“Cockroaches,” corrected his brother automatically. He had turned sharply at the sound of Ottilia’s voice. His cheeks reddened a little. “Didn’t expect to see you, Auntilla.”
“Evidently.” She wasted no words in expostulation. It would be useless in any event, adept as these imps were at inventing excuses. “Have you discovered anything of use?”
Ben’s eyes began to sparkle. “I should say we have.”
Tom leapt for his brother, putting a hand across his mouth, and hissing a warning. “Don’t say anything about the —!” He broke off, throwing a look of consternation at Ottilia.
She thought swiftly. It never did to demand an answer. Glancing at the press, she noticed the drawers incompletely closed. “Secrets? Very well, I won’t pry, but if you have taken anything from this room, allow me to warn you that it may well be evidence.”
Two pairs of eyes exchanged anguished looks. Ottilia waited. Tom’s shoulders sagged and his hand dived into his pocket. He brought out a handful of wrapped items and held them out.
“They’re sweets, Auntilla. There are lots and lots in there. I didn’t think they’d miss a couple.”
Ottilia picked one up. It was thick and oblong, rather large for an individual confection, and there was an inscription in black lettering on the white packaging.
“Flora Sugars,” she read. “Where did you find this exactly?”
Ben shifted away from the press and dragged the long top drawer open. He moved aside as Ottilia came to look, setting the package down.
“There’s all sorts in here, Auntilla. It’s not just sweets. Look!”
The drawer was a jumble of oddments of paper, packages of one sort and another, a couple of scrunched up gaily embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, an odd brass buckle, a number of torn fob ribbons, several snuff boxes, silver and bone combs, and rings carelessly thrown among the rest.
Tom’s hand sneaked in. Ottilia batted it away. “Don’t touch!”
“But I’m only going to show you the packages of sweets,” he said in an injured tone. “We never took those, Auntilla. See, there are humbugs and barley sugar drops.”
“And sugared almonds,” added Ben, reaching in to show her the appropriate package.
Ottilia’s interest was aroused. Odd that these packages, also labelled ‘Flora Sugars’, gave notice of their contents. The humbug package was open and she held it up and looked inside. There were but a few sweetmeats left, fused together. But it was enough to point the difference.
“How many of the others have you got, Tom?” He set two down alongside the other, at the same time throwing a glance at his brother. Ben sighed and stuck his hand into his pocket, bringing out a single package. “That’s all?”
Ben grinned. “I’m not as greedy as him.” He set it with the rest.
Ottilia eyed the four oblong packets. Were they confections? They were inordinately large. An idea was floating at the back of her mind but she would need Patrick’s more extensive knowledge. She ought to impound them, but having warned off the boys, she could scarcely pocket them herself. She compromised, taking one and slipping the remainder back into the drawer.
“I need your papa to look at one of these.” She slipped it into her pocket.
“Why, Auntilla?”
“How can a sweet be evidence?”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, rummaging in the drawer as the notion pricked at her. If she was right, there ought to be empty packets. Or would he have thrown them away? Sir Joslin was evidently a man of careless habits. He might well discard them in the drawer along with the half-empty package of humbugs.
“What are you looking for, Auntilla?”
“Empty packages. Can you see a wastepaper basket anywhere?”
As one, the boys swept the area, dipping here and there to find one. With a cry of triumph, Tom pounced, diving behind the press and coming up with a basket in his hands. Ben instantly rummaged within and Ottilia intervened.
“Take care! Let me look.”
But her nephew brought his hand out, holding up a scrunched paper. “This, d’you mean?”
Ottilia took it and spread it out, looking for the label. ‘Flora Sugars’ was there, but no other writing. Before she could prevent him, Tom upended the basket, spilling its contents on the floor and both blond heads bent over them, hands scrabbling in the debris. Ottilia stood over them.
“Are there any more?”
There were five altogether. Her nephews spread them on the surface of the press and Ottilia eyed them with burgeoning excitement. This might explain everything. She directed the boys to clean up the mess and slipped the papers into the drawer, sliding them under the shambles within to keep them hidden. Knowing they would bombard her with unanswerable questions, she seized upon a distraction as her nephews completed their task.
“Where else have the two of you been roaming?”
“All over,” said Ben, resuming his inspection of the bottles and jars on top of the press. “What’s this stuff?” He pulled out a stopper and sniffed. Then he jerked back. “That’s disgusting. What is it?”
Ottilia took it out of his hand. “Don’t fiddle.” Replacing the stopper, she laid the bottle down and was obliged to catch Tom’s hand as he reached out for the bottle. “I said, don’t fiddle.” She then shifted both boys bodily away from the press. “I hope you haven’t been spotted.”
“’Course we ain’t,” scoffed Tom.
“We’ve been up and down and nobody saw us at all.”
“You were supposed to be talking to Hemp, not running around the house.”
“Hemp got busy, so we decided to explore.”
“Yes, and you’ll be glad we did, Auntilla, for guess what?”
“She’ll never guess,” said Tom with scorn. “You wait ’til you hear, Auntilla. You ain’t going to believe it.”
Without much expectation, Ottilia raised her brows. “Well, what?”
“It’s right at the top of the house,” said Tom.
“What is?”
Ben put a hand over his brother’s mouth. “Stow it, Tom! Anybody might hear if you shout like that.”
Tom looked contrite, but he pushed the hand away, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s a room, Auntilla.”
“A room? I see. I thought you were about to surprise me with a skeleton at least.”
Ben gave her a reproving look. “This is serious, Auntilla.” He lowered his voice and came closer. “You should see it. There’s bars on the windows and mattresses all around the walls besides one on the floor.”
“And there ain’t nothing else at all,” said Tom, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You know what we think, Auntilla?”
But Ottilia, struck with a decidedly unpleasant crawling in her guts, had already guessed even as Ben spelled it out.
“When she gets dangerous, we think that’s where they put the madwoman.”
Following her nephew up the back stairs, Ottilia was relieved she was not again likely to run foul of Miss Ingleby, who was, she hoped, safely ensconced in the downstairs parlour. A better opportunity was unlikely to arise. She had sent Ben down to tell Francis what was afoot — a sop to her uneasy conscience.
A ripple of anticipation went through her, coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. There could now be no doubt of Tamasine’s derangement. One did not confine a person in a room with mattresses around the walls unless there was a real danger of harm. To herself perhaps more than others? Was she prone to throw herself about in a frenzy?
Tom, sneaking up the narrow stairway, came to the top and paused. He turned with a whispered exclamation. “Somebody’s up here, Auntilla!”
“Let me come there, Tom!”
She pushed her way past him and stopped, listening hard as she looked along the dim attic corridor, lit only from such light as came in from dusty windows under the eaves. A slight sound of swishing came to her ears. Yes, someone was certainly there.
“Is this where the servants are housed
too?”
“No, they ain’t, Auntilla. Hemp said they’re on the floor below at the back of the house.”
“Was the place deserted when you came up earlier?”
Tom nodded, leaning forward as if he sought to catch the sounds. “Is it the madwoman, do you think?”
Ottilia put a finger to her lips. Tamasine, if it was she, had hearing acute enough to catch their murmurs. She preferred to surprise the girl than to be surprised.
“Stay behind me, Tom.”
She ought to make him remain where he was, but he was unlikely to obey such an injunction. Besides, she was all too conscious of an eerie feeling of apprehension. There was no saying what sort of condition one might find Tamasine in. But the urge to see for herself what the boys had described was too strong to be denied.
Once again lifting on tiptoe, Ottilia crept to the end of the corridor and paused there. The swishing had ceased. She drew a breath for courage and in one swift movement, swung out to take the turn.
The corridor was empty. She set a hand against the wall and sagged a trifle, looking along its length. A shadow moved at the far end. Her breath tightened and the heart froze within her chest. Peering into the dimness, she could just make out the pale oval of a face and the outline of a gown.
Ottilia swallowed her fright and called out. “Tamasine, is that you?”
There was no response. She could hear Tom breathing behind her and was reassured. At least she was not alone with the creature. She tried again.
“Tamasine? It’s Lady Fan. I’ve come to see you.”
For a long weightless moment there was nothing. Then the peal of silver bells echoed along the corridor. Tamasine’s laughter. An instant later, she danced into the light, beaming.
“Lady Fan, Lady Fan, Lady Fan! Have you come to see my eyrie?”
Instinct prompted the truth. “Yes. May I see it?”
Tamasine halted halfway along and flung out a hand. It disappeared into an aperture. “Here! Come! Come and see!”
She vanished through the opening and Ottilia could hear her chattering within. She shivered slightly, reluctant now to follow.
“Are you going to go in, Auntilla?” Tom’s whisper sounded overloud in the dimness.
“I think so. Wait here.”
Cautious now, she moved quietly down the corridor. As she approached the opening, Tamasine jumped out, directly in her path. Before she could do or say anything, the girl slipped aside. A pair of hands, stronger than Ottilia would have believed possible, thrust into her shoulder blades and she pitched into the attic room. Losing balance, she fell to the wooden floor.
Disregarding the shock of pain, fearful of what the girl might do, Ottilia did not try to pick herself up, but pulled out of the ignominious position, turning to face the threat. But Tamasine had already moved into the room, running to the window and seizing hold of the bars.
“My eyrie, my eyrie,” she sang.
Ottilia’s common sense had not quite deserted her. Her nephew was in the corridor. She called out with urgency.
“Tom! Run and fetch Uncle Fan! Quickly!”
She heard his footsteps start off, but they were drowned by Tamasine’s sudden mimicking yell.
“Run and fetch Uncle Fan! Run and fetch Uncle Fan! Run and fetch Uncle Fan!”
Ottilia watched the girl warily. Tamasine had turned, the bright blue eyes agleam with a manic light. Oh, dear Lord, why had she dared this alone? She tried a soft approach, trying to keep her voice light despite its shaking.
“Dear me, how silly I am to fall like this. Wait while I get up.”
The girl made no move towards her, but merely stood, her back against the bars, the disquieting gleam trained upon her quarry. Ottilia felt like a rabbit under the eye of its predator. She pushed herself up from the ground, keeping her movements slow and steady, only half aware of an ache at her hip and hands that felt scraped and raw. She dared not look to assess the damage.
She tried for a normal note, affecting to look around while keeping the girl under constant observation. “So this is your eyrie, Tamasine?”
A tiny laugh escaped the girl. “My eyrie. They put me in here when I’m naughty, you see.”
Or beyond the scope of management. But Ottilia did not say it. She took in the mattresses tied around the walls, the one on the floor covered in a mess of blankets. All were torn, shredded in places, straw escaping and wisping on the boards.
Ottilia took a step towards the door. “Well, I must thank you for showing it to me, Tamasine.”
The girl’s eyes rolled in an arc encompassing the beams above and the floorboards below. “Would you like to stay?”
A shudder ran through Ottilia despite all her effort to remain outwardly calm. To her consternation, her voice came out too high as she threw words out. Any words, enough to keep the creature’s mind occupied.
“I can’t. My husband is expecting me.” She glided towards the door.
Tamasine darted across before her and stood in the opening, her hands going out to the jambs. “I said you must stay.”
Ottilia hesitated. Tom must surely bring Francis at any moment. She had only to humour her, keep her sweet. The word threw question into her head and she spoke without thought, moving further into the room.
“Flora Sugars, is that the name?”
“Mine. They are mine, mine, mine.”
The rising note itched at Ottilia’s nerves, but she held her ground, infusing friendliness into her voice. “Did your guardian like confections, Tamasine? Sir Joslin?”
For a moment, the girl looked disconcerted. The gleam in the China blue eyes faded a little. When she spoke, she sounded altogether normal again.
“I eat the sugar out of the canes. Joslin likes sweetmeats. He makes them. Simeon makes them for me.”
A memory jerked in Ottilia’s mind. What had Cuffy said about distilling? Would Sir Joslin have combined that task with the making of sugar confections? And here once more was the fellow Simeon. How nearly had he been involved with the family in Barbados?
“Simeon makes them?”
“Yes, and Whitey gives me some.”
Mrs Whiting was responsible for doling out sweetmeats? Then her suspicion had some foundation. She dared not say more. Tamasine was on the move again, tripping around the mattresses and thumping at them.
Lord in heaven, where was Francis? It seemed an age since Tom had run off, but in reality it could not be many minutes. She contemplated making another shift towards the door, but her heart misgave her. The creature was utterly unpredictable today.
As if in answer to the thought, Tamasine loomed up in front of her, the beaming smile in place, but the eyes perfectly glassy.
Ottilia remained still, holding her breath, meeting that peculiar gaze.
Hasty footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Tamasine turned her head, listening. Then, giggling, she sped to the open door, hiding in the space behind it, flat against the wall.
Breathing again, Ottilia stayed just where she was, waiting. The footsteps drove down the corridor and Francis appeared in the opening and halted, his eyes flying to her face. Ottilia spoke as pleasantly as she could manage.
“Ah, there you are, Fan. Tamasine has been showing me her eyrie, you must know.”
She gave him a meaningful glance and flicked her eyes towards the door where the girl was standing. He nodded briefly, clearly catching her drift. He shifted into the room and deliberately leaned his weight against the open door, trapping the child behind. A grunt came, but Tamasine made no other protest. His voice was rough with concern and he sounded a trifle out of breath besides, but Ottilia thought it would pass for normal with the person for whom it was meant.
“That is excellent, my love, but I fear we must make haste. My mother expects us for dinner, as you know, and she will be wild with us if we are late.”
“Very true,” Ottilia said loudly and crossed with swift steps to the door, slipping through with a feeling of intense relief.
The murmured command came in her ear as she passed. Ottilia needed no urging, relief coursing through her as she sped down that horrid corridor and made for the narrow stair. Within seconds, Francis was behind her. She glanced back.
“Is she following?”
“I don’t think so. But don’t stop. I’ve sent the boys home.”
No further word was spoken until they reached the comparative safety of the gallery above the main stair. Francis caught Ottilia’s arm to halt her and pulled her into his embrace. Ottilia snuggled, relieved not to have a peal rung over her immediately.
When he let her go, she gave him a deprecating look. “Are you livid with me?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I ought to be, you wretch, but I’m too relieved you came to no harm.”
Ottilia dropped her voice to a whisper. “She truly is out of her senses, Fan. There can be no doubt. I can readily believe she did indeed kill her guardian.”
It was excessively late and Patrick had still not returned, but Francis had not been able to prevail upon either his wife or his mother to go to bed and wait to hear the doctor’s news in the morning. Tillie’s recalcitrance was no surprise, despite her obvious tiredness after the excitements of the day. He had anointed the slight grazes on her palms with a salve, ordered coffee and made her rest before dinner, with the result that she declared herself fully recovered from her ordeal and anxious for her brother’s news.
Francis, using a stratagem as unscrupulous as any she had used as his fond wife later informed him, drew on their mother’s sensibilities to get the boys ordered off to bed within minutes of the company entering the parlour.
“They have had a most exhausting day, Sophie. I imagine you will wish them to have an early night.”
Sophie Hathaway at once swooped upon her reluctant sons, clasping first one and then the other to her bosom. “My darlings! Come up with me and I will tuck you in, for I don’t mean to linger. I will be lucky if this terrible day has not brought on my spasms.”
“But we want to wait for Papa,” protested Ben, throwing a reproachful look at Francis.
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 16