to notice or if she did, she did not care. She looked directly at Maud and smiled. Maud felt a nervous tremor at the pit of her stomach. This was the smile she had glimpsed on Thomasina’s face several times recently: the smile that had somehow got into that first shameful sketch; the smile that seemed to come up from Thomasina’s very marrow, and said, I’m going to enjoy you…