by Sarah Rayne
She huddled into the tiniest space she could, and was trying so hard to shut out the sounds she did not hear Daniel and Bryony open the door and cross the dusty attic floor to where she crouched.
She hardly felt the sting of the needle, but as the chloroform spun her down into oblivion, she was blessedly aware that the hammering from Twygrist’s bowels had finally ceased.
‘She’s gone far away from us,’ said Daniel Glass, seated in Charity Cottage with Bryony and her father. ‘I shall keep trying to reach her, but I think she might be beyond reach. She won’t talk about anything that happened–her father’s death, the astonishing switch she made with the strange bright-eyed little creature called Nell Kendal.’
‘Did she really think that would work?’ asked Cormac.
‘Oh yes. We’ve managed to get most of the story out of Nell–she can’t speak, but she’s an intelligent little thing, and she’s written most of it down. We’re going to see if we can find somewhere here for her to live, and some kind of work. There’s a sister in London, we’ve talked to her, but’–a grin curved his lips–‘the sister’s a different pair of shoes altogether. She’s set on coming up here to live with Nell, but I’m not sure if she will. She’s one of those tough defiant little creatures and wherever she ends up, she’ll survive.’
‘So Maud brought Nell Kendal to Amberwood deliberately?’
‘It seems like it. It seems she found the two sisters in London–God alone knows how or why–and tricked them into letting Nell come to Amberwood for some sort of medical treatment.’
‘And,’ said Bryony incredulously, ‘Maud thought she could put Nell Kendal into Latchkill in her place, and that people wouldn’t know?’
‘Yes. It might even have worked, you know; hardly anyone at Latchkill saw Maud. George Lincoln put her there under a false name, only Maud didn’t know that. She assumed Matron would quite openly send someone out to Toft House. The substitution would have been picked up eventually, of course, but Nell might have spent months there. And since Nell can’t speak…’
‘Could she have written down the truth?’
‘Yes, but you know as well as I do that asylums are full to the rafters with people who insist they’re sane.’
‘Yes, I see that. Everyone would have been fooled,’ said Bryony. ‘Except for—’
‘Except for Maud’s own father. That’s why he had to die–and Mrs Plumtree with him.’ He glanced at Bryony, and in a much gentler voice, said, ‘Maud is quite beyond sanity, you know. I’m assuming George Lincoln realized that, and that’s why he put her there. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the exact details.’
Cormac said, ‘I don’t suppose we will. Will she ever live outside an institution?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll give her what treatment I can, but she really has gone very far away indeed. At times it’s as if she’s listening to something, and whatever it is that she’s hearing, it terrifies her. We saw that when we found her, didn’t we?’
‘She was pressed against the wall,’ said Bryony, trying not to shudder at the memory. ‘With her hands over her ears and her eyes tightly shut. Like a child.’
‘Yes. But there might be ways of helping her,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m hoping to try mesmerism–that’s quite a new idea for the mentally sick, but there’s a lot of interesting research being done into it. In any case, now that Prout’s leaving, Latchkill will be far better for the patients.’
‘I’m glad she’s leaving,’ said Bryony. ‘I’m glad you came to explain it all to us, as well.’ She glanced at her father, who promptly said, ‘Dr Glass, by way of gratitude for that, will you stay to supper? There’s a game pie, and more than enough for three.’
‘Game pie,’ said Daniel expressionlessly.
Cormac grinned, and said, ‘Bryony made it. The best ingredients went into it, but if you’re a gentleman, you won’t ask where the pheasants came from.’
‘I don’t care where they came from. I’d love to have supper with you.’
As they sat round the table, Bryony had the absurd feeling that something was happening between the three of them–something very good and very strong, and something that might remain in the atmosphere of Charity Cottage for a very long time. It was probably ridiculously fanciful to think that somewhere in the future, someone would sit here and feel this good strong emotion, but she did think it.
There was a wheel of Stilton and a dish of crisp ripe apples to follow the game pie, and then some of Cormac’s whiskey to round it off. It was not until the glasses had been filled a second time that Daniel said, ‘There’s something more that I have to tell you.’
‘Ha,’ said Cormac. ‘I thought there was.’
‘When they went through the things inside Toft House,’ said Daniel, ‘they found a will. George Lincoln made it very recently indeed, and it’s simply drawn up, but apparently perfectly legal.’ He was looking at Cormac very directly now. ‘It seems, Sullivan, that at some time in the past you did George Lincoln a–a service that he never forgot.’
‘A man helps another man where he can,’ said Cormac offhandedly.
‘Well, whatever help you gave him must have been quite considerable,’ said Daniel, ‘because he’s left the Rosen money in a trust fund for Maud, but he’s left Toft House to you.’
There was a long silence. Bryony tried to think of something to say, and failed utterly.
‘Well now,’ said Cormac at last. ‘Isn’t that a fine thing for a man to be told,’ and Bryony heard that the Irish which to some extent he had lost since living in England, was strongly back in his voice.
‘Isn’t it just?’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, it’s a very fine thing, in fact–In fact, tell me now, Glass. Would you think a place like Toft House could be sold?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘And–I have no knowledge of property prices in England–but would you think it would fetch a fairly good sum of money?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘I would think it would fetch a very good sum indeed.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Cormac softly. He looked across at Bryony and although he did not say anything, Bryony knew with incredulous delight they were sharing the same thought.
The tumbledown house in Ireland.
CHAPTER FORTY
Antonia had left the kiln door open, because she could not bear to lose the thin light that came down from above. She had no idea what she would do when the light started to dim, but for the moment at least she could see where she was. She managed not to look at the sad huddle of bones near the oven door, and was convincing herself that even when the light began to fade, there would be moonlight. She was not sure how she would manage to sit in the pitch dark with human remains so close, because she was afraid she would start to hear them creeping towards her…Stop it, Antonia!
She was not especially conscious of hunger, but she was by now very conscious of thirst which was what she had dreaded. Her watch said it was three o’clock. At this time of year that meant about two more hours of daylight, or maybe a bit less. Would anyone miss her? What about the police? And Jonathan–what about him? Had he arrived as promised, and was he instigating a search? Surely he would not just drive away when he found the cottage empty? But would a search come out here? Mightn’t they assume she had killed Greg Foster, and then run away? In which case, Amberwood was the last place they would search.
She had reached this point in her reasoning when she became aware of a shift in the rhythm of the clock’s beating. Had it slowed down? It had not stopped, that was for sure. Antonia could still hear it and she could still feel it, hammering relentlessly along its mechanism, like the beating of a fleshless fist on the inside of a kiln door…She glanced at the thing on the ground.
The clock’s rhythm had definitely changed. It was quickening–so much so that it almost sounded as if someone was winding it forwards.
Winding it…Someone was winding it!
Antonia dived for the kiln and
scrambled inside, tearing her hands and legs in the process, but hardly noticing. She straightened up inside the shaft again, and turning her head up to the light, shouted at top of her voice. ‘Help! I’m trapped down here!’
Her words echoed sickeningly in the enclosed space, and showers of soot fell onto her. She shouted again. ‘Is someone there? Please–can you hear me? I’m shut in down here!’
Another moment for the echoes to die away, and then the light overhead shifted slightly, as if something might be blocking it out. A voice–a voice that Antonia dimly recognized, called, ‘I’m here. I’ll get you out. Are you all right?’
‘Never better. For God’s sake come down to the kiln room and get the doors open!’
‘I’m on my way,’ said Kit, and this time Antonia heard the clang of ladder rungs. There was a long silence during which she had time to imagine half a dozen disasters, and then came the sound of the steel doors being pulled open.
As Kit appeared in the doorway, Antonia said, ‘Thank God for memorial clocks,’ and to her fury, began to cry.
Godfrey Toy was almost beside himself with delight. Antonia was safe and sound–all thanks to that nice Kit from the library–and although Godfrey had not got all the details yet, it had been all to do with winding the old Twygrist clock. Kit, it seemed, had been amazingly good, dragging Antonia out of the grisly kiln room, and phoning police and ambulances and whatnot. He had phoned Quire House as well–they had all been there when the call came, and Godfrey thought he had never seen anyone move as fast as Oliver and Jonathan Saxon. Out of the house and into the car inside minutes: Oliver had not even paused to put on a coat, and Kit told Godfrey it had been Oliver who got to Twygrist ahead of anyone else. Godfrey was still considering this, not daring to hope that it meant anything, but hoping all the same that it might.
After the phone call, he had scurried round Quire, putting a large pot of coffee to filter in Oliver’s kitchen, and then dashing down to his own flat to gather up a few snacks for them all to eat while they talked. Antonia could not have eaten for at least twenty-four hours, and there would be all kinds of things to hear about. It sounded as if quite a lot of people would be converging on Quire. Godfrey himself and Oliver and Antonia, of course. Dr Saxon and Kit Kendal. Inspector Curran, and perhaps Sergeant Blackburn as well. He counted up the numbers in his head, and made a few more sandwiches.
‘Dear God,’ Oliver said when Godfrey eventually staggered up the stairs with his tray, ‘are you feeding the starving tribes of the world?’ but Godfrey said breezily it had been a long and worrying twenty-four hours, and Antonia had better be fed after her ordeal. Oliver merely said, ‘Smoked salmon sandwiches and chicken vol-au-vents. Oh, and vichysoisse. I see.’ Godfrey explained that the soup was for Antonia and the salmon needed eating up anyway.
Antonia devoured the soup and the sandwiches, and thanked Godfrey. Even like this, white-faced, and exhausted-looking, there was still a light in her eyes. She had, it seemed, already made a full statement to Inspector Curran, who was seated at the table with Sergeant Blackburn, but there were still a lot of questions and answers.
‘She was hiding in the cottage’s attic, of course,’ said Antonia. ‘I locked all the doors but she was already inside.’
‘I should have thought you could have made a better search,’ said Jonathan to Inspector Curran. ‘Or were you treating Dr Weston as the tethered gazelle for the hungry tiger?’
‘Jonathan, I’ve been called many things in my time, but—’
‘Actually, it’s usually a goat they tether, I think.’
‘Well, at least you substituted gazelle for goat.’
They grinned at one another, and Godfrey saw that they had the ease of long and familiar friendship, and felt exceedingly glum. He risked a quick glance at Oliver, but the professor’s expression was unreadable.
‘You weren’t the tethered anything,’ said Inspector Curran. ‘We simply didn’t expect the killer to still be around.’
The killer. Antonia shivered, and then said, ‘Do you know who she is? I thought all the time it was a man, but just before she knocked me out, she spoke to me.’
‘If you could remember the exact words, Miss Weston.’
Antonia said, ‘She said that what she was doing was for Don–to punish me for killing Don.’ She looked round the room. ‘I did kill Don,’ she said, defiantly. ‘The charge was perfectly justified and the verdict was right. But he had just killed my brother and I thought he was going to kill me as well.’
Jonathan started to say something, but it was Oliver who said, ‘Self-defence. And if you’ve just seen someone you love very much brutally killed—’
‘I didn’t actually see it happen,’ began Antonia.
‘Don’t be so incurably honest. Inspector, you were about to tell us if you know who this woman is. Presumably she killed Greg Foster, as well?’
‘We’re working on that assumption,’ said Curran in answer to Oliver. ‘We aren’t absolutely sure who she is yet, but we do know Don had a sister.’
‘A sister? Are you sure? He said he had no family at all,’ said Antonia. ‘I thought–we all thought–he was completely on his own.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Curran. ‘There’s a sister. Donna.’
‘Will you be able to find her?’ asked Antonia. ‘To–to question her?’
‘We’ve found her already. We haven’t questioned her yet, but we will.’ Curran looked at Antonia. ‘We don’t always get things right, Miss Weston, and we didn’t with this. Your attacker talked about punishing you for Don Robards’ death, but to my mind you were punished very heavily for that. An eight-year sentence, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I only served five.’
‘Whatever you served, I’m very sorry indeed that you had to go through this second ordeal in Amberwood.’
‘It allowed Kit to play knight errant,’ said Antonia, and Kit, curled into a corner of the window seat, Raffles next to him, both of them eating sandwiches with industrious pleasure, smiled.
‘Did the woman think Antonia would suffocate down there?’ asked Oliver. ‘Did she know the old drying floor was concreted over?’
‘No idea yet,’ said Curran. ‘I’d guess that she did think Miss Weston would suffocate, though. It was only because of Twygrist’s tumbledown state that you didn’t actually do so, Miss Weston.’
‘The chimney shaft,’ said Antonia, remembering. ‘Part of the brickwork had fallen away. I tripped over some of the bricks while I was down there.’
‘Yes. We’ve still to examine the place more closely, but it’s a fair bet that the collapse of the bricks allowed air down into the room.’
‘Well, thank God for a collapsed chimney,’ said Jonathan.
‘How about the body Antonia found in Twygrist?’ said Oliver. ‘Is it ever likely to be identified?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s a very old skeleton. Eighty to a hundred years old, forensics think. A man in his late thirties or early forties. There’s a slight depression to the skull, and that’s the only clue to what might have killed him. They think, though, that he was a sufferer from…’ He frowned and reached for his notebook.
‘He suffered from acromegaly,’ said Antonia.
‘Yes, that was the word. I’d never heard it before.’
‘It’s quite rare,’ said Antonia. ‘But it’s a chronic condition that causes enlargement of the bones of the hands and feet–quite often the head and face as well. Sufferers used to become grotesquely misshapen, and often unnaturally tall. I don’t know a great deal about it, but I think they can deal with it very early on nowadays so you hardly ever see it any more. It comes from an excessive secretion of something within the pituitary gland–I’ve got that right, haven’t I, Jonathan?’
‘Near enough. The reverse side of its coin is dwarfism, of course. But in the good old, bad old days, people ascribed all kinds of menace to the poor sods who had it. They thought of them as unnatural–creatures to be feared. Sometimes the co
ndition brought about swelling of the soft tissues as well, including the tongue, which made speech difficult. That would add to the sinister air of it all. If the skeleton was a hundred years old, that means he lived in a time when he could have suffered one of two fates. He could have been exhibited as a freak, or–more probably–been shut away somewhere.’
‘Latchkill,’ said Oliver softly.
‘Yes, that’s more than likely. It’s not so long since it was known as giantism.’
‘Blunderbore or Pantagruel, and seven-league boots, or the blood-sniffing lament of Child Rowland approaching the Dark Tower,’ murmured Godfrey, and then turned fiery red, and apologized.
‘Well, whatever he was or wasn’t, and wherever he came from,’ said Curran, ‘we’ll make sure he has suitable burial in the churchyard.’ He stood up. ‘Miss Weston, I’ll let you know what happens with Miss Robards.’
‘I’d have to give evidence, wouldn’t I?’
‘I’m afraid so. Is that all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Antonia. ‘But whoever it was–Donna Robards or someone else altogether–I think you’ll find she isn’t fit to stand trial.’
‘Will you come back to the hospital?’ said Jonathan to Antonia, as they left Quire House. ‘To work, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. Would it be possible?’
‘I think so. The board’s talking about expanding my department–making a full-time drug rehabilitation unit. They’ll need someone to head that–maybe undertake some research as well. I could probably swing it your way.’
‘I don’t want anything swung my way. I’d rather get things by my own efforts.’
‘You would get this by your own efforts. You’d be a good person for the job. Are you going to try for reinstatement?’
‘I don’t know.’ Antonia did not say she was afraid of doing this, because a refusal would be too much of a blow.