by Sarah Rayne
George, who had not expected this, asked for clarification.
‘For a patient to be admitted, a justice must first make an order for lunacy, which must be signed by two separate doctors–neither of whom must be related to the patient or have any financial interest in him or her.’ A pause. ‘However, something might be arranged.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Doctors–and the commissioners of the Lunacy Board–are sometimes open to persuasion, Mr Lincoln.’
‘Oh, I see.’ George thought he did see, and he did not much like it. It sounded a bit too glib. But another part of his mind felt grateful that there might be a way round the bewildering legal requirements. It can be done, he thought. I can put Maud into Latchkill, and once people have forgotten what happened to Thomasina and Simon, Maud can come home to Toft House, and life can go on just as before.
‘But,’ said Freda, ‘I find it strange that you should wish to commit your only daughter to an asylum, Mr Lincoln. Especially when you must surely have enough money to care for her at home.’ Again there was the appraising look round the room. ‘Is it because you are ashamed? Or is there some other reason?’
There was a rather unpleasant silence, but at length George said, ‘Before she died, Maud’s mother was very disturbed. Maud is showing unmistakable signs of the same–disturbance. I want to keep it private.’ This came out firmly and clearly.
‘I daresay it’s her delusions you want to keep private,’ said Freda. ‘Quite remarkable some of them. You had administered something to her, I think–laudanum most probably–but she was sufficiently awake to talk while I was with her.’
George felt as if something had a stranglehold on his throat, but he said, cautiously, ‘Maud has a very dark imagination at times.’
‘Indeed? Well, people whose minds are flawed exhibit the most extraordinary behaviour. You wouldn’t believe the things some of my patients say. Confessions of all kinds of crimes. Even murder.’ The little eyes were unreadable. ‘For most of the time we keep an open mind, of course. And no one at Latchkill will hear if Miss–should we call her Miss Smith?–very well, no one will hear if Miss Smith talks about people being buried alive inside your mill. A curious coincidence, isn’t it, that poor Miss Forrester and her cousin have been found shut in the underground room there. I heard some of my nurses talking about it before I left Latchkill. Quite a stir it’s caused.’
George was not clear if the Prout woman thought Maud had killed Thomasina and Simon, or whether she thought Maud knew who had done it, or if she thought George himself was the killer. Whichever it was, he felt a sick panic in his vitals.
Freda was saying, ‘But you know, Mr Lincoln–or may I be a little forward and call you George? You know, George, I’m sure we can some to some arrangement. And–oh yes, perhaps just a small drop more sherry. Thank you so much.’
‘Arrangement?’ said George.
‘I’m afraid it would mean extra work for my staff. And that would mean higher payments. Just to keep things in order. Not that there will be anything quesh–questesh–Pardon, questionable anywhere.’
A genteel blackmail, that was what this amounted to. George supposed he ought to have seen it coming. Was he prepared to submit to it? He remembered Maud’s happiness–possibly even her life–was at stake, and thought he was. And, said an unpleasant little voice inside his mind, your own happiness? Isn’t that at stake, as well? Isn’t your pleasant comfortable life at Toft House at stake, as well? Toft House and the Rosen money, that you worked so hard to get? He said, ‘I’m sure we can find an amicable agreement, Mrs Prout.’
‘Freda, please. After all, we are friends. And–oh no, I really mustn’t have any more sherry, my word, you’ll be getting me tiddly. Well, perhaps just half a glass.’
‘You do understand,’ said George, refilling her glass and wishing he could stir in poison, ‘you do understand, Freda, that everything I’m doing is entirely for Maud’s sake.’
‘Oh quite. Cheer-ho again, George.’
The news of Thomasina Forrester’s death, and that of her cousin Simon, rocked Amberwood’s little community to its roots.
Dreadful, said people, gathering outside St Michael’s Church after Reverend Skandry had announced the tragedy from the pulpit. The most shocking thing. Trapped inside Twygrist’s kiln room, seemingly, and unable to make anyone hear their cries for help. Oh dear, it did not bear thinking about. The mill had been closed down years ago, of course–that had been after George Lincoln gave up his work as manager–and the place had never really been made safe.
And what would happen to Quire House? If there were any other Forrester relatives, nobody in Amberwood had ever heard of them. It was possible they would turn up at the funeral, people did turn up at funerals: long-lost cousins and aunts whom no one had ever heard of. Anyway, whoever turned up or did not turn up, it would be quite an occasion. Reverend Skandry would give those two poor souls a good send-off, they could all be sure of that. Mrs Minching was going to put on a cold lunch up at Quire and everyone was invited to attend.
It was known that George Lincoln was very distressed by the news–he was looking quite ill, the poor man. This was hardly surprising, though, what with him actually having found poor Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon, and what with him having worked for the Forrester family for a good many years. And then Miss Thomasina had recently been taking one of her kindly interests in Maud Lincoln. This last was said without any conscious undercurrent; most people were sorry for George, poor old George, and genuinely concerned to learn that Maud had been unwell, and was presently recuperating with some family somewhere. Ah well, the best place for her, under the circumstances.
Bryony Sullivan went to the double funeral, although it had been difficult to get her duties changed to do so. A new patient had just been brought into the private section who seemed to be taking up a good deal of the Prout’s time, which meant the general running of the main wards fell to the nurses. Poor little Dora Scullion was sent scuttling hither and yon like a demented rabbit, doing the work of three people–and probably getting less wages than one. Bryony would have preferred to stay and help Scullion and the nurses, but this was not a funeral that could be avoided.
‘We’re living on Thomasina Forrester’s land,’ said Bryony’s father. ‘And although neither of us cared for her much, attending the old girl’s funeral is something we should do. There are decencies to be observed.’
He was so seldom bothered about the decencies, that Bryony was quite surprised when he said this. She was even more surprised when he eschewed his usual shabby clothes and donned one of the few good outfits he still possessed.
‘I can still shine myself up when the occasion requires it,’ he said, coming down the stairs of Charity Cottage, and Bryony smiled, because if it was rare for him to bother about the decencies, it was even rarer for him to display any vanity.
A rather desultory wake was held at Quire House after the service. Mrs Minching had provided a buffet and sherry, confiding to Bryony as she handed round the food, that she would never get over the way Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon had died.
‘What is the world coming to, Miss Bryony, tell me that?’
‘It’s so sad,’ said Bryony.
‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, lowering her voice, ‘that there’s more to those two deaths than is being told. Accident, that’s what they’re saying, but to my mind, that’s all so much eyewash, Miss Bryony, beg pardon for being so forward.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, ‘that Maud Lincoln knows more than she should about what happened. Out for all she could get, that one, and very odd behaviour at times. And since she’s gone off to be ill somewhere, I’ve found some very puzzling things in my household books.’
‘What do you mean, puzzling?’
‘What they call discrepancies, Miss Bryony.’ The word was pronounced with care. ‘Invoices and delivery notes for things never delivered to Quire, b
ut not a one of them in my pantry inventory, and you can’t argue against that, can you?’
Byrony supposed you could not, and did not say that at Charity Cottage food was bought as it was needed, and put in the meat safe or onto the cold slab, according to what it might be. The state of the larder was largely reliant on the state of the finances, although the larder’s deficiencies were frequently augmented by Bryony’s father. In the Irish house hospitality had been so casual but so lavish, that no one had ever seemed to mind if two people turned up for a meal or twenty. No one would have bothered about pantry invoices or discrepancies either, because it would not have occurred to anyone that such things needed to be written down.
‘Very extravagant items of food they were, Miss Sullivan. Jars of preserved pears and peaches in brandy, and expensive foreign cheeses. Camembert and Brie, and the best water biscuits to go with them.’
She nodded several times, and Bryony looked round to see if there was any hope of being rescued from this, but the only person anywhere nearby was the Reverend Skandry. It would be better to stay with Mrs Minching who was saying that she would never believe Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon could have got themselves shut inside Twygrist, not if fifty crowners said so, and would Miss Bryony be so kind as to pass round the shrimp patties.
The idea of a memorial to Thomasina was being discussed in several corners of the room by this time. It appeared to have captured people’s interest, although it sounded to Bryony as if opinions as to the form it could take differed wildly. It was perhaps as well that the suggestions being made by several gentlemen who had looked on the wine when it was red did not reach Reverend Skandry’s hearing.
They had reached Dr Glass’s hearing, though. Bryony saw his eyebrows go up at one point. He wandered over to where she was standing, and said had she ever noticed that funerals produced a remarkable degree of bawdiness in some people.
‘It’s simply the relief that they’re still alive,’ said Bryony. ‘In Ireland they all get roaring drunk. In fact, I think there are still places where they prop the corpse up in a corner of the room.’
‘Wouldn’t the parish priest object to that?’
‘He’s usually roaring drunk with them,’ said Bryony caustically.
Dr Glass grinned, and said, ‘I’ve been to Ireland, but I’ve never seen your Ireland, Bryony, and I’d like to do so someday.’ Before Bryony could think how to reply to this, he said, ‘I was thinking though, that if Amberwood really wants a memorial to Thomasina, they could make it in the form of a bequest to one of the hospitals. A new ward, or, at the most, some new equipment. Do you think that’s a good idea, Bryony?’
He had rather a nice way of saying her name. She said, ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘And if people want something permanent to look at and remember Thomasina Forrester, then I’ll personally pay for something to be stuck on the side of Twygrist. A clock perhaps. It’d look hideous, but it’s probably what people would like. What do you think?’
‘I think it would look hideous too, but I think it would be very well received.’
At first Maud did not realize where she was, except that she was in a small room inside a rambling echoing place, with long soulless passages.
Awareness came gradually, like stagnant water trickling into her mind, and like sly throaty whispers inside her head.
Of cours-s-e you know where this is, Maud…Of course-s-s-e you do…
Latchkill. She was inside the place of nightmares, the place of huge heavy doors, the place where spider light lay thickly on all the rooms all the year round, so you could never be sure what might be crouching inside it, watching you. The place mamma used to stare at through the thick iron bars of the gates. But what mamma could not have known was that the inside of Latchkill was so full of pain and fear and despair that there seemed to be hardly any room for all the people who came and went.
People came and went in and out of Maud’s own little room, which was quite bare, apart from the bed and a cupboard next to it. The woman everyone called Matron, who had a face like a slab of concrete and tiny mean eyes, came in quite a lot of times, and some nurses came in as well. At first Maud had hoped Bryony Sullivan might be one of these. She did not know Bryony very well, but she knew she was pretty and clever. She would be someone Maud might be able to talk to–she might explain why Maud had been brought here and what was going to happen next. But Bryony did not come.
Father came, although not very often. Maud was taken to a special room for his visits–a proper bedroom, it was, with a frilled bed-cover and cushions, a dressing-table with an embroidered runner, and a little table and chair in one corner. There was a marble washstand in the other corner, with a flowered jug and basin. Father liked the room. He looked round approvingly, and said, My word, very nice, very comfortable, and he was glad to see Maud was being properly looked after.
‘I don’t sleep here,’ said Maud. ‘I have another room. Not nearly as nice,’ and father looked immediately worried, and said he would speak to matron about it. Maud did not really understand this, but she was more concerned with finding out if Thomasina and Simon had been found yet. She listened carefully, but father did not mention them at all. He just talked about ordinary things–about what was happening in the town–and he did not mention Twygrist or ask why Maud had been there that night.
Did this mean Thomasina and Simon were still in the mill? Surely it must. After a while Maud could not be bothered to listen to father’s babbling any longer. She hated him because he had brought her to this place and was trying to pretend it was for her own good, and she did not think he believed her about the room. So she stared at a single point in the wall, which she had found was quite a good way to shut everything out–father’s stupid talk, the nurses telling her to eat this, drink that, my word, you’re a silent one, aren’t you…One day she would have a very good revenge on all of these people.
But the one thing she could not shut out was the growing conviction that Thomasina and Simon must still be inside Twygrist. Were they both alive? Maud began to believe they might be–they were so sly and so clever, those two.
What if they were still there? They would not look very nice by this time. Their skin would be yellowing and dried out from being in the dark for so long, and the bones of their hands would be sticking through the flesh from where they hammered against the ancient bricks to get out.
Maud would not have thought she would be able to hear their fingerbones and knucklebones beating against Twygrist’s walls from inside Latchkill, but she could. At first she thought the sounds came from outside, but presently she realized they were directly under the floor of her own room. This was surely impossible, but then Maud remembered again how very cunning they had been, and she counted up all the days and the nights they would have been down there, and she began to understand. They must be digging their way out–making a tunnel from beneath Twygrist all the way across the fields and lanes, until they reached Latchkill and Maud. And one night–it might be very soon–they would burst through the floor of her room.
But Maud was going to be ready for that. Thomasina and Simon might think that the spider light would hide them–they might even believe it would smother the sounds–but Maud was cleverer than those two by far! She began to lie down on the floor, pressing her ear closely against the floor boards so she could hear better, and so she would know exactly where they were, and how near to the surface they were. This was a very good idea indeed, and even though she was shut away in this terrible place, she began to feel safer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The realization that Antonia Weston would have to be punished had grown gradually in Donna’s mind. But before she could make a plan about this, she needed to know more about the bitch’s life–where she lived, if she had any other besotted young men in tow. Donna took a few days’ holiday from the restaurant. She was sorry to give such short notice of this, she said, but there were some family problems she had to sort out. No on
e questioned this and she thought it was an excuse that could be stretched to cover a fortnight if necessary.
It was easy to find out the times of Antonia’s various clinics, then to wait for nights when Don was not around, and not using the car. Donna waited in the hospital car park and followed Antonia home. She was very discreet about it careful to keep at least two cars between them.
Weston lived in a bungalow a few miles from the hospital. It was not in the same class as the house where Donna and Don had grown up, but it was quite big and was a whole lot better than the poky flat which was all Donna could afford now. The sheer unfairness of the last few years rose up like bile in her throat.
The following day she went back there. It was four o’clock, a time when most people would be out at work. She drove slowly past, seeing that it looked comfortable and that there was a big garden at the back with a large lawn sloping down to some trees. Donna glimpsed a table and chairs beneath one of the trees. She imagined Antonia having meals there in the summer or inviting colleagues for evening drinks. Her parents used to do that. Her mother always ordered canapés from Harrods and her father always complained about the cost. It was only after their deaths Donna realized her father must have been on perilously thin financial ice for years.
She drove to the end of the tree-lined road, reversed, and came back. This time there was a definite movement in the large bay window; Donna pulled into the kerb, pretending to consult a map. For some reason she had assumed Antonia lived on her own, but she might be married or living with someone, or even have children. She parked in a side road, and walked back. At first she thought she had been mistaken: nothing moved inside the bungalow at all. Could she risk waiting, hoping to get a better look? Yes, she could. She needed to know as much as possible about Antonia Weston’s life. Donna pulled a notebook from her handbag and pretended to consult it as if looking for a particular house number or name.