Spider Light

by Sarah Rayne

  Now the funeral was over, the shock and speculation were dying down. No one had given Maud a thought, other than to commiserate with George about the child’s illness. One or two ladies had even pressed little gifts for her onto George, which had made him feel dreadful at deceiving them all. He had put the embroidered handkerchiefs and the lavender water into a drawer in Maud’s bedroom for when she came home, and had thought, guiltily, how kind people could be. Cormac Sullivan had been kindest of them all, of course: when George remembered how Sullivan had behaved that night, he thought he owed the man a debt of gratitude that he might never be able to repay. It was amazing how you could misjudge someone.

  But the small gifts for Maud might have to remain in the drawer for a very long time. George was only just now admitting to himself how very disturbed Maud really was. How much of that might be due to her parentage, he did not know. Louisa had unquestionably been unbalanced–those bouts of melancholy, those later years when she had cowered in her room. Had she actually been mad? And what about the man who had been her real father? George loved Maud dearly, and he thought of her as his own daughter, but he had never forgotten Louisa’s description of Maud’s real father–the man who had broken out of Latchkill, and who had laughed as he raped her. What was in the meat came out in the gravy, as the saying went, and George was already wondering if Maud’s stay in Latchkill might have to be a longer one than he had originally thought.

  He had also never forgotten what had happened on the morning Louisa died–the morning when he had sent Maud to wait for him, and how he had set about dealing with what was inside Twygrist…

  It had still been very early–no one had been about, and mist had been lying thickly on the Twygrist’s reservoir like a shroud. George rather liked autumn, with crunchy leaves underfoot and the scents of bonfires and chrysanthemums, but that morning the scents inside the mill had been those of the spilled blood on Twygrist’s millstone. Dreadful.

  Louisa’s body had lain broken and bloodied on the ground, and the millstones themselves had been spattered in blood. George had stared, horrified, and there had been a moment when he thought he might be sick. But then he remembered Maud. He scooped her up in his arms, took her outside, and told her to wait there, to be a good girl for papa.

  He went back into the mill, and flung his coat over Louisa’s body. Only when he had done that, had he turned to look at the other occupant of the mill.

  He was huge, Louisa had said, all those years ago. He had great grinning teeth–like a giant’s teeth–and immense clutching hands.

  The rotating millstones had caught the man a glancing blow that sent him reeling back against the wall. He was lying in an ungainly sprawl, and there was blood on the side of his head. He was breathing with an ugly harsh sound and a rim of white showed under his eyelids.

  Trying not to look at what lay beneath the millstones, George went unsteadily across to the sluicewheel, and wrenched it around until he heard the groaning sound of the gates descending. The waterwheels slowed and shuddered to a stop, and the water drained away leaving silence. Except that Twygrist was never wholly silent; it was always filled with rustlings and creakings, and with its own strange murmuring voices just out of human hearing.

  George stared down at the unconscious man. He was a great hulk of a creature: even in the dimness it was easy to see that standing up he would be much taller than even the tallest of men–quite frighteningly so. It was almost as if his bones had gone on growing after he reached adulthood, but had done so in a haphazard way. His jaw was massive and lumpen–as if a slab of clay had been slapped onto the lower half of his face and left there without being shaped, and his hands were gross and hugely disproportionate to his body. It was chillingly easy to imagine those hands reaching avidly out to a victim, and to visualize that great jaw grinning with evil intent. Against his will, George remembered the old biblical words: There were giants in the world in those days, and a shiver of atavistic fear trickled icily down his spine.

  I don’t know what you are, he said, silently addressing the unconscious figure. I don’t know if you’re sick or only misshapen, or if you’re plain bad. I don’t know how you come to be here, either. But I’m as sure as I can be that you’re the man who attacked Louisa all those years ago, and if that’s so, I can see she didn’t exaggerate about you.

  As if this last thought had penetrated the man’s mind, he opened his eyes and looked straight at George. With a dreadful grunting cry, half of pain, half of fury, he lurched upwards and came lumbering forward.

  George did not stop to think. He snatched up an old cast-iron handle that had broken off a pulley, and as the massive hands lunged at his throat he brought the heavy lump of iron smashing against the side of the man’s head.

  He fell back at once, and as he did so Twygrist’s greedy darkness picked up the sound of the blow and magnified it a hundred times over so that the terrible crunch of iron on bone echoed around and around the mill. George dropped the iron handle and forced himself to thrust one hand inside the man’s jacket, to feel for a heartbeat. Nothing. Absolute stillness. I’ve killed him. Don’t think about that though–not yet. Think about what’s ahead: there’ll be an inquiry into all this–Louisa’s death, and the man’s. Think what that inquiry might turn up.

  It was unlikely that George would be suspected of killing Louisa, but it was not impossible that he would be suspected of killing the man. The earlier escape might be dredged up, and it might be realized what had happened all those years ago–eight years and nine months ago to be precise. Although George had acted in self-defence today, the police could argue that he had a long-standing grudge against the man, and the result might be that he would have to stand trial.

  But if the man’s body was never found: if only Louisa’s body was found, it would be a different story. George might be considered guilty of neglecting his responsibilities at Twygrist–unsafe machinery, people might say–but nothing worse than that.

  If the man’s body were never found…

  The thought slid like a serpent into his mind, and in that moment it was as if something that was no longer George Lincoln, the respectable, law-abiding citizen, took over.

  He saw at once what he would do, and he also saw he would have to do it very quickly. He glanced towards the half-open door, but Maud, dear good child, was still seated patiently and obediently where he had left her. She could not be left outside for much longer though, and other people would soon be around.

  Moving as swiftly as he could, he lit one of the oil lamps from the garner room, and used it to prop open the door behind the waterwheel–the door that led down to the underground stone rooms. After this, he dragged the dead man across the floor and through the little door; it did not take very long, but the man was heavy and by the time George reached the stone steps, he was drenched in sweat. He straightened up, wiping his face and neck with the back of his hand, and then exerted all his strength to tumble the man’s body down the stone steps.

  He went down after him, and half-lifted, half-dragged the body into one of the little handcarts they used for moving the charcoal into the kiln room, hooking the oil lamp onto the handle. The cart’s wheels shrieked like a thousand souls in torment, and the flickering lamplight lent a dreadful semblance of movement to the man’s dead features, so that the short walk through the narrow underground rooms was a nightmare. But George set his teeth and went on until he reached the kiln room.

  The ovens were set into the wall facing the steel doors; they were about three feet up from the ground and had thick iron doors of their own. George propped the handcart as near to them as possible, and set the lamp on the ground. It cast a sickly yellow light over the dead man, but it was important not to look at him. It was better to remember that this was the creature who had raped Louisa all those years ago, and that if it had not been for him, Louisa might have remained sane and ordinary. (But then you might not have married her and got Toft House, said a hissing little voice in his mind.) />
  He ignored the voice, and opened the doors of the ovens, pushing them flat against the wall on each side. He hooked his hands under the man’s arms, and after an initial struggle, finally succeeded in cramming him head first into the kiln. The ovens were deeper than they looked from outside, and he pushed the body as far back as he could. After this he shovelled in all the available charcoal, until he was satisfied the man was unlikely to be seen by anyone opening the doors. He slammed them firmly shut, dusted himself down, and went back upstairs, being careful to position the handcart exactly where he had found it, and to take the oil lamp back.

  He made one last search to reassure himself that there was nothing suspicious anywhere, and only then did he go out to find Maud. He was working out what he would say to people: a shocking accident to his dear wife, he would say, and would then allow himself the luxury of giving way to grief. Twygrist would have to be closed down until his poor Louisa’s body could be properly removed.

  He would do all he could to see that Twygrist, and what lay at its heart, stayed closed. If it did not, then George would simply make sure he was there to oversee the next firing of the kilns.

  But Twygrist, once closed, stayed closed. Miss Thomasina said there was really no question about it. George told her he really did not think he could ever bring himself to go inside the place again, and she said she entirely understood. In fact, she had been thinking that the old place was no longer a practical or a profitable concern. The Corn Laws had long since been repealed, and cheap corn was being imported, so there was very little call for a mill of Twygrist’s calibre. That being so, it only remained for her to thank George for his years of devoted service to her father, and to hope he would accept this small sum of money–not a pension, of course, but a token of her gratitude.

  George had accepted the money because Toft House did not run itself on nothing, and a man had to live. The amount was nicely judged; Miss Thomasina had not been miserly about it, but she had not been embarrassingly lavish. Everyone in Amberwood had been very kind to George, saying what a shocking thing for Louisa Lincoln to die in such a way, and poor George there to see it, and the child just outside, dear innocent mite.

  He had not missed Twygrist, although he had missed the companionship of the farmers, and all the daily bustle of the place, but he had become involved in one or two little charitable works, and there were always things to do at St Michael’s Church.

  And in the end, life had gone along much as before, except that there had not been that darkened bedroom in Toft House, with Louisa’s mournful figure in it.

  Miss Thomasina kept saying she would do something about Twygrist–although what she would do, she was not quite sure, and neither was anyone else.

  And what lay at its heart, shut inside the disused ovens, rotted quietly away, without anyone knowing it was there.

  These were not good memories to have on any night, but sitting by himself in Toft House with Maud inside Latchkill (entirely for her own safety, George said to himself firmly), they were bleak thoughts indeed. But at least the discovery of Thomasina and Simon’s bodies had not necessitated opening up the kiln. George had had some very bad moments indeed worrying about that, but it had not happened.

  At a quarter to eleven he made his usual rounds of the house, checking locks and windows, and at eleven o’clock he was in bed. He was just sliding down into sleep, when something jerked him awake, and he half sat up. A sound downstairs, had it been? There ought not to have been any sound in the house at all: Mrs Plumtree was long since in bed, and the only other servant was a girl who came in twice a week for the cleaning.

  It came again, and this time George identified it. A creak on the landing outside his room. And then another. Someone was walking stealthily across the landing. Towards this room? He had no idea what to do. There was no lock on the bedroom door, and there was no other door in or out of the room. The bathroom was on the other side of the landing on this floor, and it might, of course, be Mrs Plumtree, coming to use it. George did not, naturally, concern himself with Mrs Plumtree’s bathroom routines, but she had never, so far as he knew, made use of the bathroom at this hour. Perhaps she was ill.

  He lay down again. It had been Mrs Plumtree after all, because he could hear the creak of the second set of stairs. She must be going back up to her room. George listened, and caught a muffled thud, and then the sound of bedsprings creaking a bit. It seemed that all was well. He rearranged himself for sleep, and this time it was a proper deep sleep. It was so deep that he did not hear the creaking of the stairs again, or the soft footfall outside his room. Nor did he wake when his bedroom door was pushed slowly open, and a figure peered round the door.

  Maud had waited until the hour when her father would be in bed, then gone quietly in using the back-door key George had given her before she went to stay with Thomasina. The key had been in her bag which they had not taken away from her in Latchkill, although they had searched it and she thought the hateful Higgins had taken some money.

  The familiar scents of Toft House closed round her as she went in through the scullery. She waited long enough to be sure no one was about, then went softly up the main stairs. There was a moment when the floorboards outside her father’s room creaked loudly–she had forgotten those particular creaking boards–and she froze, her heart pounding. There was a faint sound from his bedroom, but nothing happened and she went up the second flight of stairs.

  Mrs Plumtree’s bedroom was at the back of the house; Maud slipped inside, carrying the pillow she had taken from the airing cupboard, and stole across to the bed. She was quite sad about having to kill Mrs Plumtree, but it was a necessary part of the plan and it had better be done as quickly as possible. She pushed the pillow down onto Mrs Plumtree’s face; the woman gave a muffled gasp and struggled. Maud had to use quite a bit of force to keep the pillow in place. It was not really difficult, although the struggles went on for longer than she had expected. She watched the little clock on the bedside cabinet ticking the minutes away, because it would be helpful to know the length of time it took to smother someone. After ten minutes it seemed to be over, and Maud removed the pillow. Yes, it was all right. Goodbye, Mabel Plumtree. Now for the next part.

  She had no qualms about killing her father, who was the one person who might spoil her escape and ruin her plan. He had betrayed her by taking her to Latchkill, and Maud was not going to feel in the least conscience-stricken about this. But it was important his death remained undiscovered for as long as possible, which was why Mrs Plumtree had had to die as well–she would certainly have raised the alarm if she had found her employer dead in the morning. With both of them dead it would be at least two days–maybe three or four–before anyone realized what had happened, and by then Maud would be miles away. Safe. Free.

  Her father slept in the big front bedroom on the first floor. Maud, the pillow held firmly in her hands, eased the door slowly open. Careful now, he mustn’t wake up. But it was all right: she could hear him snoring. It was a horrid ugly noise. He was sound asleep, lying on his back with his mouth open. Maud was grateful to him for sleeping on his back because it would make her task much easier. She crept over to the bed, every muscle tensed in case he woke up.

  He did not wake; he went on snoring. When Maud put the pillow over his face, he spluttered and gurgled, and fought the air with his hands, trying to beat her off. But Maud was ready for that–she had known he would fight harder than Plumtree–and she knelt on the bed and brought all her weight down on the pillow. The clock said fifteen minutes to midnight, and she watched the hands tick round. Three minutes–five. He was still struggling, but not quite so frenziedly. Seven minutes. Surely he was almost dead. It had only taken Plumtree ten. But he was still twitching a bit, and his limbs were still jerking and really, you would have thought he would be dead by this time. Twelve minutes–thirteen…Ah, he had stopped struggling. Better not to take any chances, though. Maud remained kneeling on the bed, her hands pressed flat down on t
he pillow. Two more minutes? Yes, better be sure.

  In the end, it was seventeen minutes before she dared lift the pillow, and her wrists were starting to ache quite badly with the pressure. But it was all right. He was definitely dead: his lips were swollen, and blue-looking, and his eyes were wide and staring. Maud steeled herself to feel for a heartbeat just to be sure, but there was nothing.

  She left the pillow on the bed, went along to her old bedroom and put several things into a small valise. Night things, a change of linen. Hairbrush, toothbrush, soap. Carrying the valise, she went back down the stairs. Her father had always kept a reasonable amount of money in his desk, and Maud needed money for what lay ahead. She had a little jewellery, some of it her mother’s, but most of it was at Quire House and she did not dare go back there.

  There was almost £200 in the desk, which was very gratifying. Maud tucked it into her pocket, and went out through the back door.