The Taxidermist's Daughter

by Kate Mosse

  Lewis wasn’t sure. He had worked for Dr Woolston for twenty-five years. First in the army, in the stifling heat and horror of the Transvaal, the Boer Wars and the desperate waste of life. In 1902, they had returned home to Chichester and settled into a quieter, more ordered kind of life. Lewis would no more assume to know what his master thought or felt than Dr Woolston would have dreamed of asking Lewis for an opinion on anything other than the smooth running of the household. All the same, they knew one another well. Each knew where they stood.

  Mrs Lewis told him not to fret, that there would be a rational explanation, seeking to reassure him, just as he had attempted to reassure Mr Harold the previous day. Lewis didn’t know if his wife believed what she was saying, any more than he himself had when talking to the boy. For all his faults, Harold was fond of his father. Lewis didn’t want him to worry until – unless – there was something to worry about.

  He saw the first spots of rain strike the glass. He went to the window and looked out, but the street was still empty.

  West Street

  Chichester

  Frederick Brook stumbled out of his room, leaving an erotic art book open on his desk, and along the corridor.

  His large, ruddy face glistened with sweat from the whisky he’d been drinking, and his pupils were tiny black points in his bloodshot eyes. Ash from his cigar fell unnoticed to the ground.

  After a disappointing afternoon’s shooting, Brook had discovered he was wrong to assume that he would be invited to stay for dinner. It was all very politely done, circumstances beyond the host’s control and all that, but Brook suspected it meant that some bigwig staying at West Dean Estate had arrived unexpectedly and elbowed the local men out. Or, rather, that despite his influence and the money he brought into Chichester, he was not considered local enough. He’d had it often enough in the past. His accent, and the fact that he was a self-made man, had not inherited his fortune, meant he wasn’t one of them. They looked down on him because he made his living in ‘trade’.

  Knotted with rage, Brook had turned down an invitation to the Dolphin, returned to his office and opened a new bottle of Usher’s. Three quarters of the whisky was now gone, and he was in a fighting mood.

  ‘Damn the lot of them,’ he slurred, ‘bloody disgrace. Shouldn’t . . .’

  The rest of his complaint was lost in a fit of coughing and cigar smoke. Where the devil was Sutton? He’d been calling for half an hour, and still the man hadn’t come.

  Brook came to a halt in the entrance hall. The lamp was not lit and the clerk wasn’t there. His desk was tidy, no papers or pens, though there were three books balanced on the corner. Brook swayed. He hadn’t given the man permission to leave, so where the hell was he?

  He flung out a large hand to steady himself against the bookcase, realising he was very drunk and the hour was evidently later than he’d thought. He’d come out to tell the clerk to go to his house to pick up his evening clothes, but the man had clearly gone home. Brook had taken off his Norfolk jacket, but he was still wearing his breeches, gaiters and worsted waistcoat, and he could hardly go out to dine dressed like that. He’d intended to change here, in the office, then take a hansom to Bognor. He fancied trying the Kursaal, the new entertainment palace on the pier. After that, who could say? Any kind of taste might be indulged, provided one had the money to pay for it and knew who to ask.

  Damnable weather; everything smelt of mould. Brook took a step forward in the dark and banged his shin on the portable heater set in the hall to take the edge off the damp. The floor seemed to lurch beneath his feet. Cursing Sutton, and Woolston’s idiot son, Brook edged his way towards the front door, thinking he might find a boy in the street to run the errand for him. There were usually a fair few hanging around the yard of the Dolphin Hotel.

  Light from the gas street lamp shone through the glass above his office door, illuminating a cream envelope on the mat. Damning the clerk for having failed to deal with it before going home – another black mark against him – Brook braced his knees, bent over and picked it up.

  The bells of the cathedral struck the quarter hour. As he tried to straighten, Brook wondered if it had gone seven o’clock, or even eight. The whisky had blunted his sense of time. Perspiring heavily, he tore open the envelope. It contained a handwritten invitation. He brought it close to his face and away again, making sure he’d read it correctly, then he smiled.

  ‘Well done, White,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody well done.’

  Abruptly his evening had taken on an entirely different character. One that he wouldn’t have to subsidise out of his own pocket either. Even better, because it was a private house, his lack of appropriate clothing wouldn’t matter so much. It wasn’t quite the thing, but he’d be among friends, and once the evening really got going, what he was wearing would be the last thing on anyone’s mind.

  Awfully short notice, though.

  Brook screwed up the paper and dropped it on the floor, then lurched back to his office to fetch his cigars and lighter. He put away the book and locked the drawer, for a moment wondering how on earth White had managed to organise such a party so quickly. He wasn’t always so resourceful and the man had been working all day. Not that Brook was complaining.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was flying down the Stockbridge Road in a two-and-pair, heading towards Apuldram. He had a few hours to kill before the gathering was due to begin, but the Crown and Anchor at Dell Quay seemed as good a place as anywhere to spend the time.

  Chapter 34

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  Connie glanced at the clock, then at the pained expression on Harry’s face.

  Mr Crowther was cordial and pleasant, but after the intimacy of their shared time in the workshop, Connie could see that Harry was finding his presence trying. Answering polite enquiries about his job with Brook, or how he spent his time in Chichester, when she could see that all he could think about was his father. It truth, the conversation had lasted no more than ten minutes, but it felt endless, and it was a relief when Crowther announced he was leaving.

  ‘Thank you very much for your company, Miss Gifford,’ he said, putting down his glass. ‘Yours too, Woolston. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. In fact, I’ll go so far as to guess that your father will be there waiting for you when you arrive home.’

  ‘I hope so, sir,’ Harry said with feeling.

  ‘How are you getting back to Chichester?’

  Harry shot Connie a glance, though he knew he would have to leave.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it, I’m afraid.’

  Crowther smiled. ‘I’m more than happy to lend you my trap, if that would help? Unless, of course, you’ve already made arrangements.’

  Harry flushed. ‘I couldn’t possibly accept, Mr Crowther. I wouldn’t dream of putting you out.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m not going anywhere this evening, and you won’t pick up a taxi in Fishbourne, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I shall be fine walking to the station,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid the railway service at Fishbourne Halt is poor in the evenings,’ Connie said.

  ‘And I don’t wish to be a Cassandra,’ Crowther said, ‘but the rain’s about to start up again, and Mill Lane is already flooding.’

  ‘Well, if you are sure, Crowther. I don’t mind admitting it will make things far easier. It’s very decent of you.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’ Crowther put on his hat and coat. ‘Are you all right, Miss Gifford? You are awfully pale.’

  Connie blinked. ‘Yes, I’m fine. It was just you said something that . . .’ She gave a brief shake of her head, then smiled at the two men. ‘Nothing. It’s gone.’

  Harry put on his coat and hat too, and together they all three walked along the corridor to the front door.

  ‘Good night, Mr Crowther. Mr Woolston.’

  Crowther stepped outside.

  ‘You will come to Chichester tomorrow, as agreed?’ Harry whispered
to Connie. ‘Promise you will.’

  Connie nodded. ‘I will.’

  ‘Good night, then.’

  The two men walked down the footpath together and through the latched gate on to the path. Connie watched until they were out of sight, then went back indoors, still trying to work out what it was Crowther had said that had set a new memory chasing in her mind.

  *

  The sound of a door slamming close by woke Davey.

  He was on his feet before he knew it, expecting trouble, then he realised where he was. He turned up the collar of the jacket. He could feel that the wind had come round, and though it wasn’t raining yet, he could smell it in the air. If he was going to get off home, now was the time to do it.

  Then, at his back, he heard a noise.

  The boy froze. He spent most of his time outdoors, listening to the strange sounds of the marshes, the calls of the owl and the fox, the way in which ordinary noises distorted at dusk, at night, at dawn into mysterious and threatening things. But this was something different. A kind of low keening, like an animal caught in the iron teeth of a trap, and it was coming from inside the ice house.

  ‘Please . . .’

  He pressed his ear against the wooden door, trying to identify what he could hear. Everyone knew old Gifford had got monstrosities hidden down there. Skeletons and furless animals and birds with no heads.

  A barely human voice. ‘Someone . . .’

  Davey didn’t wait to hear any more. He turned tail and ran, back to the house, now not caring who heard him. The birds flew up in a startled mass.

  ‘Mary,’ he cried. ‘Mary, come quick.’

  Main Road

  Fishbourne

  Gregory Joseph walked past the Rectory Gardens, crossed over Clay Lane and into the fields on the outskirts of the village. His foot knocked against a shard of red clay tile. He picked it up, examined it, then decided it was worthless so flung it into the bushes. Odd bits and pieces of pottery were always turning up hereabouts.

  It had been a long round trip and his feet were tired and wet. From Fishbourne to Apuldram, Apuldram to Chichester – to deliver a letter to premises in West Street – and he was now finally on his way back to Fishbourne.

  He gave a raw smile. What wouldn’t he give to be a fly on the wall when Gerald White turned up for work tomorrow and tried to explain his black eye and broken nose. He wouldn’t be so pleased with himself then. It was always a pleasure taking men like that down a peg or two.

  Joseph walked past Fishbourne Lodge. He flexed his fingers. His knuckles were sore too. He hadn’t gone to town on White; his orders had been clear: teach him a lesson, then take him into the kitchen to leave him to come round on his own. Left to himself, he would have done, given what he was guilty of. In Joseph’s opinion, men like that, who interfered with women, deserved everything coming to them.

  Joseph drew level with the Woolpack. Not his local. There were lads in there it was better to avoid, so he kept walking. He hoped White wouldn’t cause trouble when he came round. Joseph would have been happier staying put, until the matter was concluded and White was off the premises. But it wasn’t what he’d been told to do and, as he kept reminding himself, he wasn’t being paid to ask questions.

  Poor old Birdie. He’d passed that news on, at least.

  These past forty-eight hours had been strange, no denying it. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, but having the Sayers Removals men deliver the belongings so late at night was peculiar. Carrying the big trunk on his own had nearly put his back out. He wasn’t even sure how many people were staying at the cottage. It was hard to tell.

  Ahead, he saw the lights of the Bull’s Head and quickened his stride.

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  Davey and Mary stood beneath the lowering sky in the far south-west corner of the garden, staring at the brick ice house in the gloom.

  It was no longer day, and not yet night, but the rising moon was throwing a peculiar cold light over everything.

  ‘What if it’s a ghost?’ he said.

  ‘No such thing.’

  ‘Why won’t you come with me, then?’

  Mary pointed at the roof of the ice house, now covered with black birds. It looked as if every tile had been replaced by black feathers.

  ‘Look at them, there’s so many of them.’

  ‘Come on,’ Davey pleaded.

  ‘It’s just the birds you heard,’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t a bird. Besides, they won’t harm us,’ he added, with more courage than he felt. ‘More scared of us than we are of them.’

  ‘Listen to them,’ Mary whispered. ‘Horrible sound. And why are there so many of them? It’s not natural, not this time of night.’

  ‘I’m not fibbing,’ Davey said, pulling at her sleeve. ‘I heard a voice. Someone’s in there, I’m telling you.’

  ‘There can’t be,’ she said. ‘I told you, it’s locked and we can’t find the key.’

  ‘What about if someone took the key?’ he reasoned.

  Mary stopped staring at the birds and looked at him.

  ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’

  Davey shrugged. ‘I’m just saying.’

  At that moment, the distinct cry of a human voice was heard in between the calls of the jackdaws, magpies, rooks and crows.

  ‘There,’ he hissed in triumph. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘We should get someone,’ Mary whispered.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I got you. Anyway, who else is there? You can’t be asking Miss Gifford to come out here,’ he added gallantly, ‘not when we don’t know what’s down there.’ He paused, seeing he was making it worse rather than better. ‘It’s probably nobody. More than likely a fox got caught. They sound half human when they want to.’

  He stared at Mary, certain she wouldn’t really let a ten-year-old boy go down there on his own. ‘Look, are you coming or not?’

  ‘All right then,’ she said.

  Mary moved out of the lea of the building. They took short, careful steps across the garden, all the time watched by the birds, until they were standing in front of the wooden door.

  They both heard the unmistakable sound of someone groaning.

  ‘There is someone down there,’ Mary said, in disbelief.

  ‘Haven’t I been telling you that? Now, have you got a pin?’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Got a better idea?’ asked Davey, holding the padlock.

  Mary hesitated, then took a pin from her hair. Davey expertly picked the lock and took it off.

  He put his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘You ready?’ he said.

  His heart was going nineteen to the dozen, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. He counted to three under his breath, then slowly turned the handle and pulled the door towards them.

  A half-conscious, collapsed figure fell forward and slumped on the step, like a sack of coal. Davey jumped back. Mary screamed. Some of the birds, startled by the noise, took flight.

  The man was barely moving, but Davey could hear him breathing. He took a deep breath, then crouched down beside the emaciated shape. He didn’t want to touch him, but he lifted a strand of dank hair away from the face, and saw a mass of bruises.

  ‘It’s the guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Half dead by the looks of it.’

  At that moment, Gifford shifted position. Davey jerked back.

  ‘Save your strength, sir.’

  Gifford tried to push himself up from the ground with his arms, but seemed incapable of supporting his own weight.

  ‘How long’s he been in there, do you reckon?’ Davey whispered.

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Miss Gifford asked me to look out for him. I got the impression he was missing. When did you last see him?’

  ‘Tuesday, maybe,’ she said after a while. ‘He was out yesterday afternoon, like usual, but Miss Gifford gave me to believe he was in his room this morning.�
��

  ‘All a bit off, isn’t it?’

  Gifford’s weak voice interrupted their speculations. ‘Boy . . .’

  ‘I’m here, sir. Don’t you worry.’

  Between them, Mary and Davey managed to roll him on to his back, half supported against the brick wall. Gifford smelled sour, his clothes stiff with dried sweat, and his skin was clammy.

  ‘Stay here with him,’ Mary hissed. ‘I’ll fetch Miss Gifford.’

  ‘Bring him something to drink. He’s all dried out.’

  *

  Davey sat watching over Gifford. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, mumbling and remonstrating with himself, unaware of where he was, or what had happened. Davey was no stranger to the effects of drink, from keeping out of the way of his own father and grandfather often enough; he thought Gifford would be all right in the long run. His lips were cracked and his right eye was swollen shut. There was a trail of dried blood and dirt on his cheek. The tops of his fingers were damaged too, but Davey couldn’t see any other serious injuries. He reckoned he’d fallen down the steps in a stupor and been unable to get himself out again.

  Gifford’s eyes suddenly popped open. ‘Who’s there . . . who . . .’

  Davey edged closer, caught between a horrified fascination and pity.

  ‘It’s me, sir. Davey Reedman.’

  Gifford didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and for a moment, in the pool of light from the main house, Davey saw the whites of his eyes alive with fear.

  ‘Got to get her away, boy. Got to save her.’