Coty face powder concealed the circles under her eyes and two tablets of fersolate helped fight her fatigue, but nothing could hide the fact that Eliza had slept less than two hours last night. As she spooned cold porridge into her mouth, she could only hope Mrs Pollard took her exhaustion to be from stress. Rebecca gobbled up her breakfast, no evidence of last night’s excursion upon her. Was she really so much younger that she recovered her strength that quickly? When did Eliza get so old?
‘Finish your meal.’ Mrs Pollard banged a pot into the sink. ‘I need you to close up the Ancestral Parlour.’
‘Mr Brownawell doesn’t want to see me again?’
‘I should think not, especially after your behaviour last night.’
He told Mrs Pollard about the slap. Eliza’s assault would not go unpunished, no matter if it was provoked.
‘Were you mean to Mr Brownawell?’ Rebecca’s eyes widened.
‘No. Of course not.’ She felt his cold skin against her palm, tried to rub it away under the table.
‘You made him extremely agitated. It took ages to put him to bed. Proper sleep is absolutely necessary for his condition, and I lost a few hours of my own thanks to you.’
Eliza waited for more, for Mrs Pollard to mention his injury, her disobedience, but there was nothing. She suddenly felt very light, as if she could float away from the table, and bit her lip to stifle a giggle. She never got away with anything.
‘If he’s sick, why doesn’t he see a doctor?’ asked Rebecca.
‘He has, child, but there’s nothing to be done. It was the coal mines. That filth seeped into his lungs every time he visited his workers. Now there’s no ridding the dust disease, which is why it is imperative he is not agitated.’
‘He did seem very upset,’ Eliza added, the relief making her bold. ‘He kept . . . he kept calling me . . . Victoria.’
Eliza saw Mrs Pollard pale as the implications of her lie took hold. Never had she seen the housekeeper so affected and was pleased it was she who caused it.
‘To the parlour. Go. Go! Rebecca, you stay here.’
Eliza left the kitchen with more energy than when she arrived. Perhaps the fersolate was finally working. Aunt Bess swore by it for a reason.
‘A week, Victoria,’ Eliza whispered to the paintings as she passed. ‘Please give me a week.’
As Eliza cleaned the parlour, she wondered what she would do if she were a ghost. Would she pass peacefully from room to room, watching over her descendants as a loving spirit? Or would she scheme against them, harm those that attempted to disturb her? Maybe the choice was not hers. Maybe it depended on how she was taken from this world. If her life ended as violently as Victoria’s, perhaps the anger of the act would instil in her a hate that was not hers in life, and she would be compelled to lash out and harm the innocent.
As she recovered the paintings, she hoped Victoria could sense her feelings, understand that Eliza meant her no harm. That all she wanted was to leave this place. That she had no sympathy for these dead men. Her eyes fell on the books sketched in Richard Brownawell’s portrait, and she thought of Pip. Had she, too, been forced to dine with the master of the house? Had she worn that dress, eaten that food? Had Victoria come to her as well? Is that when she had sought out the black book, to search for clues in ghost stories to explain that which afflicted her? And Mrs Pollard, in a rage, had torn the book from her hands, perhaps bludgeoned her with it, stealing the last health Pip had left and allowing the house to claim her?
The image of Pip’s blood-covered face was fresh in her mind when the screaming started. It came from the back of the house, near the garden. Eliza dropped the sheet and ran down the west wing, out the veranda doors. Mrs Pollard was hurting Rebecca. She knew all along about the slap and was now punishing Rebecca for Eliza’s misdeed. It was the only thought within her head. Yet, as she came closer, she realised what she heard was not the screaming of a child, not even that of a person. It was the high-pitched yelping of an animal in pain. She stuttered to a stop on the edge of the west lawn.
Lying on the slim gravel path to the carriage house was Mr Drewry’s wolfhound, crying out as Rebecca beat him.
‘Rebecca!’ Eliza grabbed the wooden club from her sister. ‘What are you doing?’
‘He’s a bad dog.’
‘What happened? Did he attack you?’ Eliza searched her for any sign of injury, but Rebecca appeared unharmed. The grey dog whimpered and bled.
‘Mrs Pollard sent me to collect the eggs, but he was by the henhouse gate. He wanted to get in and eat the hens, I could tell. I had to teach him a lesson.’
Dumbfounded, Eliza knelt by the dog. Her hands hovered over his injuries, unsure how to help. The dog looked at her, his brown eyes pleading. Somehow, he found the strength to wag his tail.
‘But what did he do? Did he lunge at you? Anything? Rebecca, why did you beat him?’ Slowly, she laid a hand on the dog’s wiry head. Stroking gently, she was encouraged when he stopped whimpering.
‘Filthy creatures must learn their place.’
‘Kasey. Kasey!’
At his master’s call, the dog tried to rise but was unable.
‘Shh. It’s all right,’ Eliza soothed him.
‘Kasey!’ Mr Drewry came running from the north lawn. ‘Kasey! Oh God.’ He ran into the carriage house and returned moments later with a tin medical kit. He pushed Eliza back. ‘Easy, boy. Easy.’
‘It . . . it was an accident,’ Eliza said. Mr Drewry ignored her as he pulled out a syringe and filled it from a small, glass vial. Gently, he injected it into the dog’s leg.
As he tried to bandage the dog’s side, difficult with only one hand, Eliza looked towards Rebecca, who stood to the side. No expression crossed her face – no guilt, no pleasure – nothing but a blank stare that hid whatever thoughts were floating in her head as she twirled a strand of her hair in her fingers.
‘Help me move him,’ ordered Mr Drewry, drawing Eliza’s attention back to the injured dog. ‘Carry the kit.’
He placed the dog over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold while Eliza grabbed the first-aid box. She followed him into the carriage house and up the stairs to his private room, where he laid the dog on the bed. As she helped him tend to Kasey’s wounds, her eyes drifted over the spartan loft. It was furnished with only the essentials – bed, wardrobe, table, two chairs. Kitchen utensils hung on the wall over the range. A dog’s clay food and water bowls sat by the door. The exposed beams and stone fireplace reminded her of the fairy-tale homes of lonely grandmothers and kindly woodsmen. A window over the bed looked out onto the woods behind the estate. Two windows in the kitchen revealed Thornecroft lurking ahead. She would rather live here than the vast, empty manor.
Mr Drewry calmed as he stroked his dog’s head. In the quiet, she could hear him crying.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was . . . He got into the henhouse. Rebecca thought he . . .’
‘He hangs about the henhouse ’cause there’s been trouble with foxes. It’s why Pollard lets me keep him.’ There was something different about Mr Drewry’s voice. It was softer, younger. His face was a mask of worry, his scars running like tear tracks across his tanned skin. Eliza placed a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged it off.
‘Look what you’ve done. You stupid, stupid girls.’ The dark vacancy returned to his eyes. ‘Get out of here! Go before I get me gun. You keep away from me and me dog. You understand? Go!’
Eliza ran from the carriage house. Outside, Rebecca drew patterns in the path with the blood-spattered stick. Eliza took it and threw it into the nearby bushes then hurried Rebecca away through the garden. She had lied for her before, whenever her nervous troubles caused her to act strangely in front of others, but this time Rebecca’s actions felt different. This time they felt deliberate.
More than ever, Rebecca needed to remain calm, at least until Friday. Already Mr Drewry could refuse to take them to the village. She couldn’t let the problem escalate. Rebecca had t
o be under control, docile even, in a way Eliza had only seen her once before. No amount of caring or devotion could make Rebecca that calm, which Eliza knew all too well.
The doctor told Aunt Bess to keep the tablets, just in case. Eliza had brought them to Wales for the same reason.
*
Eliza loved the moment before the kettle whistled. She anticipated the change in the water, how the sound of it quieted just before the boil. That brief moment of peace before the whistle blew. She remembered a game she had with Mother – a race to ready the teapot and serving tray before the kettle sounded. If she was quick enough, she would get an extra biscuit. Or had that been Mrs Littleton? Eliza stared at Mrs Pollard’s kettle, waiting for that moment.
Though the day had passed without interruption from Victoria, Eliza’s lack of sleep made every hour stretch longer than it ought. Her conversation with Ruth could have happened last week or five minutes ago. Had it even happened at all or was it only a dream? Rebecca attacking the dog, that too happened recently, had it not? That was why she stood here now, making tea after dinner, instead of letting exhaustion lead her straight to bed. She had to take care of Rebecca. Even though she was close to falling asleep right here at the counter, her eyelids slipping as her body was lulled by the sound of the water boiling, the birds’ evensong outside, the breeze brushing against her cheek like a lullaby.
Eliza . . .
The kettle whistled.
Rebecca skipped in from outside. ‘Eliza, can I help?’ she asked.
‘No, no,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’ll be mother. Why don’t you have a seat? You’ve been working ever so hard lately, haven’t you? What else did Mrs Pollard have you doing today?’
Rebecca circled the table, chattering away about her work in the vegetable garden while the tea brewed. When Rebecca’s back was turned, Eliza slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew two small tablets of lithium bromide. She dropped them into her sister’s cup then poured tea for them both. She added a little extra milk and sugar to Rebecca’s, hoping to cover up any bitter, medicinal taste, and waited until the tablets dissolved completely before taking their cups to the table.
‘Here you are, dearie.’
Rebecca took a sip and shuddered.
‘What’s the matter?’ Had she been caught out already?
‘Too hot.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Are there any biscuits?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mrs Pollard said we can’t waste our sugar ration on mere frivolities. That woman. Well, we’ll be free of her soon enough, won’t––’
‘You should be nicer to Mrs Pollard.’ Rebecca stared at Eliza. Her eyes were focused, the muscles tense in her forehead and jaw. Eliza knew that look. The last time she saw it was just before Rebecca attacked Aunt Bess. It had never been directed towards her.
‘Rebecca, I . . .’
‘She works very hard here. No one appreciates what she does to keep this estate running. You should treat her with more respect.’
Eliza smiled. It hurt, like having her arm twisted behind her back.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You’re absolutely right. It must be very stressful for her.’ Eliza raised her cup to conceal her face and dropped the painful smile. ‘Drink your tea.’ She watched Rebecca consume every single drop.
*
The muslin dress wrapped itself around her. She could not breathe, but there was no need. Her body slept below her on the mattress, arms hugging the dead girl. She hovered above, wanting to walk but not knowing how.
I’ll show you.
Victoria stood by the door, smiling in the dress that matched her own. Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but Victoria raised a finger to her lips and the collar of the dress tightened round Eliza’s neck like a noose made from washing line and her eyes began to bulge . . .
She was back in her body. She was breathing. The mattress held no other body and there was nothing choking her neck. She was breathing, breathing the damp air, the dust from the furniture, the scent of her own perfume. She was breathing, and Victoria was not in the doorway. She was breathing, and Victoria did not want her to leave.
17
Tea was all Peter had to eat. That, a jar of pickled cabbage and a tin of leftover fruitcake from Christmas. If he left the flat, he could do the shopping. But if he stayed inside, no one could find him. No doubt the police were looking for him. A man like Mosley wasn’t assaulted without consequences. But Mosley didn’t know who he was and, if he did, didn’t know where he lived. The police could track him down through the Palladium. Or government records. Everyone was registered. They would find him. Not even the flat was safe forever. Still, it was safe for now.
Peter’s hands shook as he rinsed a cup. It slipped from his grip and dropped into the sink but somehow didn’t break. He couldn’t even break a teacup. How could he break a man? Mosley was fine. A little roughed up, but he walked away. It was a minor thing Peter had done, and for a greater cause. The police didn’t lock people up for that, did they? It was only a little fight, a little indiscretion.
These thoughts were like lead pumped into his veins, left to harden under the skin. Lead in his blood. Tea in his stomach. Cigarette smoke in his lungs. His body ached for something more. A solid meal would help, if it was safe to go outside.
Peter checked out the window. Pedestrians, cabs, nothing unusual. Nothing threatening. He pulled his cap low, turned his collar up and cautiously made his way downstairs. The landlady’s little dog yapped from behind a door. Sounding an alarm or calling for help? Peter hushed at him to be quiet.
No one assaulted him when he stepped onto the street. He paused and took a good look round. There were so many people about; how could he be picked from the crowd? Barkston Gardens was packed with shoppers. Women with stone faces etched from years counting rations gossiped in long queues while small children ran through the square collecting rubbish and dropping pennies, their high, uncontrollable laughs like chimps at the zoo. Gruff men pushed past him to dash across the street in front of smoky buses.
Peter began to sweat. There was so much noise. Too much, even for London. He would forgo the shop. A Corner House or café would be fine. Anything with food. He tried to hurry, but his limp made it difficult. The faster he moved, the more his leg ached. He needed to get indoors, sit down. There was a café near here, one he wanted to take Eliza to. Why couldn’t he remember where it was? He wiped his brow and glanced behind.
The man in the blue and yellow cap stared back.
Peter tasted vomit, smelled the damp pavement, heard the clang, clang, clang of the lead pipe rolling. He ran across the street. A horn sounded and he felt the breeze of a car lurching to a stop. He kept running, down to Branham Gardens, into a different crowd.
The man in the cap followed.
Peter remembered being pursued down a different street, a street in darkness, lit only by sodium lamplight. The first blow struck him in the back. He felt it now as he turned onto Earl’s Court Road and hurried towards the station. The road was crowded, and Peter slipped into the flow of people.
The cap did the same.
There was a cinema up ahead. Cinemas were dark, anonymous. Peter fished a few pence from his pocket and bought a ticket. He made the usherette show him to a back seat and there he remained, keeping his eyes on the door instead of the repeating newsreels and films. His leg welcomed the relief, and his stomach forgot its hunger. Peter dried his palms on his trousers.
The first blow hit him in the back, he remembered now. He was walking down the street, carrying the bag of Jessie’s things. Jessie’s things – where were they? Did the police have them? He was walking down the street and was struck in the back and fell onto the damp pavement, scratching his hands and chin. He rolled over. Rolled over to see . . .
All he could picture was the blue and yellow cap. The face beneath it was blurred. No matter how hard he tried, he could not bring that face into focus. Peter cycled through those memories as th
e programme cycled through on the screen. Never could he get past that point. Never could he see any more than the cap before his memory repeated. The doctors said his mind might mend itself, piece the memories together like a film reel. At the time, it was what he wanted. Now he just wanted it to stop.
It was dusk when he finally left the cinema. The shops had closed and the queues were gone. Men rushed home from work while young couples walked arm in arm from the Corner House to the dance halls. His legs were weak, phantom-like limbs that could barely support his weight. He needed to eat. He needed a good rest. Most likely there had been no one at all, only his mind playing tricks. All he needed was a good meal and a good rest.
Peter took a different route home, just to be sure. Once inside his building, he felt no relief. He locked himself inside his flat and hurried to the window. There was only empty pavement and the occasional passer-by. Nothing which should trouble him. He fell into his armchair, hands shaking too much to light a cigarette. His brother Michael had the same problem when a car backfired or a door slammed or his daughter cried. Peter crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits. Michael said it helped. Peter felt his whole body trembling as he allowed his screen-strained eyes to rest, and he was slipping down into the orange abyss . . .
A gunshot startled him. The light blinded. Peter’s heart beat wildly as he shielded his tired eyes. The light – only daylight. His neck and back were stiff. Daylight. Morning. He must have fallen asleep in his chair. But the sound? Letters lay on the floor by the door. The snap of the metal post flap – that was what woke him. Peter checked his hands. They were nearly still.
His stomach groaned as he hoisted himself up. Food needed to be a priority today. Limping to the kitchen, he put the kettle on before collecting the post. A heavy letter rested on top, postmarked last week, no return address. He slid it open. Out fell another envelope, already opened, in heavy grey stationery – a letter addressed to Bess Haverford.
*
The rain began sometime after dusk, turning the park path to mud. A yellow fog coated the buildings in a mustard glow. Peter sat on a bench in St James’s Park watching ducks drift on the pond, the letter in his hands becoming wet, the words running down the page like the tears in his dreams.
Abigale Hall Page 17