The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  The image of the cave at night rose up before her: the ghostly tendrils of pipe smoke, moonlight bouncing off the waves and playing in ripples on the ceiling. Disembodied coughs. Somewhere, deep within the cavern, that constant drip.

  No wonder he wanted to escape.

  ‘I will not tell my father,’ she promised, looking down at him. ‘About this beach, at least. But we will have to say something. These are not injuries you can disguise.’

  He regarded her. ‘I reckon I’m not the only one in trouble with the doctor.’

  She flushed. ‘Never mind about that.’

  Harry struggled to his feet, ignoring her outstretched hand. Pompey jumped over the sea foam to beat his tail against the man’s leg.

  ‘Do you trust me with your dog?’

  ‘Trust you?’ she repeated. ‘You saved his life.’

  ‘Then leave him with me. I’ll let him out of my hut in the morning, tell your da I saved him from the rocks. He’s not to know the daft thing didn’t escape from your house.’

  A criminal, she told herself. This man is a criminal. But she couldn’t believe it.

  ‘That is tremendously kind of you.’

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘I do not . . .’ She glanced doubtfully at the pile of rocks where the cliff had crumbled. ‘I do not suppose you could take me back with you, through the caves? I have no idea of my way home . . .’

  He was sickly, dirty and bleeding, yet still there was a certain light when he smiled, the crinkles that appeared beside his eyes and the gentle curve of his mouth. A spark that disease would never quite quench.

  ‘Well,’ he grinned. ‘I reckon you’ll be owing me a few favours, miss.’

  Chapter 24

  Pompey placed his head on Louise’s thigh, awaiting crumbs from her breakfast.

  Papa tutted at him. ‘You see the rascal is unabashed by his ordeal.’

  ‘I cannot think how he came to escape,’ she replied, feeling guilt prickle beneath her skin. ‘I shall make certain to lock him up in future. And I will get to work on a cold compress for poor Harry’s nose straight after breakfast.’ She reached down from the chair and scratched Pompey’s ear to hide her unease. It felt horrible to lie to her father, even over this trifle. But Harry had kept his side of the bargain. Papa never need know that she had been outside, brazenly wandering on her own at night.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Papa went on, ‘We owe Harry our gratitude, certainly, but he should not have been walking about at that hour. I am afraid I was obliged to read him a pretty stern lecture.’

  Louise’s shame climbed a notch. Another punishment he had endured for her sake – not that he was a man likely to be troubled by an upbraiding. She wondered what sort of life he had led before prison, and how he came to be so kind. There must be good in him. Pompey would not have been fond of him if he was truly a bad apple. Dogs could always tell.

  ‘Perhaps this increase in energy is a sign of improvement,’ she said awkwardly. ‘But what do you say to the rockfall? Is it not uncommon?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ She jumped to hear Creeda’s voice beside her ear. The girl had entered the room noiselessly and now stood next to Louise’s chair with a plate of hot muffins. ‘Not just uncommon, that rockfall, but unnatural. I told you. They don’t like dogs.’

  Papa was drinking tea at the time, but Louise saw his eyes widen over the rim of the bowl.

  ‘I do not gather your meaning, Creeda.’ She shot her maid a warning look. ‘You told me nothing. Of whom do you speak?’

  ‘Of the fairies, miss.’

  Papa put down his tea bowl, fingers still wrapped around the blue flowers. ‘And it is your opinion, Creeda,’ he said slowly, ‘that fairies made – what? – an assassination attempt on our naughty little beast?’

  Creeda swallowed. ‘It is, sir.’

  Papa gave a rueful smile. ‘In this instance, you must admit the evidence is not in your favour. The cur is untouched – it is Harry who has a broken nose.’

  Louise motioned with her hand. ‘That will be all, Creeda.’

  Creeda curtseyed and retreated with a foreboding expression.

  Louise poured herself more tea, but she could not shake her feeling of discomfort. To think of something malignant, trying to hurt dear Pompey! It was just another of the unfortunate maid’s many delusions, of course, and yet she kept remembering the way Pompey had stared up at the cliff and barked. How the land had cracked without rain, without warning.

  If Harry had not been there . . .

  ‘I must beg your congratulations this morning, my dear,’ Papa said as he bit into his muffin. ‘Aside from our rogue Harry, the men slept soundly last night. I have observed an increase in vigour since the pipes were introduced.’

  She was able to give the first genuine smile of the morning. ‘I am glad to hear it! They were an excellent notion, Papa.’ Absent-mindedly, she picked a crumb off her own muffin and offered it to Pompey. ‘But what of Tim and Michael? I fear they fare rather worse than the others.’

  Papa held up a finger. ‘Yes, but that is because the disease is more advanced in them. It has had longer to grab a hold. Do not fret, I have a plan for them too, which we shall implement later today. It came to me last night, as I slept. Possibly at the same time that canine imp you are rewarding was attempting to kill my patients.’

  How pleasant it was to hear him jest again. Were it not for the empty chairs at the breakfast table, she could almost convince herself they were back in old times.

  ‘Do you truly think we will manage to heal them, Papa?’

  ‘I do,’ he replied emphatically. ‘I can feel . . . Oh, you will laugh at me, no doubt.’ He shook his head, but a smile still played about his lips. ‘I know this is right, Louise. Our fate, our calling, our purpose. After all we have suffered, this is what we were meant for. God is with us . . . and your dear mother.’

  His last words made her tea bowl rattle against its saucer. Looking into his face, she saw his eyes were ablaze with zeal.

  ‘I do not say this to upset you. But I feel her, Louise, guiding me.’

  Absurdly, Louise felt a spurt of jealousy. It was she who needed Mama’s guidance. And she had felt nothing – save the great crater her mother had left behind.

  ‘We do it all in Mama’s name,’ she said, as steadily as she could manage. ‘She would be proud of you. Very proud. I know it.’

  He looked down at the tablecloth. ‘I fear I have alarmed you. Do I sound extremely fanciful?’

  They had prayed for help from heaven. If it had come, she should be grateful. And she must bear in mind that Papa had been nursing late at night. Weariness could be a kind of fever. She knew all too well that when all you saw for hours was sickness and death, your musings could take the strangest turns.

  In the distance she could hear Creeda washing up pans, and the steady beat of the sea. Was it her imagination, or had the breakfast set grown? There seemed to be more blue and white patterns, more Nancarrow Bone China. As if Creeda’s past were slowly spreading across their table.

  She reached out and took her father’s hand. ‘What will we do, Papa? What shall we do after we find the cure?’

  ‘Oh, Louise.’ He blew out his breath. His features grew rapt. ‘Once I have slayed this demon . . . What shall I not do?’

  Chapter 25

  Last night Louise had negotiated the dark veins of the cave, holding Harry’s hand. She knew full well that they led out to another beach on the other side of the cliff. Yet as she approached the entrance to their little underground colony, she experienced the same uncomfortable sensation as always. There was the umbra: its depth, its immensity. She could almost imagine it reaching out and dragging her in, a pit ready to swallow her whole.

  Placing her buckets of water on the sand, she pulled down her cuffs and scrubbed at the salt freckling her spectacles.
Pipe bowls glowed in the darkness.

  She loitered on the edge of the cave, reluctant to enter into that smog. The men had seemed pleased to receive tobacco, never mind what was mixed with it, but Louise hated the stuff. The way it clung to her skin, even her hair.

  ‘Louise? Is that you?’

  Taking a deep breath of fresh air to see her through, she stepped inside the cave.

  Chao and Seth sat together on a rock, smoking and talking in whispers. Her father stood apart from them, jacket removed, his hands upon his hips. This morning’s poise and confidence had deserted him. She did not like the tight knit of his brow, or the way he ran a hand through his hair. In Bristol, he had usually worn a wig, but the sea winds made that impractical here. Now he tied his hair back with a single black ribbon. It had a natural curl, which was not helped by his habit of rumpling it when perplexed. The wayward locks made him look rather frantic, not at all like the polished physician that had attended upon Lord Redfern.

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘Oh, it is you. Good. Michael has been calling for water incessantly.’

  ‘The buckets are just outside.’

  ‘And I see you also brought the balsam and wound water for Harry’s nose.’

  ‘I did.’

  He turned from her, began to dig through the contents of his satchel. ‘I have cupped Michael and inserted a seton. Tim will require a similar treatment. His fever ravings . . . the delirium . . . I have left him insisting that a hag sat on his chest and rode him all night. I cannot for the life of me begin to—’ He jerked his head up, like Pompey when he scented a rabbit. ‘What did you say?’

  She frowned. ‘Nothing, Papa.’

  ‘Nothing?’ He glanced furtively towards the back of the cave. ‘Listen . . . There! Do you really not hear that?’

  Louise closed her eyes and stretched her senses. There were layers of sound – the wind whooping softly, and the constant hum of the waves. Somewhere, distantly, water falling in its own slow, repetitive beat.

  ‘I can hear a drip,’ she offered.

  Papa shook himself. ‘Very well, very well. I must have imagined it. This morning has been testing, to say the least. See to Harry, if you please.’

  She was loath to leave her father so distraught, but she knew disobeying his orders would only vex him more. Collecting her supplies, she made her way to Harry’s hut.

  The young man was sitting at the entrance, spine straight against the wooden wall. It was impossible to view him without a flush of gratitude. He had certainly taken a knocking for Pompey. The damage appeared even more alarming than it had last night; brown and purple mantled his face, blooming up to his eyebrows. He looked like a prizefighter.

  ‘Good morning, Harry. How are you?’

  ‘Tolerable.’ A squashed voice, struggling through cartilage. It made her wince. ‘And you, Louise?’

  A good turn did not warrant the familiar use of her Christian name. ‘My name is Miss Pinecroft,’ she replied stiffly.

  Rather than offending him, her pride made him smile. She noticed a missing tooth, high up towards the back. Had that shaken loose last night?

  ‘Haughty as you like. And here’s me, having lost my good looks for your dog’s sake.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Such as they were.’

  He laughed and began to choke.

  Louise went to assist him, but he held out a hand to stop her. It seemed Harry had his pride too.

  She uncorked the wound water and soaked a clean handkerchief while he composed himself. There was fighting spirit in the young man. Afflicted with consumption, hit by a rockfall and still trading retorts? That did suggest they had caught him in time. Even if they lost Michael and Tim, just one cure would be enough.

  ‘Sit still now,’ she ordered, kneeling at his side. ‘I will wash it and dress it with a balsam. I did intend to make you a cold compress, but I forgot we have no ice house here.’

  ‘Such privations.’ He mimicked her accent – rather too closely for comfort.

  ‘Do not test me, sir.’ She brandished the wet handkerchief. It reminded her of forcing her younger siblings into line; how she had needed to cajole and threaten at the same time. ‘I can make this much more painful than it needs to be.’

  Evidently he believed her, for he pushed the dark hair back from his face and tilted his chin up to the light. She had thought his eyes were green. At this moment they appeared grey, little chinks of slate. Cautiously, she began to wash around them. He did not close the lids.

  His skin was rusty with dried blood and took a while to clean. He did not complain, just sat, as if for his portrait, letting her touch flow over him.

  ‘Your nose may set a little crooked, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hardly matters, does it?’

  ‘Less for a man, I suppose. And it will lend you a certain notorious aspect, which I understand is very desirable.’

  ‘It won’t matter because I’ll be in my coffin.’

  Her hands began to shake. She busied herself with the balsam to conceal it.

  ‘I wish you would not speak like that,’ she said sadly, ‘as if all this were for nothing. We have high hopes for you, Harry.’

  He turned away.

  ‘Come here.’ She began to smooth the balsam over him. It had a deep herbal scent. ‘You might tell me, instead, what you will do with your freedom when you recover.’ She saw the gentle motion of her hands soothed his temper, took a little of the anger away. ‘I do not know how you ended up in Bodmin but—’

  ‘No.’ Less prickly now, just weary. ‘Don’t start that. What is it about you rich folk? Always after remaking someone. When I saved your dog, I just did it. No conditions, no fanfare. Done. If I live, I an’t going to be a different person. I was a fence before I went in, and I’ll be a fence if I get out.’

  She was not certain she had heard right. ‘A . . . fence?’

  That curled his lips. ‘So bloody innocent. You know, a fence. I take things in, melt them down, change them up. Pass it off as something new.’

  ‘What kinds of things?’

  ‘Hot things. Wipers, jewellery, silver jugs, all that.’

  ‘Stolen goods?’ Even she heard the note of disapproval in her voice.

  He guffawed. ‘How the hell do you think I ended up in gaol?’

  Louise was not used to being spoken to in this manner. It shocked, but did not upset her. It made her feel strangely alive.

  She was alive. Her heart was beating, her knees were aching and a man was swearing at her. After so long staring at death, she had begun to feel that she had stepped behind the veil herself.

  She placed the lid back on the balsam and made ready to gather her skirts.

  Then Harry spoke again. ‘Who’s Louisa?’

  ‘What?’

  He must have seen the way her face turned rigid, for there was a dart of panic in his eyes. ‘The doctor calls you Louise. But who is Louisa?’

  ‘It was my mother’s name,’ she said tightly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Harry’s mouth drooped. He looked sorry he had spoken. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He . . . says it sometimes. In his sleep. Or to himself.’

  Unconsciously, Louise placed a hand on her chest. ‘She died,’ she whispered. ‘They all died.’

  Harry shifted awkwardly against the wall of the hut. He made a movement, as if he was going to clap her on the shoulder, but seemed to think better of it.

  ‘Well, it happens. He an’t an old man. Give him time, he’ll marry again.’

  Many daughters would fear such a thing. Not Louise. She would be only too glad to assure herself that Papa’s life would move on in a different direction, but she knew him better than that.

  ‘He will not. He . . . You do not know how it was, between them.’

  Harry lo
oked down at his hands. ‘Chough,’ he muttered.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The choughs in the cliff. Did you never see them? Red beaks. We hear them all the time, down here.’

  ‘I know the bird.’

  ‘It pairs for life,’ he told her. ‘That’s what my ma always said. Same mate, same place, every year. Always come back. Maybe your da’s like that.’

  She was afraid to speak lest the tears spill. The truth was, it was easier to take blows on her own account than watch Papa suffer. She had cried far more for him than herself.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked. ‘You and that damned dog?’

  ‘I will assist my father,’ she said briskly. ‘He needs someone to serve as apothecary.’

  ‘But for how long? He’s not old. By the time he . . . you know, joins your ma, it’ll be too late to start a family of your own.’

  ‘That does not signify. The hospitals employ nurses to live in all the time. They prefer an older lady without dependants.’

  Harry sighed. ‘High-bred lass like you, working in one of them rough places? Don’t sound like much of a life to—’

  ‘What is that?’ Before she considered what she was doing, she seized his hand, pulled it under the lamplight. There was a blotch and a kind of scribble next to it, as if someone had drawn on him in red ink. ‘That? How long has it been there?’

  He inspected it. ‘Don’t know. Could it have happened when the rocks hit me?’

  ‘I would be surprised. It is more like a rash and that . . . that next to it is certainly not a scratch. A scratch could not twist itself so. Does it hurt?’

  Pulling his hand away, he shrugged. ‘Everything hurts. I’ve got the consumption, an’t I?’

  ‘Do not be so difficult, Harry. I am concerned. It is a very strange mark.’

  ‘There’re a lot of strange things in this cave,’ he said darkly.