“She was going to lose her job. Mother was going to get rid of her.”
“Of Ruth? I find that hard to believe. Your mother used to say Ruth was the only thing keeping her sane in this madhouse. And what about the postcards? You must see that your mother wrote those and how could she be sending you cards from America if Ruth had done something unspeakable to her?”
Samuel didn’t have an answer for that.
“Ruth is a stern sort, her kind usually are. Gives you a smack when you’re cheeky, does she?”
The boy stayed quiet.
“Your father and I were always getting walloped by our nanny. Little terrors we were.”
Samuel’s eyes drifted to the atlas. “Ruth tells lies.”
“I’m sure she does. I’m willing to bet that you tell the odd porky yourself. We all do, ducky, it’s hardly a hanging offense.”
“She took Mother’s best jewels.” Samuel was fixed on his uncle now, staring intently, so that not a single word could fall away or be misunderstood. “She stole them, Uncle Felix. I caught her red-handed. Please, you have to believe me.”
“Of course I believe you, Sammy.” Uncle Felix patted the boy’s back and his tone was tender and patronizing all at once. “Life’s a complicated thing, ducky, difficult and untidy. You’ll understand that when you’re a bit older. Ruth told me about the jewels, and as hard as it might be to understand, she didn’t take them for personal gain. It’s her job to keep the house running and make sure you have everything you need—and that takes money. Rather a lot of it, in fact.” He patted Samuel’s back again. “Don’t you think it’s a tad unfair, calling Ruth a thief, when she was only doing as your mother asked?”
Just like that, the bright hope of this unexpected visitor, that surge of joy that had lit Samuel up like a lantern, was snuffed out. Ruth had got to him first.
“Something has happened to my mother, I know it has.”
“Are you sleeping, Sammy?” said the uncle. “You look awfully tired.”
“Ruth took her away from me.”
Uncle Felix exhaled like he was smoking a cigarette. “These fears about your mother aren’t good for you, not one little bit. Don’t you think I’d call the police if I thought there was any truth to it? You’re my favorite nephew—you’re my only nephew, but that’s by the by—so I wouldn’t steer you wrong, would I? Tell you what—I’m so sure your mother’s in America, I’ll wager you five pounds. How’s that?”
“When you get to London would you check, Uncle Felix?”
“Check what?”
“Check if Mother took a boat to America. There must be a way to check.”
“Well, yes, I suppose there is.”
“Will you do it? Will you check?”
His uncle thought on this for only a moment. “It’s a promise. I’ll do it first thing, you have my word.”
“And you won’t say anything about this to Ruth?”
“Don’t look so alarmed, Sammy, it’s not as bad as all that.”
“You won’t tell her what I told you. Promise you won’t tell.”
“Not a word, Sammy, not one word.”
But he was looking at the boy like he wasn’t at all well, and Samuel didn’t believe him.
30
They never took meals in the dining room but Ruth had made an exception. The kitchen table, where they usually ate, was crowded with trays and racks full of tea cakes and lemon tarts. The whole house smelled heavenly, though Samuel wasn’t allowed to taste so much as a crumb. The reverend’s wife was paying good money and there were none to spare. Besides, Ruth said they needed time to cool—which is why they were eating dinner elsewhere.
“It was very good of your uncle to come and see you, wasn’t it?” Ruth set the plate of roasted meat down on the table with some care. “Samuel?”
The boy looked up.
“I said, wasn’t it good of your uncle to come and see you?”
“Yes,” Samuel said.
Ruth picked up a serving fork and the large carving knife and got to work on the roast. It was impossible for Samuel not to stare at the blade.
“Did you two have a good talk, then?” Ruth said.
“I showed him the atlas.”
“And was he impressed?”
Samuel shrugged. “He liked it.”
“You were in the study a very long time.” The smooth back and forth of the blade, as it sliced through the animal, was suddenly arrested as Ruth hit a bone. Samuel watched her face lock up, and then the whites of her knuckles as she pushed the knife down, snapping the bone in two. “I would imagine you were talking about more than the atlas?”
Samuel shrugged again.
Which is when Ruth stopped carving. “Or is it a great secret, what you were talking about?”
“It’s not a secret.” Samuel cast about for something he could use. “Uncle Felix was telling me about when he and Father were boys and all the naughty things they did.” Samuel forced a smile. “It was funny.”
“I’m sure it was.” Ruth picked up a piece of meat and put it on the boy’s plate. “Your uncle is entertaining, that’s for certain. Your father always said he would make a fine writer, if only he’d settle down and apply himself.”
They sat at one end of the long table with an oil lamp between them. Ruth said the chandelier was too costly to turn on for just the two of them. She then muttered something about the fine dinner parties that had been held there and she said this so wistfully that Samuel was left in little doubt that those days were splendid and far behind them. For his part, the boy would have preferred the bright light of the chandelier, as the oil lamp could hardly compete with the dark red walls, and its soft glow had such a faint reach it felt as if he and Ruth were trapped in a flickering bubble.
Ruth took her seat at the head of the table. “I did ask him to stay for dinner—he’s always spoken highly of my roast rabbit—but he seemed in a mad rush to get down to London.”
He is going there to prove that Mother never did sail for America. That’s what Samuel wanted to say but, of course, he didn’t. Not just because Ruth had forbidden any such talk but also because Samuel doubted his uncle Felix would even look into it. Yes, he had promised, given his word, but he also promised to have Samuel over to stay during the summer and he never did. And Ruth had gotten in his ear and filled it with lies about the boy’s sickly mind. It wasn’t his poor mother Uncle Felix was worried about; it was Samuel. Everything was so wrong and unjust that Samuel didn’t care for any of Ruth’s roast rabbit or her chestnut stuffing.
“I don’t know where your appetite has gone.” Ruth was sprinkling salt over Samuel’s potatoes even though he never asked her to. “You’re already much too thin, just like your mother. People will think I’m not feeding you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense. What boy of nine isn’t on the brink of starvation most of the time?” Ruth filled her plate, arranging the vegetables with some care. “You forget that I’ve cooked for you most of your life, Samuel Clay, and I know your stomach is a bottomless pit.”
Samuel watched the heat rise up from his plate and he blew on it. The steam wafted over the table with such promise but in mere seconds it vanished as if it had never been there to begin with.
“It’s bad enough...” Ruth appeared to think better of it and ended the sentence there. She pierced a potato with her fork and sliced it cleanly down the middle. An impressive cloud billowed up from its parted flesh, and as Samuel watched—how could he not?—Ruth smiled faintly and blew on it, sending puffs of steam over her plate. Ruth saw the look of surprise in the boy’s eyes and it must have pleased her. “I was a child once myself, you know.” She motioned to his plate. “Mind it doesn’t get cold. I made this perfectly lovely meal just for you, Samuel.”
The boy sighed heavily and stabbed a piece of m
eat with his fork. He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to please Ruth in any way, but it was as if his hands, his very fingers, moved under Ruth’s command and he had nothing to say about it. The meat took some chewing, the texture tough and unyielding, and Samuel’s face buckled into a grimace as he swallowed it down.
“Gravy?” When Samuel shook his head rather crossly, Ruth huffed. “There was a time when you’d devour my roast rabbit with chestnut stuffing and be on to a second helping before I’d even sat down. What will your mother say when she comes home and finds you a shadow of the boy she left behind?”
The mention of his mother made Samuel want to fly at her, knocking her to the ground. But he didn’t, because now his whole self was fixed on the roast as if he were seeing it, really seeing it, for the first time. He said, “Rabbit.”
Ruth nodded and took her first bite. “It’s not exactly tender, but the flavor’s good, if I do say so myself.”
The boy looked only at the roasted animal. “You said the butcher wouldn’t sell you a rabbit until you’ve paid the bill.”
Ruth sniffed. “Eat up while it’s hot.”
Samuel shifted his gaze to Ruth. “Did you pay the bill, Ruth?”
“Enough chatter, young man. Eat your dinner.”
“Ruth?”
She met his stare then, her dark eyes sparking like struck flint in the lamplight. “I suppose you’d have been happy with a boiled turnip for supper?”
The chair was still tumbling over as Samuel reached the doorway. He ran through the hall and into the kitchen, finding himself tearing around the room, every conceivable surface covered in lemon tarts and tea cakes. This was an unexpected comfort. Ruth bought all her meat skinned or plucked because she had enough to do as it was. There was no sign of the sort of ghoulish work that might have involved Robin Hood. The knot in his stomach was starting to slacken, and his mind was turning to how he might explain himself to Ruth. That’s when he glanced down into the sink and saw the knife. It was smeared in blood, which ran across the blade and pooled around the edges like a crimson shadow.
Running outside wasn’t a choice, he just found himself there. Perhaps it was to prove that Robin Hood was under his favorite hedge, staring longingly at the row of cabbages. But Samuel never made it past the back door. For on the stone steps was a bucket and even in the pale moonlight the boy could see its contents—the puddle of entrails and blood and the folds of the muddy-brown coat with that hint of ginger. He didn’t gasp or cry out or even cover his mouth. But the finality of this discovery felt like two hands pushing down on his shoulders. He was certain she had left these remains there so that he might find them.
Returning to the dining room was the only thing left to do. He walked into the darkened chamber with some purpose and marched over to the table, standing beside Ruth as if his mere presence would be censure enough to make her crumble. But it wasn’t.
“Finished?” she said as if he had been having a frivolous tantrum.
“I know what you did,” said the boy.
“And what is that?”
“Why?” That’s what he said next and it was an honest question seeking an answer. “Why, Ruth?”
“We have to eat, don’t we?” She sniffed. “Sit down and finish your supper.”
“I won’t take another bite!” This was shouted without restraint.
“Suit yourself.” Ruth didn’t look up from her plate. “Wash up and take yourself to bed, then.”
And despite everything, the boy did as he was told.
* * *
“Did you brush your teeth?”
Silence.
“Samuel, I asked you a question.”
It was his only weapon and he used it boldly, turning his head away.
“Samuel, I’m in no mood for this.” Her voice was stony. “Did you brush your teeth?”
The boy sighed. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Ruth.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Samuel nodded.
She pulled the covers up under Samuel’s arms despite his attempts to resist and made a few comments about the state of his bedroom and the fact that tomorrow it would need a thorough cleaning and he was going to help because she had to finish decorating the tea cakes and lemon tarts and the sitting room windows were in a state and would need seeing to and did Samuel realize how this big house could just about break your spirit with its endless demands?
When Samuel made no reply, his eyes fixed on the window, Ruth took a long breath. “You’re not the first child to lose an animal to the dinner table. I had pets when I was your age, all kinds—the farm was teeming with hares and chickens and pigs. I stopped naming them after a while because I knew that my pa wouldn’t spare them. It’s unfortunate, but that’s just the way it is. And around here, with an empty purse and a pile of unpaid bills, rabbits aren’t pets, Samuel, they’re food. It’s my job to keep you healthy and strong and I won’t apologize for putting a wholesome meal on your plate.”
Ruth was a monster whose cruel heart swelled with gladness at every suffering. She killed things, things you cared for and named and perhaps even loved, cutting throats and stripping the fur from flesh. She did it with glee and served it up as a kind of torment, knowing that you would gobble up the thing you love, chew it up and swallow it down, and then have to live with the shame of doing so. Samuel looked up at this foul creature.
“I hate you.”
This caused Ruth to sniff and pick up the clock beside his bed, wiping underneath with the hem of her apron. “Well, that’s your right.”
Samuel held his fingers up to the lamp and watched the light collect around them. If he appeared to be playing now, he wasn’t. All the while his mind, which wasn’t even a tiny bit unwell, spun with ideas about getting his hands on Ruth’s diary. That was the only way to make her pay. But he had to get the key to her bedroom first—or else find some other way in.
“Regardless of your feelings for me, don’t think I’ve forgotten about your schoolwork.” Ruth was walking to the door. “You’ll finish that psalm and the drawing just as soon as we straighten this bedroom out in the morning. Do you hear me, Samuel?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Ruth.”
The trouble was, the longer Samuel thought on the problem, the further his thoughts traveled beyond the borders of reason. His ideas were wild and clever—at least he thought so—but they never could stand up to practical considerations. As such, the right answer always felt just out of reach.
“Turn off your lamp and go to sleep,” Ruth said. “Good night to you.”
Samuel did as he was told and the room surrendered to darkness.
For every question there is an answer, that’s what his father used to tell him. Even if it’s not the answer you were hoping for, it’s still an answer, that’s what he’d say. Samuel needed to find out what Ruth had done to his mother and for that he needed a way into her bedroom. So he could get hold of that diary. To show the world what a monster she was. A monster that would kill Robin Hood as easily as pulling a carrot from the garden and then trick Samuel into eating him. His mind was a whirlwind, pushing away the yawns and the weariness that crept up the bed toward him, trying all the while to hit on a solution. Something terrible had happened to his mother and the only way to prove it lay in Ruth’s bedroom. He would not sleep until he had a solution. No matter what, he wouldn’t sleep.
* * *
Samuel woke up with a start. “Mother?”
He blinked into the darkness. There had been laughter. He had heard his mother laughing. Had it been a dream? Yes, probably a dream, though in the fog of his mind he couldn’t remember dreaming of her as he had before. It was as if that joyful cry had pushed itself under the door or through the keyhole and slipped into his ears
. It was the laughter, its sweet heavenly music, which had drifted into his sleep and called him back.
Samuel closed his eyes again. It was just a dream, nothing more than—
The faint hum of voices breached the quiet and it made him sit up, reaching for the lamp, as if the light might help him to hear better. Light bloomed in the dark room and the clock said ten minutes past eleven. Samuel kept his hand on the lamp, not wishing to move a muscle or make any sound, not even the click of an elbow, as he strained to hear.
The voices dropped away and a peal of laughter, clear as church bells, lifted above it. His mother. Who else laughed with such abandon? It must be her. Samuel jumped from the bed.
The corridor churned with a sea of shadows, each one darker than the next, and Samuel had to run his hand along the wall to guide him through its dark tides. As he neared the landing, the murmur of voices seemed to thin out until there was only one, and by the time the boy crouched down and crept toward the banister, the gloomy hall perfectly matched to his spirits. His mother wasn’t there at all, laughing her sweet laugh, delighted to be home. It was Ruth. Just Ruth. Standing there in her bathrobe, talking on the telephone in the rusted glow of an oil lamp.
“I’m not saying I won’t come.” Ruth had the telephone cord curled around her finger. “It’s your wedding, Alice. I’m hardly going to miss that.”
She was talking to her sister Alice, and that was a cruel blow.
“It’s just that I haven’t a thing to wear, and before you say it, I won’t allow you to buy me a frock so don’t even think of offering.”
She laughed then, that beastly laugh that was so unlike her and sounded as if it had come from his mother.
“Wouldn’t I look a fright in my work dress and apron? Don’t worry, I’ll think of something...Bring William? Don’t be wicked, Alice. I’ve got more sense than to fall for that man’s charms, such as they are.” There was a pause. “Do I? Well, yes, I suppose I am a bit tired...The boy? Keeps me on my toes, same as always...I know, Alice, but what choice do I have?...I know, I know, it can’t go on much longer. Yes, something has to be done.”
The Boy at the Keyhole Page 16