by Cross, Amy
I wait, but I do not hear him coming.
“Jack! You must -”
Stopping just in time, I remember that not only can he most likely not hear me very well while he is down in the basement, but he also cannot leave Catherine without allowing her to scream again. In other words, I shall have to carry the girl myself, but first I must rest for a few minutes. I am by no means a sickly man, and I dare say I could carry my own weight and then some, yet still I feel a few twinges of pain in my back, and in my knees as well. It would be wise, I think, to give myself a rest for a few minutes.
Heading across the kitchen, I make my way into the hall so that I can -
“Doctor Grazier!”
Startled, I see that Delilah Culpepper is standing right in front of me, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes.
“I'm so sorry,” she continues, almost tripping over her words in her haste to speak. “I just... I... I mean...”
Her voice trails off, and it is evident from her expression that she is not quite sure what to say.
For a moment, I am too shocked to say a word. Delilah Culpepper was the absolute last person I expected to run into upon my return. Indeed, I have given neither the woman nor her husband a second's thought all day. It is a sheer miracle that I did not carry the unconscious girl through here, in which case I would have had to come up with some explanation to satisfy Ms. Culpepper's curiosity. As things stand, it would appear that I arrived not a moment too late.
“I just came to return this,” she says suddenly, reaching into her pocket and taking out a handkerchief. “You gave it to me yesterday when I was feeling a little faint. Well, I thought it wouldn't be right to keep it, so I brought it back.”
“And you let yourself into my home?” I ask.
“The front door was unlocked. Indeed, it was slightly ajar.”
“That seems unlikely,” I reply.
“I thought the same, yet it had not been closed properly. In fact, I worried that perhaps something was wrong.”
“So you came inside?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“How long ago?”
At this, she hesitates. “Well, I -”
“How long ago?” I ask again.
“Just a few minutes.” She pauses again. “I didn't mean to intrude,” she adds finally, “but I thought I might be permitted to come just so far as the hallway, and to leave the handkerchief somewhere for you. Once I was in the house, however, I wasn't sure of the proper protocols in such situations, and I'm afraid I rather panicked.”
She falls silent for a moment.
“As a woman,” she continue, “I am rather prone to such things. I'm sure you understand.”
“I'm sure I do,” I reply dourly.
“Are you upset?” she adds.
I glance at the door to the basement and see that it is open, just as I left it when I departed earlier.
“I am not upset,” I say cautiously, turning to her again. “Tell me, though. Have you just been in the hallway, or have you ventured into any other parts of the house?”
“Oh, just the hallway,” she replies. “I assure you, Doctor Grazier, I did not go scurrying about your entire house. Why, that would be terribly rude, and utterly unwarranted. I merely came into the hallway, and nowhere else. I did call out, hoping that somebody would be here. I was just about to place the handkerchief on the table and leave, but then I heard somebody coming in through the door at the rear of the house and -”
“You called my name?” I ask, interrupting her.
“Yes. Yours and... I must confess, when you did not answer, I also called the name of your manservant Jack.”
I pause for a moment, watching her carefully. I have never seen Delilah Culpepper as anything more than a simple, timid little thing, and it is no surprise to find that she seems to be in a state of utter panic. She is rather pathetic, and completely harmless.
“You called out for Jack?” I ask cautiously.
“Was that wrong of me?”
“And... Did he reply?” I add, unable to keep from glancing briefly at the basement door.
“Oh, no, he absolutely did not,” Delilah says as I turn back to her. “I was starting to think that nobody was going to be home.”
I glance yet again at the open basement door, and for a moment I think of Jack lurking down there with his hands clamped across Catherine's mouth. It is as well that he did not answer Delilah's call, and it is good to know that he has at least some degree of common sense. Had she ventured down those stairs, she would undoubtedly have seen Catherine in her current state, and that would have been... undesirable, to say the least.
“I'm really very sorry,” she says, holding the handkerchief out for me. “It has been washed, I assure you.”
I turn to her.
“What has?”
“The handkerchief.”
It takes me a moment to remember what she means, and a moment longer to realize that I should take the cursed thing from her hand. Still, my heart is racing and I cannot help but look over once more at the door to the basement.
Suddenly Ms. Culpepper turns and looks the same way, almost as if she heard something. She is so terribly timid, I worry that she might leap out of her own skin at the slightest provocation.
“Does your husband know that you are here?” I stammer, hoping to distract her.
“I believe he is at his club for lunch,” she replies, turning back to me. “He is meeting Doctor Markham and Doctor Shaw, and I believe Doctor Cecil Harlingham as well. I must tell you, Doctor Grazier, that I do not like Doctor Harlingham at all. There is something about him, some indefinable quality that disturbs me. The man makes my skin crawl. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he is hiding something.”
“I barely know the gentleman,” I reply, “but I am sure he...”
Pausing for a moment, I realize that I must simply get this woman out of my home as quickly as possible.
“There was no need for you to bring the handkerchief back,” I point out, trying to seem as normal and as relaxed as possible, yet at the same time stepping past her and attempting to lead her toward the front door. “Especially in your condition, Ms. Culpepper. You should rest as much as possible.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, “but I just thought that perhaps...”
She pauses, and then she looks past me, almost as if she is waiting for somebody else to appear from the kitchen. As nervous as she seems, I cannot quite shake the feeling that she is hiding some ulterior motive for her visit here today. After all, it is quite common for ladies to keep handkerchiefs, and it is certainly not common for them to come alone through the city streets simply to return one. Indeed, the more I consider her explanation, the more I begin to realize that she is definitely hiding something.
And I believe I know what she is hiding.
“Jack is not here,” I tell her.
She turns to me immediately, with a striking expression of shock.
“I beg your pardon?” she asks.
“My manservant is out on business,” I continue, raising my voice a little so as to ensure that Jack can hear us. “I do hope, Ms. Culpepper, that the possibility of encountering him did not in any manner impact upon your decision to come here today.”
“And how would it do that?” she asks, noticeably stiffening.
“I would not like to speculate,” I tell her, although I can see the discomfort in her features. Perhaps it is necessary to offend her a little, if I am to drive her away. “A lady such as yourself should not be associating with common men from the streets. Why, what would have happened if you had arrived here and found Jack here while I was gone? That happened yesterday, and he ended up touching your bare leg.”
“I had cut myself!” she protests.
“And what would the excuse have been today?”
I begin to smile, but suddenly she slaps me hard. I turn slightly away, feeling the sting but refusing to show any pain. Still, I cannot help but smile a little as I realiz
e that I seem to have touched a nerve.
“How dare you?” she snaps.
I turn back to her.
“You should mind what you say, Doctor Grazier,” she continues, her voice trembling now with anger. Or is it fear? “I did not have you down as a salacious peddler of gossip and innuendo. I'll have you know that I am a lady, the wife of a doctor who just so happens to have been a colleague of yours some years ago. You would do well to remember that.”
“If you believe you have been besmirched,” I reply, “then by all means, tell your husband all about your visit today. Every detail. But let me assure you, Ms. Culpepper, that under no circumstances should you come back here and try to see Jack again. The man is a brute and a monster, and I cannot guarantee your safety if you ever find yourself alone with him. I'm sure I do not need to describe in detail what a man like that would do to a young lady if ever he got the chance.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but now at least she seems to understand that she is out of her depth. For a moment she seems too stunned to know how to react, and then she mutters something about going home as she turns and hurries to the front door. As she leaves, it strikes me that I have never before seen a woman look so utterly guilty
She will undoubtedly tell her husband that I was rude, but Thomas is an intelligent man and he will surely assume that his wife is simply being too sensitive. The fact that she is pregnant should also make him suspect the veracity of any claim she might make.
Still, as I lock the front door I tell myself that at least she is gone, and hopefully for good. And when I make my way back to the kitchen and see that the washer girl is still unconscious, I realize that there is no time to waste. Reaching down, I check her pulse and find that she has a good, solid heartbeat. I feared the solution might make her ill, but she seems to be very strong.
If I believed in any god, I would ask him now for strength. Since I do not believe, however, I simply gather the girl up into my arms and – still feeling the sting on my cheek – start carrying her down to the basement.
Chapter Sixteen
Maddie
Today
The house's garden is so completely overgrown, I almost rethink my decision to explore.
Evening is drawing in now, darkening the sky, and the high walls on either side mean that people from the neighboring houses wouldn't be able to see me anyway. I still glance around, worried that somebody somewhere might be able to spot me, before starting to push my way through the high grass and the unkempt bushes. After spending all day in that empty old house, I figure it wouldn't hurt to get some fresh air and explore the garden a little.
The first thing I find is the collapsed shed that I was hoping to use for shelter the other night. Now that I can see it properly, I realize that it's less of a shed and more of a weird, makeshift wooden hovel. Whatever it was supposed to be back in the day, it looks as if it was nailed together by someone who didn't really know what they were doing, and I guess it's not really much of a shock that it ended up falling apart like this. I crouch down and try to peer inside, but the whole thing is just a mess and as I get to my feet I tell myself that there's really no point fussing over something so inconsequential.
Still, I reach out and give the shed's remains a gentle push, causing the broken wood to creak slightly. As rundown as the thing looks right now, I'm sure that once somebody was very proud of it, and probably used it often. This whole house – and its garden – must have once been so alive.
For a moment, it occurs to me that there's no point exploring the garden any further. After all, there looks to be nothing more than an overgrown mess out here, but then I look back toward the house and watch the boarded-up windows for a moment. I still don't believe in ghosts or any of that junk, but at the same time I figure it'd definitely be a good idea to spend some time outside. Besides, there's always a chance that the overgrown grass is hiding something interesting.
Making my way past the side of the old shed, I push my way through the bushes. It's getting harder and harder to make any progress at all, but I force myself to keep going for a little while longer until finally my legs ache too much and I stop to take another look around. I can't believe that anyone has been this far down toward the far end of the garden, at least not for a very long time, but all I can see is more grass and more bushes and then – a little further off – a high wall. I don't really know what I was expecting to find, and now I feel pretty silly for coming out here. I mean, it's not like there was going to be some hidden treasure left to find.
I turn to head back the way I came, but then I spot something glinting high above me, hanging from the branches of a tree.
Squinting, I try to work out what I'm seeing. All I can tell from down here is that it appears to be some kind of metal shape twisting gently in the light breeze. In fact, it actually seems to be a knife, although I know that's not exactly likely. Why would anyone hang a knife high up in a tree? I mean, sure, I could imagine kids climbing over the walls and playing here, but a knife seems pretty excessive.
Looking around, I see that this tree is actually perfectly climbable. After all, somebody must have climbed up there to put the knife in place. I used to climb trees a lot as a kid, and – although I'm definitely out of practice these days – I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have too much trouble getting up there. I head over to the main trunk and look for some footholds, and slowly I start to realize that I'm actually going to do this.
I thought my tree-climbing days were behind me, but it might feel good to get some exercise.
Reaching up, I start hauling myself toward the lowest branch. This was much easier when I was younger, and I almost give up several times, but finally I get to the branch and stop for a moment to reflect on what feels like quite an achievement. I mean, sure, I'm a little breathless, but at least I've made it this far, and the wound in my belly hasn't begun to hurt at all. I probably should have been more careful when I decide to climb up, but I reach down and feel the stitches, which seem to be firmly in place.
I'm a little breathless, and my heart is pounding as I sit here dangling my legs over the side of the branch, but I also feel pretty good. Like a kid again.
For the next few minutes, I carefully make my way along the branch, until finally I'm close enough to see that I was actually right earlier: there's a knife hanging up here, suspended at the end of a short piece of rope. The rope itself looks very old and worn, with several sections of thread already coming loose. I can't even begin to imagine why somebody would have hung a knife in a tree, but I guess there can be some weird types around. When I look down, all I see is the overgrown grass far below, but I guess maybe the knife has been hanging here for a while. The rope certainly looks ancient, to the point that it's actually hard to believe that it hasn't snapped.
Taking care to hold onto the branch carefully, I reach out to take the knife, grabbing the -
As soon as I touch the handle, the rope breaks and the knife falls, slipping between my fingers and plummeting to the ground. I watch it land, and then I sigh as I realize that the rope looks to be rotten. In fact, the closer I look at the rope, the more I start to wonder how it was even managing to hold the knife up here. Sure enough, when I reach out and touch the rope again, I find that it starts disintegrating at the slightest touch, turning to powder.
“Huh,” I mutter. “Must've been really old.”
***
The knife, it turns out, landed on its point and dug deep into the ground. So deep, in fact, that it takes me several minutes to find it in the tall grass.
Reaching down, I take hold of the handle and slide the knife out from the soil. It must have landed with real force, which seems surprising since it wasn't that high up. Then again -
“I give the gods their chance, and then I go about my day.”
Turning, I look around, convinced that I just heard a voice. There's no sign of anyone, of course, and I'm already starting to realize that I didn't so much hear the voice as remember it,
even though I'm pretty sure nobody has ever said those words to me. It's as if those thirteen words just flitted through my mind for some reason, popping into existence out of nowhere and then vanishing just as quickly. I guess the subconscious Maddie can throw up some weird stuff from time to time.
I pause for a moment, before looking down at the knife again.
I can taste peaches.
“What is that?” I mutter under my breath, licking my lips several times as the taste gets stronger.
“I cannot deny that the ritual gives me a certain spring in my step,” the voice continues suddenly. “Perhaps even a feeling that I have been explicitly granted permission to live another day.”
I stay completely still, worried that maybe I'm slipping back into some kind of madness. After all, I hallucinated a lot over the past few days, and I guess it's too easy to think that everything has gone back to normal already. Maybe some deep part of my brain is still misfiring slightly, offering up weird – and strangely specific – fragments of imagined conversations. Or maybe I'm half-remembering lines from films I watched years ago. I guess there are plenty of ways for a tired mind to go a little crazy.
And still the taste of peaches is getting stronger. So strong, in fact, that I want to taste something else – anything else – just to shake the weirdness.
I swear, this is the freakiest sensation, and it persists for a few more seconds before once again fading. I'm starting to get seriously freaked out, and I'm a little worried that maybe I've got some kind of neurological problem. I'm sure I've heard that people with brain tumors start getting weird tastes in their mouths, although this particular taste is very strong and I'm absolutely certain that its the same every time it comes.
Peaches.
Maybe I'm about to do a Billy from Ally McBeal and keel over.
And yet a moment later, the taste of peaches fades as quickly as it came.
Taking another look at the knife, I pause for a moment before starting to head back toward the house. As I walk, I swing the knife against the long grass and make a whooshing sound, trying to distract myself from some of the creepier things that have been happening. And then, as I reach the wall and look up at the broken window, I see that the sky is already much darker than before, which means that maybe it's finally safe for me to go to the corner shop.