The Poisoned House

by Michael Ford

  ‘I have stipulated the conditions,’ he said. ‘I’m not a conjuror who can magic your mother’s ghost into this room.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m desperate. It won’t be possible for me to leave the house a second time.’

  He looked at me oddly then, and I knew his kindness was evaporating into suspicion.

  ‘I recognise your face, I think,’ he said. ‘You are a servant, are you not? At that big house by the Park.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. Too quickly.

  ‘As well as being a medium,’ said the doctor, ‘I’m also an expert in the signals of lying.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, I remember you more clearly now. I had a strange turn there, in that room. You were beside me as I woke. Your employer has sent you, has she?’

  The game was up, and I knew I didn’t have the skill to continue the deception.

  ‘I only want to speak to my mother,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Without a token, I can no more speak to her than any other corpse that lies in the ground,’ he said harshly. ‘Now, please leave me and stop wasting my time.’

  The shaman’s mask eyed me from the mantel.

  ‘Is there no other way?’ I said.

  The doctor waved his hand. ‘There are countless ways to talk to the dead,’ he said, ‘but they will all cost you, and I take it that I have been duped and you have no money.’

  I felt wretched and suddenly tired. My high hopes on leaving Greave Hall, bolstered by the generosity of the cab driver and the magnificent sights of the city, now lay in shattered ruins. The doctor was standing at the parlour door, tapping his foot. I stood up, then felt a weight in my pocket: my father’s watch.

  I pulled it out.

  ‘I have this,’ I said, before even thinking through the implications.The doctor’s eyes lighted on the timepiece, and he held out his hand.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said.

  I handed it to him. ‘It belonged to my father.’

  He turned the watch over. I knew enough to be certain it had value, but he sniffed. ‘It’s broken.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘I wind it every night.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s stopped now.’ He fiddled with the winder and tossed it back to me. I caught the watch and looked at the face. He was right. The second hand was still, the time was well off.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ My words dried up in my throat. My eyes checked the hands again. It wasn’t the fact that the watch had stopped but the position of those hands that held me.

  Seventeen minutes past four.

  ‘Well, it’s time you left,’ the doctor said. ‘Otherwise I will have to have serious words with your employer – something which I expect you would care to avoid.’

  Seventeen minutes past four. The time, to the exact minute, when my mother had died.

  ‘It can be fixed,’ I said, holding it out. ‘Please, is there anything you can do to help me?’

  He looked at me for a good five seconds without speaking, then sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I will hear no more of you after today.’ He opened a cupboard and took out what looked like a dirty rolled-up tablecloth.

  He crouched down and spread it out on the floor.

  It wasn’t as big as a tablecloth, and was circular in shape. Around the edges were the embroidered letters of the alphabet, and between the letters Z and A were stitched the words ‘Aye’ and ‘No’.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘They call it a Ouija,’ he said.

  I must have given him a blank look.

  ‘It’s another method to talk to those who are no longer in this world.’

  I was sceptical – it looked like something a child would make under a nurse’s care.

  ‘How does it work?’ I asked.

  Dr Reinhardt took an empty cup from the dresser. ‘Find a quiet place,’ he said, ‘then take a pointer – you’ll need something round that rolls easily.’ He turned the cup upside down in the centre of the cloth. ‘Sit down and place your fingers like this,’ he went on, touching his index and middle fingers to the top of the cup.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then ask your questions.’

  I laughed a little. It looked so foolish.

  ‘Do you want it or not?’ he said, his anger bubbling to the surface once more.

  What else was there? I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Then give me the watch. A broken timepiece is a fair price.’

  Reluctantly, I handed back the watch. He rolled up the cloth and gave it to me, then led the way to the front door. He held it open.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Tamper. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘So do I,’ I replied, stepping out into the cold. The mist had dropped further now, and drifted along the road.

  I climbed the steps. ‘I say, my girl!’ the doctor called after me.

  I turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You say this watch belonged to your father.’

  ‘It did,’ I said. ‘He was apprenticed to a clockmaker.’

  ‘Why do you speak of him in the past?’

  ‘He’s dead, sir, these many years.’

  Dr Reinhardt rubbed his thumb over the watch’s surface, as though he could feel something there, some grain or mark invisible to the naked eye.

  ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘Normally I can tell.’

  He closed the door.

  .

  Chapter 23

  The way back was easier than I expected. With the Ouija clutched to my chest, I crossed the bridge again. The mist had dropped to ground level and I could no longer make out the water below. It was like walking in the clouds.

  I already regretted losing the watch, not so much for myself but because it would have upset my mother. Her eyes had misted over the few times I’d mentioned my father, and it had been my only remaining connection to him. But with no memories attached to it, no face or voice filled with love, it was really just an object. I couldn’t help thinking that the marked cloth in my hands was infinitely more valuable now.

  On leaving Argyle Terrace I walked quickly, driven by my anger towards Dr Reinhardt. I was stupid and naive to think that he might help me for nothing as the cab driver had. Things could have ended far worse, with a letter to Mrs Cotton, but I suspected then that I would never see or hear from him again.

  As I neared Greave Hall my anger lifted, replaced by a rising tide of fear. I dropped my head lest any of the neighbours recognise me, and crossed the road when I saw pedestrians approaching. To be caught now, or even seen, could spell disaster. The lights of the dining room had been extinguished, and as I crept along the side passage by the house, I heard noises outside the back door. I crouched beside the gatepost and peered in.

  Henry was busy with the Ambroses’ carriage in the yard. Luck was on my side, for it meant that they were in the process of leaving, and attention – at least that of most of the household – would be focused on the front door. I pressed myself into the shadows beside a bush as the carriage shambled out of the gate. When it was well clear, I streaked across the yard and back down the steps into the scullery.

  ‘Is that you, Rob?’ said Cook from the kitchen.

  Rowena came out first, and I realised she must have been looking for food. Cook followed, drying her hands on a towel, and I quickly put the cloth behind my back.

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ she said. ‘I thought you were abed long ago.’

  ‘I left my sewing down here,’ I said, quickly flashing the cloth.

  Rowena suddenly arched her back and hissed.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, silly thing?’ said Cook. ‘Well, Abi, mind you don’t throw any of my best soup over it.’

  She waddled back into the kitchen, laughing softly to herself.

  The sound of scuffling feet came from the top of the servants’ stairs. I looked around quickly for somewhere to hide the cloth and realised there was only one sure place and it was beneath my feet. I stepped aside and bent over, yankin
g at the iron ring on the trapdoor. It shifted a few inches. Lord, it was heavy! I managed to drop the cloth inside, behind some crates, and let it down again just as Mr Lock came in, carrying some cups on a tray. He took in my dress.

  ‘You shouldn’t be dressed like that down here,’ he said. ‘If Mrs Cotton catches you –’

  ‘She won’t,’ I said, stepping past him to the stairs. ‘I’m going straight back up.’

  He tutted and let me go.

  I lit a taper at the lamp halfway up and cradled it in my hand as I climbed the attic stairs. There was no light from under Lizzy’s door, so it was very dark. It must have been close to half past nine. She was either in bed already or still downstairs, cleaning up.

  I opened my own door and almost screamed. There, on my bed, lay a black shape. As the light from the taper spread, I realised it was Elizabeth. She was shaking a little and sobbing quietly.

  ‘Lizzy?’ I said, leaning forward and lighting a candle. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  She slowly sat up and looked at me with bloodshot, dark-fringed eyes.

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ she said, putting her arms around me and holding me tight.

  I let her hug me, my mind racing. What could be wrong with her? My first thought was that her sister must have died. Or perhaps the baby.

  I pulled away and held her face between my hands. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked gently.

  Her face creased again. ‘It’s Henry,’ she said.

  Relief flooded through me, and I was glad to hold her head against my shoulder in case she saw my expression. I knew he was alive and well, so it could only be . . .

  ‘He says we cannot see each other any more,’ she said. ‘He says it’s not proper.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzy,’ I said. I remembered his easy way down by the gate, and how he had helped me to run away when he didn’t have to. He had asked me to keep his secret too, and yet he had been planning all along to end it like this. It was callous, but perhaps he had seen sense. There would be other men for Lizzy, when she was more established.

  ‘I didn’t know who else to come to,’ Lizzy sobbed, ‘but I couldn’t find you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m here now. It’s for the best, Lizzy.’

  She turned her red-rimmed eyes on me and said, ‘Oh, but you don’t understand.’

  We stayed like that for some minutes, until her tears were exhausted. My mind turned to other things, such as how I would get the cloth back from the cellar. I decided that the early morning was my best opportunity, before anyone else was up. I let Lizzy come in with me again that night, turning over the pillow that she had soaked with her crying. While she drifted off to sleep, I could not. Down there, in the darkness, was the key to speaking to my mother.

  Fate conspired against me on the following day. Cook was already bustling around as I came down, and when she went to use the privy Mrs Cotton appeared, much earlier than was usual for her. It was as though she half-knew my secret purpose and meant to foil me.

  Alexander Ambrose visited twice on the day after the dinner party. He and Samuel sat alone in the library during the late morning, and I could hear their occasional laughter while I cleaned the downstairs rooms. Mr Lock was worked harder than usual, attending to the frequent bell, and it was clear, at least to me, that he was struggling with his duties.

  Then, in the afternoon, while I was trying not to dwell on the frustration of not being able to get into the cellar, Master Ambrose arrived at the front door with a chair on wheels. Samuel gave a whoop as he sat in it and wheeled himself about with his hands. I thought he was so brave to count such a thing a blessing after his great loss.

  With his spirits lifted, the house began slowly to return to normal. The next day, I was sent upstairs in the afternoon to prepare Samuel’s old bedroom. He’d made it clear that he was not to be treated like an invalid any longer, and meant ‘to live on the second floor, like any gentleman.’

  Men came in to dismantle the bed and carry it upstairs once more, and I cleaned the carpets and furniture with pride. His room offered a fine view over the park opposite, and I could see Alexander pushing him in his chair under the bare trees and towards the lake. At one point, Alexander turned back to the house and seemed to take it all in. His face wore an oddly serious expression. Then he nodded, and they continued on their walk.

  ‘You aren’t paid to stare out of the window,’ said a voice behind me.

  Mrs Cotton stood in the doorway.

  Not a week ago, the look would have chilled me. But now I looked at her, not defiantly, but not cowed either.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I picked up a vase to take downstairs.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’ Mrs Cotton said.

  ‘Master Greave has requested some fresh flowers, ma’am, to brighten up his room.’

  Her mouth twisted. ‘Lilies, I suppose?’

  Her words, and the sly smile that accompanied them, were weighted to hurt me. Lilies had been my mother’s favourite.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Not this time of year.’

  She moved aside. ‘Well, be quick about it,’ she snapped.

  I trembled as I filled the vase with water.

  .

  Chapter 24

  Though Samuel’s health seemed to be improving, the same couldn’t be said for Lord Greave. He took to dining alone again in his room, and when Mr Lock descended the stairs that evening with the tray and decanter, the glass beside it lay in pieces. I was in the kitchen, hoping that I might get a moment alone to retrieve the precious object under the scullery floor, but Rob seemed happy fiddling with a chair that needed mending. I made myself busy at the range, sweeping out the old ashes.

  ‘He’s bad again, is he?’ asked Rob.

  Mr Lock nodded gravely, then looked at me as though unsure what he could or should say. ‘He’s seeing things, hearing things.’

  My ears pricked.

  ‘Perhaps you should tell the young master,’ said Rob. ‘He may know what to do.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ grunted Mr Lock. ‘Abi, fetch me a cloth and bucket, will you? There’s a mess up there.’

  ‘Send Miss Tamper to clean it up,’ said Mrs Cotton.

  She had drifted in from the main stairs without us noticing. She wore a grey housecoat.

  ‘But madam,’ said Mr Lock, ‘His Lordship –’

  ‘Mr Lock,’ she said, ‘you look terribly tired. My brother won’t object, I’m sure.’

  I looked uncertainly at Mr Lock. It was rare for Mrs Cotton and he to clash, as they went about their duties with little need to confer. His Lordship’s chamber was, according to custom, the butler’s domain, while cleaning rotas fell to the housekeeper.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Lock.

  I couldn’t find the silver pail, and no one seemed to have seen it, so I filled a jug with water and took it up to the top floor. I knocked, of course, and Lord Greave bade me enter. He was seated in his armchair by the window, wearing his dressing gown and smoking a pipe. If I hadn’t seen the shattered glass and heard Mr Lock’s report, I would have thought him like any other contented gentleman, enjoying the last hours before retiring.

  However, a wet patch on the carpet was surrounded by fragments of broken glass. I set about picking them up and dabbing the carpet with salted water to soak up the stain. He didn’t speak a word, and it wasn’t my place to initiate conversation. I was sponging at a particularly stubborn patch in uncomfortable silence when he spoke.

  ‘She did it,’ he said.

  I looked up, unsure if I had heard correctly. ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, more quietly this time.

  He didn’t turn to look at me, but stared towards the black glass of the window. I could see his reflection in it.

  ‘Do you mean broke the glass, sir?’ I said. ‘That’s no matter.’

  ‘She’s angry,’ he said.

  It’s strange how fear works. It suddenly stands at your shoulder,
and slides its arm around you. Its fist closes on your heart.

  ‘Who is she, sir?’

  He turned then, and focused his pale blue eyes on me. They were full of tears.

  ‘There was nothing I could do. You understand that, don’t you, Susan?’

  I stood up sharply. ‘Abigail, sir. Susan was my mother.’

  He raised his hand and buried his head in it. His shoulders shook with crying.

  I picked up my things and quit the room.

  I went into the scullery again to empty the pail. The back door clicked open, and in rushed Rowena. Behind her came Mrs Cotton. Her cheeks were flushed, and I thought it was with the cold.

  ‘Look who I found,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d lost our devious little mouser.’

  Rowena rushed up the servants’ stairs. She wanted to get back to her kittens, no doubt.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad,’ I said.

  Mrs Cotton closed the door. ‘And how is His Lordship? I trust you cleared up the mess.’

  I wasn’t sure which question to answer, so I said it was all clean now.

  She hesitated, and I saw there was something she wanted to say. A feeling grew that I wouldn’t like whatever it might be.

  I dried my hands. ‘Will there be anything else, ma’am?’

  She shook her head. The silence was disconcerting, so I went to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Oh, Abigail?’ she said.

  I paused. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘You were looking for the silver pail, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was, ma’am.’

  She opened the back door again. ‘I thought I saw it in the stable store. Perhaps you could fetch it in.’

  I went out of the scullery and into the yard. It was very dark, a mild night under heavy cloud. It was hard to see anything in the store, but Mrs Cotton was right. The pail stood at the back of the little chamber. I picked it up by the handle and found it heavy. Water sloshed over the edge. I carried it outside to empty into the drain.

  Only outside did I see there was something floating on top. It looked like three rags.