The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  ‘They kept me from my duties,’ he raved. ‘Drugged me with something . . . Where are the men, Louisa, where are the men?’

  ‘Louise.’ Her mouth could barely form the name. ‘I am Louise.’

  When she left, he had been paddling in the waters of the fever. Now he was fully submerged.

  He reached for her chin, pulled it up and stared into her face. His fingers gripped her with surprising strength. ‘Louise,’ he repeated. ‘Louise . . . But she did not . . .’

  She must not let him push past her. If he reached the cave and saw Harry . . .

  She had meant to tell him the truth, but she could not, not while he was like this. She must protect him from it. Even if she had to write to another physician for help with the men, she would spare him her own painful knowledge.

  She put out an arm to block his passage. ‘Creeda!’ she shouted. ‘Gerren!’

  They emerged from the west wing.

  ‘Why was he left unattended?’ Louise demanded.

  ‘I am well,’ Papa interjected, ‘I am perfectly well, I must just—’

  ‘Didn’t expect him to wake,’ Creeda confessed. ‘Gave him that much laudanum . . .’

  Pompey hurtled down the stairs, attracted by the sound of voices. Papa recoiled.

  ‘Get him away. Get the cur away!’

  Nothing born of delirium should surprise her, but this did. Papa adored Pompey. She had never thought to see him cringing from the dog’s advances.

  ‘Gerren, take Pompey to my room.’

  ‘But ee said—’

  ‘Do it, Gerren.’

  Louise could feel them slipping: the men, Papa, the servants; each one a rock tumbling from the cliff. Why was everyone so useless? Why would no one help her?

  ‘Please, Creeda,’ she said desperately. ‘I must get him to his room. Help me move him.’

  ‘The men . . .’ Papa objected.

  Little did he know that one of them lay dead, somewhere below his feet. Presumably, there would be no family to claim poor Harry’s body. The gaol would not pay the expense of burial.

  What was she going to do?

  Somehow, they heaved Papa up the stairs and back into bed. He was still talking, talking all the while about lights and trades, and heaven knew what else. Louise seized the laudanum bottle from the medicine chest and administered two more drops to his moving lips.

  Gradually, his eyelids wavered and fell. The breath rumbled in his chest. She stood watching him, conscious of the time and of his life slipping away.

  She wished it were her instead.

  ‘Creeda,’ she whispered, needing to say the words. ‘Creeda . . . Harry is dead.’

  Papa’s face twitched. But surely he could not have heard her?

  ‘Dead,’ Creeda echoed. She sounded as if she did not quite believe it. ‘Is he, miss?’

  ‘It was me.’ She closed her eyes. ‘My fault. I made him . . . I pushed him too far. I killed him.’

  Something warm settled on her shoulder. Creeda’s hand. ‘No, miss. That can’t be true. You said he was getting better.’

  ‘He was! I thought . . .’

  Forgetting herself, she turned to the maid and sobbed into her arms.

  ‘Who do I report it to? What shall I do with the body? I do not—’

  ‘I’ll send Gerren to town,’ Creeda soothed. ‘The man was a convict, wasn’t he, miss? I’m sure they won’t take much bother about him. The number of poor folk who die every day . . .’

  Creeda’s gown smelt of rosemary. There was something comforting in that herbal scent, something redolent of her mother. ‘But the body . . .’

  Creeda drew a breath. ‘You leave that to me. I know what to do.’

  The solace in those words. She hungered to believe them.

  ‘Only . . .’ Creeda’s fingers tightened on her back. ‘Miss, are you really sure he’s dead? The experiment has failed?’

  Louise could not erase the image of Harry lying there on a cold slab of rock, his sightless eyes fixed beyond her. Blue eyes. Had they not once been green?

  ‘I am certain he is dead, Creeda.’

  ‘Not . . . changed?’

  She did not know whether to laugh or cry. In the midst of all this disaster, Creeda was Creeda still.

  ‘No, Creeda.’ She withdrew herself from the maid’s arms. ‘You never saw Harry, did you? He was . . . just a man. A good man.’

  Creeda pressed her lips together. ‘If the men die . . . you and the master will be leaving us. Going back to Bristol.’

  Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. They could never return to Bristol. But how could they remain here, living in the grave of all their hopes?

  ‘It is too early to consider that. I can plan nothing until Papa is well again.’

  Creeda’s eyes ranged over Papa, tossing and turning in the bed. ‘The master isn’t himself. What if he decides to send me back to Plymouth?’

  Louise lowered her head into her hands, trying to clutch everything together. She had always prided herself on her courage and sense. It was as though she had spent a lifetime being calm, just waiting for today. Knowing that nothing she endured would be truly worth panicking about, until this.

  ‘I told you, Creeda, I cannot think of it now. Leave us, please. Just leave us and . . . tell Gerren to set out at once. We need doctors. Anyone who can come. I cannot leave those men alone in the caves.’

  Was that a tear Louise saw gleaming in Creeda’s brown eye? She did not look eerie now. Just a girl, petulant in her fear of being returned home to . . . whatever treatment Mr Nancarrow deemed necessary.

  ‘It’s the caves you should have left alone in the first place,’ Creeda muttered bitterly. She slammed the door behind her.

  For the first time, Louise had to admit that Creeda was right.

  Chapter 37

  When they laid out the dead, they placed coins on their eyelids. Sometimes stones. Anything heavy that would keep their inanimate pupils from gazing into a world in which they no longer belonged. Perhaps it has happened to me, Louise thought. Perhaps I am dead.

  It was not just her eyes that felt weighted. Every shred of her ached. But that obstinate flicker of life remained, the one that refused to let even consumption quench it.

  A clock in the corner ticked by the seconds while her eyelids remained closed. Papa had been fretful at nightfall, but now he did not stir. No coughing, no mumbling, no tossing in his bed. She thought of Harry, passing noiselessly from the world while she lay beside him. Her stomach clenched.

  She did not want to open her eyes. Did not know what she would find.

  Another minute passed. She could not even hear Papa’s quiet breath. Pressure built behind her ribs, forced itself up her throat.

  What if she just stayed there? What if she never let herself see?

  Claws scratched at the closed door.

  Her mind was racing with memories of Papa: his wise eyes, the reassuring smile, the comfort of his embrace. She must keep them. No matter what terrible grey version of him stretched out in the bed, she must hold onto him as he was. She was the only person left who could.

  Pompey whined and scratched again.

  It would be better to face the truth quickly. Like pulling a tooth or ripping off a bandage. Courage, Louise, he used to say. Courage. She forced her eyes open.

  He had gone.

  The bed was empty, its covers thrown back to reveal a sweaty stain on the mattress and the pillow left at an angle. Louise gaped at it.

  Dawn had broken without her realising. The window sash was raised, letting in a thin stream of air. There was no conceivable way he could have climbed out of it. The gap was too narrow, the drop too high.

  The door jolted as Pompey jumped against it.

  Papa must have glided out silently and shut the door behind him.
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br />   She struggled to her feet. What a traitor she was, what an absolute fool! How had she managed to drift off when Papa needed her? She opened the door and Pompey spilled in, jumping at her legs with urgency. He had come to fetch her, she realised. This could not bode well.

  ‘Where is he, boy? Help me find him.’

  He streaked straight along the corridor and thumped down the stairs.

  Louise followed, calling breathlessly for Creeda as she went.

  The maid emerged from the west wing, holding Louise’s teapot and a dusting rag.

  ‘Where is Dr Pinecroft? Did you not see him? Hear him?’

  Creeda paled. ‘Has he gone?’

  Pompey was pawing at the front door.

  ‘Come with me,’ Louise demanded as she crossed the hall to stand behind her dog. The bolts were already drawn back. Papa must have gone down to the beach, to the men. To Harry . . .

  Panic rolled in like a storm.

  She opened the door and pulled Creeda, who was still clutching the teapot, outside with her. Pompey shot between their legs, and round the house.

  How innocent the scene appeared. Light touched the clover flowering on the cliff. The sun burnt far above the horizon and the day had begun in earnest. A soft breeze blew through the ash leaves and there was a gentle green scent in the air.

  Anticipating the direction of their steps, Creeda attempted to turn back. Louise tightened her grip on the maid’s arm and forced her on.

  ‘Don’t make me go,’ Creeda pleaded. ‘Not to the fairy cave!’

  Louise felt a pinch of sympathy but it was distant, as if it were being experienced by someone else.

  Pompey did not bark. That was the eerie thing. As they half-ran, half-fell down the track, they saw him standing on the shore, his ears raised, the wind ruffling through his fur. Bearing witness.

  Louise followed his gaze a little further out to sea.

  ‘Oh God.’

  A dark hump lay in the water. Foam seethed around it, fluttering the edges. In a few more steps she could see the knotted hair and the unravelled hem of a shirt. It was a man. A man face down in the shallows.

  ‘Papa!’ she screamed. ‘Papa!’

  She began to run.

  Damp sand snatched the shoes from her feet, but she did not stop. She tugged Creeda with her, all the way to the water’s edge, where she was forced to drop the maid’s arm and hold up her skirts. The waves kept trying to shove her back. She struggled to keep her balance, but she managed to wade knee-deep, close enough to touch the clammy, swollen skin.

  It was not her father.

  Water inflated the loose shirt and breeches that hung about the withered frame, pushing the man in her direction. Swallowing her horror, Louise grabbed hold of his sleeve cuff and began to drag him towards the shore. He was heavy – far heavier than he looked – and her wet skirts made it feel like she was walking in shackles, but the tide was working with her, now. She saw the shoreline coming closer, Pompey and Creeda poised at its edge.

  ‘Help me,’ Louise cried.

  With an absurd amount of care, Creeda set the teapot down beside Pompey and paddled towards her.

  Together, they heaved the man over to face the sky.

  It was Michael.

  The consumption had not carried him off. His jaw hung open, slack, revealing smashed teeth and a mouth stuffed full of sand. He had not stumbled out of the cave and fallen into the water to drown. Someone had done this to him.

  Louise stared at the corpse, sure her vision would suddenly clear and reveal a different picture. If she could only concentrate, surely this must change? No one could want to kill Michael . . .

  ‘Miss.’ Creeda’s hand on her shoulder, demanding her attention. Angrily, she brushed it off. ‘Miss!’

  She looked up. Creeda’s hair lifted on the wind. She looked like a saint: stern, pitying, righteous. She pointed behind Louise to where Pompey still gazed, transfixed. ‘I . . . I told you he wasn’t himself, miss.’

  Slowly, Louise turned.

  There were more. Two protrusions from the ocean, two more human rocks. And just beyond, a third that still thrashed and scattered water.

  Old Seth.

  Papa was holding him down.

  Her feet carried her forward before she authorised them to do so.

  Veins stood out on her father’s arms and forehead. His features were distorted, goblin-like. He thrust down on the transparent back of Seth’s shirt, a satisfied grimace appearing as the old man’s motions became steadily weaker.

  Pompey barked.

  It did not break the spell. Papa swivelled his head to watch them, but he was a stranger still. A blood vessel had burst in his right eye, streaking the white with red like a gory egg.

  Louise sobbed. ‘Stop it! Let him go, P—’

  She could not finish. Could not call this creature Papa.

  ‘Changelings!’ he bellowed over the roar of the surf. The air of self-congratulation turned her stomach. ‘They were changelings.’

  Seth twitched and grew limp.

  Papa discarded him the way he would a used bandage. Coughing, he began to wade towards her.

  ‘It was all as Creeda said! Dirty creatures, sickly, fairy stock.’ Staggering up the shore, he threw his arms wide. Water dripped from his sleeves like blood. ‘Oh, they wanted to drag me down, to ruin my reputation along with everything else, but I have bested them. Fairies are a poor match for a man of science! See, Louise! I have found the cure for all ills! I have saved our men!’

  ‘You killed them!’

  His smile wavered. ‘No. No, I destroyed the fairies, Louise. They tricked us . . .’ His body heaved with another cough. ‘But I have found the solution. They are gone now, and they will be forced to send our men back. Healthy men.’

  ‘Our men are dead!’ she screamed. ‘They were people. People, and you have killed them!’

  There was a moment with only the rush of waves and a chough calling.

  Something hardened in his jaw. ‘You do not believe me. My own daughter!’ He ran a hand through his wild hair and gave a harsh, bruised laugh. ‘God, I thought you were my equal, but you are not. Your mind is too narrow to grasp the advance of our discoveries. You are just like those damned old college fograms, standing in the way of progress.’

  Even after all she had seen and heard, these words cut her to the quick.

  ‘You are very sick . . .’ she tried to explain. ‘The fever . . .’

  That bloody eye bored into her, its pupil sharp and black as a poker. ‘No. No, I am not the one in need of treatment. How foolish I was not to see before. You reek of their glamour. My real daughter would have believed me.’

  He sprang. Louise stumbled back, her wet skirts tangled around her legs. He was coming for her and he would drown her too.

  She began to run away but she was slow, painfully slow; her soaked dress pulled her back and she could hardly breathe for tears. Pompey and Creeda were not far off. If she could only reach them . . .

  ‘Help me!’

  She tripped. Pain exploded in her foot where it had collided with a rock or some other debris; she hardly knew what it was, for the next moment she was scrabbling in the sand.

  ‘Help!’

  White flashed past her. She heard a growl and then a shout of pain.

  Pompey. Pompey had come to her rescue.

  Painfully, she climbed to her knees. Red speckled the sand. Pompey had driven his teeth into Papa’s calf and clung on with the strength of a bulldog. He was not large, but Papa couldn’t shake him off. The pair of them flailed, inseparable.

  It was only as Louise hauled herself to her feet that she noticed the teapot on its side, without its lid. That was what had tripped her. Not a rock or seaweed but china. She remembered how Papa had given it to her, a lifetime ago.

  ‘Ge
t off me, you damned cur!’

  The man who looked like her father knelt on the ground, his murderous hands buried in fur. Papa had cossetted Pompey from a puppy, taught him tricks, fed him scraps from the table. Now he had his fingers around his throat.

  The dog’s paws flailed as he let out a strangled whine, his brown eyes bulging in panic. Papa began to squeeze.

  She did not think. She picked up the teapot, ran at her father and cracked it over his head.

  She should not have heard the sound, not with the waves lapping, the cry of the gulls and Pompey coughing at his sudden release. But everything seemed to shatter with that pot.

  A warped mask glared up at her, astonished. Shards of china were driven deep into its temple. It fell back, hard – or perhaps she did. It happened too fast for her to tell. The last things she saw were those white porcelain chips and the blood, welling like an ocean beneath.

  Chapter 38

  Louise’s hand hurt. That was the sensation that pulled her back to consciousness. It rested on the arm of a chair. Small white fragments, like the teeth of a tiny creature, were embedded in the knuckles. She watched with strange detachment as blood oozed from her skin.

  Through her left eye, the image was clear. But in the right it doubled, quadrupled, splintered into a thousand pieces. It took her a moment to realise it was her spectacles: the right lens had cracked.

  The chair she sat on was made of horsehair. It moulded to her body, cradled her. She wondered if she should try to stand, but the desire evaporated before it was fully formed. She felt sewn in. Carefully contained. One false movement would ruin the balance.

  Pompey mumbled at her side. He was staring opposite, at the empty hearth and the china Creeda had displayed upon it. Reaching up to her face, Louise removed her broken spectacles. Without them, she could not discern the individual shapes, only smudges of blue. Cool, elegant blue. It doused the red that threatened to spread across her mind.

  ‘Did everything ee asked, Creeda.’ It was Gerren, his voice distant, like everything else.

  There was a gentle scratch inside her head. Gerren . . . he should not be there. Had she not told Creeda to send him to town? She tried to remember, but could not. Memories slipped through her hands like sand. It did not matter. Nothing mattered, now.