by Sarah Rayne
But it was a very small risk, and every risk she had taken so far had worked. This would work now. When people came to Toft House–as they certainly would–they would be expecting to find Maud Lincoln, and they would find a creature they would assume was Maud–a creature who was bewildered to the point of being beyond speech.
They would find other things in Toft House, as well. Two dead bodies. They would assume Maud had killed them and they would know she was helplessly mad. By the time the truth was discovered, the real Maud would have slipped out of Amberwood and be miles away. Safe and free.
Bryony had not expected to be summoned to the Prout’s office halfway through her ordinary spell of night duty on Latchkill’s main ward, but Dora Scullion had breathlessly delivered the message shortly after ten o’clock. Please to report to Matron’s office at once, Scullion had said.
It was unusual to be summoned to Prout’s sanctum at any time of the day, and it was usually to receive a reprimand for some trifling misdemeanour. But ten o’clock at night was not generally one of Prout’s times for dealing with miscreants, nor was it customary for Dr Glass to be present on those occasions. But he was there, standing by the window. He gave Bryony a quick smile and then looked impatiently at Prout.
‘Well, Matron? What’s this all about?’
‘There has been,’ said Freda firmly, ‘an unfortunate incident.’
‘Incident?’ said Dr Glass sharply.
‘A patient has–somehow managed to get out,’ said Freda, and Bryony saw Daniel’s black brows snap down in a frown.
‘Someone from Reaper Wing?’ he said.
‘No, it is not someone from Reaper Wing,’ said Freda. She spoke sharply, but her eyes shifted. ‘It’s a patient from one of the private rooms. We have her listed as Miss Smith.’
Chancery lunatic, thought Bryony, remembering what her father had once said. Or at the very least, something a bit underhand.
Daniel Glass appeared to be thinking on the same lines, because he said, ‘Ah. An anonymous lady. From the sound of things, another of the poor creatures who get shuffled into an asylum under cover of darkness, surrounded by so much secrecy you’d think it was a crowned head. Not that the royal families of Europe are strangers to the odd whiff of madness. Well, Matron? Who and what is Miss Smith?’
Prout hesitated for longer this time, but just as Bryony thought she had decided not to reply, she said, ‘It’s Maud Lincoln.’
Bryony and Daniel both stared at her. Bryony said, ‘But–what was Maud Lincoln doing in Latchkill?’
‘And,’ said Daniel, ‘more to the point, when did she escape, and where is she likely to be now?’
‘What she was doing here is not a matter for your concern, Nurse Sullivan. But I can say that Miss Lincoln had become a little disturbed of late, and so her father thought…a private room, of course, and I promised that the child’s identity would remain secret.’
Daniel did not say anything, but Bryony saw that he was thinking the promise would have involved money changing hands. The Prout was as venal as a Shakespearean money-lender. Bryony thought the private room was more likely to have been one of the bleak cell-like places on the second floor.
Maud Lincoln, said Freda, resolutely, had apparently lain in wait for Nurse Higgins the previous evening, and had thrown a plateful of stew into Higgins’ face the instant the woman went into the room. After that, she had hit her smartly over the head, and bound and gagged her so that Higgins could not raise the alarm when she came round. After which, Maud had made off into the night, wearing Nurse Mordant’s cloak which had been hanging in a broom cupboard.
‘When did this happen?’ said Daniel.
‘Last night. Supper time.’
‘But that’s an entire day! Did no one go into the girl’s room today?’
‘My nurses have a great deal to do,’ said Freda. ‘They looked into the room of course, but thought Miss Lincoln to be asleep.’ This was said with studied casualness, and Bryony guessed that whoever had been on duty had simply glanced into the room, decided the patient was sulking, and taken the food away again.
Dr Glass had clearly come to the same conclusion, but he said impatiently, ‘Has the child gone back to Toft House?’
‘I don’t know. But it is a strong possibility,’ said Freda. ‘I must, of course, go along there now to search the house and talk to George Lincoln.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘I should like you both to come with me.’
‘Why?’ said Daniel. ‘I mean why us?’
‘Maud was violent last night and she may be violent when we bring her back to Latchkill. For that reason I need to have someone with me. But I am trying to preserve the secrecy George Lincoln requested. Anyone coming with me to Toft House will instantly guess who Miss Smith is. But you both know Maud already.’
She paused again and Daniel said, ‘And that being so, you think you might as well trust us with the whole thing.’
‘Exactly.’
Toft House, when they got to it, was lit only by a single lamp in one of the downstairs windows. The curtains of the window were not drawn, and Bryony found this oddly sinister, although she could not think why. For all she knew, George Lincoln left his windows uncurtained every night of the year.
Daniel said, ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ and Bryony was relieved that she had not been alone in finding the uncurtained window disturbing.
It was Prout who said, ‘I see nothing odd, Dr Glass,’ and Daniel said, ‘Yes, look.’
‘What? Where?’
‘There’s someone sitting in the window.’
‘I don’t see that that’s particularly odd—’
‘I do. Whoever it is, is either asleep or…’ He did not bother to finish the sentence. He ran the rest of the way along the path, and hammered on the door.
Bryony went with him, beyond reason or logic, but knowing instinctively that there was something dreadfully wrong.
They had to get into the house through a door at the back; Bryony thought that if she had been on her own she might have simply given up, but Daniel Glass had taken one look at the figure slumped in the lamplit window, and had gone doggedly around the outside until he had found what seemed to be a scullery door with a lock flimsy enough to snap under pressure.
There was only the thin soft light coming from the room at the front. Bryony, who had never been in Toft House before, looked uneasily about her. It was a big old place; there was a large hall at its centre, and narrow stairs winding upwards to the bedrooms. Everywhere was silent, which surely was strange, because they had made a good deal of noise getting in, and they were making even more noise now. Daniel bounded across the hall to the front of the house, and his footsteps rang out loudly on the polished oak floor. Bryony glanced rather nervously at the darkened stair, and then went after him.
He was bending over the figure seated in the window when she caught him up, and he was feeling for a heartbeat when Freda arrived, out of breath and flushed from the exertion.
‘Oh, thank goodness she’s here. Dr Glass—’
‘She isn’t here,’ said Daniel shortly, not bothering to look round. ‘This isn’t Maud Lincoln. Bryony, would you help me, please? Whoever this girl is, she’s been heavily drugged.’
‘There’ll probably be mustard and salt in the kitchen,’ said Bryony. ‘I can make an emetic.’
‘No need, I’ve got apomorphine in my bag,’ said Daniel. ‘I dislike using it, but she’s clearly taken some kind of opiate–her pupils are massively dilated–and apomorphine will be quicker than mustard. I’ll inject it, but I’ll need to do it in the scullery or the bathroom, because she’ll start vomiting almost at once.’
‘The kitchen will be easier,’ said Bryony. ‘Nearer.’
‘So it will. Good girl. Can you give me a hand?’
‘Nurse Sullivan is better placed for that,’ said Freda at once. ‘I cannot undertake to lift any patient—’
‘Then perhaps you’d help by lighting the kitchen range,’
said Daniel, ‘and setting a kettle to boil and a hot brick or a stone water bottle to heat up.’
He did not bother to see if these orders were carried out, and in fact Bryony never discovered if they were. She and Daniel carried the unknown girl into the kitchen, and propped her against the big square sink. The injection had been given, and they had been working on her for an unpleasant quarter of an hour, when Daniel suddenly said, ‘This house is far too quiet. Where on earth is George Lincoln?’
‘I’ll go upstairs and take a look round,’ offered Bryony.
‘Would you? This one’s on the way back to us, I think. Matron, is that kettle boiling yet? We’ll see if we can get some hot tea into her now.’
Bryony took the lamp from the big drawing room, and went cautiously up the stairs.
It was ridiculous to feel so uncomfortable about this; there would be some perfectly ordinary explanation for George Lincoln’s apparent absence and for the drugged girl downstairs. But the stillness of Toft House was starting to rasp against her nerves. As she reached the head of the stairs, and looked along the passageway with its narrow strip of carpet along the centre, she was aware of her heart starting to race, and she was very thankful indeed to know that Daniel was within calling distance.
This must be the main bedroom, just off to the right. It would look out over the front–there must be quite a nice view of the lanes and fields. Would this be George Lincoln’s room? Bryony thought it would, and when she cautiously turned the handle and pushed the door open, a faint scent of bay rum met her.
The bed was behind the door–a massive rather old-fashioned bed, with a mahogany bedhead and posts. A washstand stood against one wall, and there was a big deep wardrobe in the corner. Bryony glanced at it, and then shone the lamp onto the bed.
George Lincoln, his face contorted and frozen in the last agony of death, glared sightlessly at her.
Bryony cried out, and began to back away from the bed, still clutching the lamp, her free hand thrust out in front of her as if to ward off the sight of the terrible thing lying on the bed. Stupid, he’s dead–he’s been dead for hours by the look of him…he can’t possibly hurt you, poor old George.
She was halfway along the landing, heading for the stairs, to summon Daniel Glass and Prout, when above her head–which presumably was Toft House’s attic floor–came a series of soft creakings exactly as if someone was walking stealthily across a floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
At the last minute Maud had decided to stay hidden in the house to watch the final unfolding of her plan. It was so beautiful a plan, so neat and smooth, she could not bear to just go away and not know its culmination.
And something else kept her here–something she hardly dared admit to, but which had been gradually nagging. Where was she to go? She tried to ignore this nagging thought, but it got a claw-hold on her mind, squeezing almost everything else out. Where will you go, Maud? It’s all very well to have made that frantic journey to Seven Dials, and you did that very well indeed. But you had a purpose, an aim, and once this is over, you won’t have any purpose at all.
Maud could not think what she could do or where she would go. She had almost all of the £200 from the desk, and that would last quite a long time, but what would she do when it was all used up? Would she have to find work? She had no knowledge of how you went about finding work. All she could do was paint and play the piano. She might get a position as a governess, but she thought you needed references for that, and she did not have any.
But first things first. She would make absolutely sure what happened here tonight. She would lie in wait and watch. She decided to hide in the attics, at the head of a narrow little flight of stairs through a small door. If she left that door ajar, she would be able to hear most of what went on. She would not be able to see any of it, which was a pity, but you could not have everything.
The attics were silent and dark, and there was a thick layer of dust everywhere. Maud’s eyes adjusted to the dimness fairly quickly, and she made out the shapes of discarded household items. Pieces of furniture that no one had a use for any longer or that needed mending; bundles of old newspapers; two or three deep old tea chests which would contain clothes or curtains. She thought her mamma’s clothes were up here. It was quite comforting to know that, as if a little part of mamma was still in the house, looking after her.
At one end of the attics was a massive water tank, with a pipe opening into the roof to catch the rainwater. The tank took up the entire space between the floor and the sloping ceiling on that corner of the house, and Maud found its squat blackness somehow sinister. But there was no need to sit anywhere near it; she could curl up by the door, with her back to the tank.
She found some old brocade curtains in the smallest of the chests, and made herself comfortable. She had no idea how long she might have to wait, but it did not matter.
Bryony had half fallen down the stairs, and was across the hall and into the safe warm scullery almost without realizing it.
She gabbled out what she had found, and halfway through the story discovered she was clinging to Daniel as if he was a life raft in a tempest. She blushed, and tried to withdraw her hands, but he held on to her.
When Bryony said, ‘I may have imagined the sounds, but I didn’t imagine George Lincoln’s body,’ he said, grimly, ‘I don’t think you imagined the sounds at all.’
‘Who…’ But Bryony already knew the answer to that.
‘At a guess,’ said Daniel, ‘it’s Maud Lincoln.’ He looked across at Freda, who was staring at them both, her mouth a round O of surprise, and said, ‘Matron, do you feel up to walking down to Amberwood and bringing the police sergeant back here? You’ll be perfectly safe–our quarry’s in this house. But I think we’re going to need some help with what’s ahead of us.’
Really, thought Bryony, Prout was a cold-hearted, self-serving creature, and she would not have wagered tuppence on her honesty, but you had to hand it to the old girl–when it came to a situation of this kind, she was no coward.
She said, ‘I’ll go at once, Dr Glass. I’ll be as swift as I can.’
‘Bryony, you stay here. I’ll go upstairs.’
‘Armed with only a hypodermic needle?’ Bryony was glad this came out firmly and very nearly ironically.
‘Chloroform,’ he said, reaching into his bag. ‘It’ll be effective and fast.’
‘I’ll come with you. She may not be there, though. I may have imagined it.’
‘I don’t think you did,’ said Daniel.
Maud had heard them all come in, and her heart leapt. She edged cautiously to the door and listened. With a shiver of fear and anger, she recognized the three voices. Matron Prout, Bryony Sullivan and Dr Glass. The very three people she prayed would not come! The very ones who would recognize her!
She frowned, thinking hard. Even though her beautiful plan for putting Nell Kendal into Latchkill was going to fail, there was nothing to prevent Maud herself from getting away. Was there?
It sounded as if someone was in George’s room now–was it Bryony? Yes, that was surely her voice crying out in shock. Then there was the sound of running footsteps, going back down the stairs. Within a couple of minutes the footsteps returned, and this time Maud definitely heard Bryony’s voice and also Dr Glass’s. Might they come up here after all? This was getting a little dangerous–she ought not to have stayed in the house after all.
Maud glanced back into the attics. If anyone did come up here it should be possible to hide somewhere. In one of the corners? Behind the water tank? She still did not like the tank much, but if it was a choice between that or being dragged back to Latchkill…
She began to move warily across the floor, trying not to make the old timbers creak under her feet because if Bryony or Dr Glass heard that they would know she was here. She moved round the piles of household jumble, testing each floorboard before putting any weight on it. Back and back…almost there. They’re about to find Plumtree’s body.
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br /> Maud’s heart was hammering against her ribs–or was it her heart? She frowned, listening. Wasn’t it Thomasina and Simon again? Tap-tap…Tap-tap…
Anger mixed with despair flooded over her. She thought those two had gone. Surely they must be dead by this time? But they were not dead; they were still hammering to get out of Twygrist…Tap-tap…Maud put her hands over her ears to shut the sounds out. In Latchkill that had blotted them out very well indeed, but it did not do so tonight. Was that because Toft House was nearer to Twygrist than Latchkill? Was it because Thomasina and Simon were getting nearer to the surface? She closed her eyes, but that was worse because they were both there in the darkness behind her eyelids–their hands were worn right down to the wrists now. Thomasina turned her dreadful, hollow-eyed face to Maud, and said it did not matter at all: the bones of their arms were making much better hammers. They would soon be out, and then they would come to find Maud…
She was pressed up against the water tank by this time; she could feel the surface against her arm, cold and faintly damp. When she knocked against it with her hand there was the faint slop of water inside. Horrid.
Footsteps were coming up the attic stair now; if she did not hide properly she would be caught. She shrank right down onto the floor, folding her arms tightly over her head. If only Thomasina and Simon would be quiet for a while she could concentrate on remaining hidden, and on what she would do when she escaped.
But Thomasina and Simon would not be quiet; they banged harder and harder, and the banging became mixed up with the too-fast beating of Maud’s heart, and with the faint sinister lapping of the dark cold water inside the tank. Maud suddenly saw she might never be free of those two, it might take years and years for them to batter their way out of the kiln room. Years and years, during which Maud would know they were getting nearer and nearer…