Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  Businessmen hurried by, shielding their suits with briefcases and umbrellas. The ducks disappeared, swallowed by fog. The rain crept into his skin, turning his bones to ice, his muscles to brick. The slanted words were hardly legible now, but that didn’t matter. He had read it enough times. He knew what it said.

  Dear Miss Bess Haverford,

  I represent the estate of an influential English landowner located in Wales for which the master requires a housemaid of certain looks and breeding. It has been brought to my attention that you possess a niece who would fit his strict requirements. If she were to be employed, I needn’t add that you, personally, shall be satisfactorily compensated for your loss.

  Please reply by post to the following address should this arrangement appeal to you.

  Signed,

  Mrs G. Pollard

  Head of Household

  The piece of paper with the Welsh address was not included in what Peter received, only a note scribbled on a torn magazine page – Peter, I’m sorry, Bess. Possibly the last note she had ever written, her death the same date as the postmark.

  Wales. He was wrong. Wrong about everything. Eliza was only in Wales. Mosley was telling the truth. He was innocent. Peter had assaulted an innocent man.

  He had to turn himself in. It was the only way to remove the lead weight from his conscience. He would go to the police, admit what he had done, and turn over the letter. Allow them to continue the investigation. They were the professionals. They knew what they were doing. They wouldn’t follow false leads, complicate simple explanations. Peter the fool. He should have stuck to accounting. Accounting was simple – maths, numbers. No guesswork. There were rules in maths, rules that need only be followed for the proper outcome to assert itself. Perhaps they would let him continue practising accountancy in prison. His wet trousers clung to his skin as he rose from the bench. He refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket.

  It was only then that he saw him. The man in the blue and yellow cap walked through the park, but he hadn’t noticed Peter. Perhaps the fog hid him, Peter thought, as he again smelled sick. Felt the lead pipe on his back, the scratch of the pavement on his chin. Nothing was taken when he was attacked. Neither his wallet nor his ration book.

  The man in the blue and yellow cap made his way north towards the Mall.

  The only items which hadn’t been recovered were those belonging to Jessie.

  Leave her, the voice said. Leave who?

  Peter followed him up Regent Street, where the crowds thickened. The rain became heavier. People rushed to and fro, some with black umbrellas, others only soggy newspaper over their heads. The man in the blue and yellow cap kept a steady pace. In Piccadilly Circus, they went round the statue of Eros in opposite directions. Peter thought he would catch him on the other side.

  Instead, the man vanished. Peter searched the fast-moving faces but did not know what the man looked like. He only knew that cap, and the open umbrellas blocked every pedestrian’s head. He climbed the statue’s steps and scanned the crowded circle.

  Black everywhere, colours dampened by rain. One mass of people moving together like a herd of cattle. Not now, he thought. Not when he was so near. He caught sight of him heading towards Coventry Street, the cap untouched by rain. Peter leapt off the fountain, landing hard on his bad leg. He ignored the pain and ran. He would not let him escape again. He pushed through the crowds, landing in puddles and tripping over cracks in the pavement. There were only a few paces between them. The man headed for a doorway. If Peter was going to prison, so was the man who had attacked him. With a shout, Peter grabbed his shoulders, spun him round and slammed him against the brick wall.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Peter?’ It was Purvis. ‘I . . .’

  ‘So it was you. You’ve done something to Jessie, haven’t you? Was afraid I’d find out.’

  ‘Peter, what on earth . . . ?’

  ‘Tell me the truth!’

  Purvis, who always taunted them, pushed them, made them feel like fools in that worthless job.

  ‘Did you have an affair? Is that why she needed to go away for a while? You said she got herself into trouble. How would you know? How! Unless it was you who caused it.’

  ‘I . . . I only meant . . . not that . . .’

  Peter raised his fist.

  ‘Oi!’ A hand grabbed his and pulled him back. Peter elbowed Purvis’s defender in the ribs. ‘Easy, mate!’

  Stephen. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s the one who attacked me,’ Peter panted. It was difficult to breathe. ‘He’s the one . . . He’s done something to Jessie . . . He . . .’

  Purvis cowered by the wall, raising his flabby arms in a meek expression of self-defence. A small crowd had gathered now – more ushers and theatre staff arriving for work. Peter hadn’t noticed they were outside the Palladium stage door. Peter knew these people. They trusted him, bought him drinks and covered his shifts, told him about their new girl or the baby on the way. They looked at him now, their faces showing shock and disgust. One of the electricians went to Purvis’s side.

  ‘He . . . He’s been . . . I know it was . . .’ How to make them understand? How could they feel the black hole inside him? Peter looked at his old employer. Purvis could barely lift a lead pipe, let alone strike a man with it. But it had to be Purvis. Peter followed him here. Following him to the theatre felt right. But the cap. Where was the cap? It must have fallen in the struggle. The crowd around him whispered as he searched the ground. He could prove everything if he found the cap.

  ‘It has to be here. He was wearing it. It has to be . . .’

  Stephen put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Let us take you for a drink.’

  ‘But I’m right. I know I am . . .’ Peter kept his eyes on the ground behind him for as long as possible as Stephen led him away through the rain. He knew the cap was near.

  Peter and Stephen ended up in the Dog and Duck, Stephen muscling them into a corner table by the window up on the first floor. A glass of whisky was nudged into Peter’s hand.

  ‘I don’t drink whisky,’ Peter said, shivering in his soaked clothes.

  ‘Looked like you could use something strong.’

  Peter slid the glass away. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Tell that to old Purvis.’ Stephen gave it back. Peter ignored the drink and tucked his hands into his sides. ‘Going to tell us what this is about?’

  Peter looked out the blurred window and stared down at the pavement. Despite the rain, the streets were flooded with people. He couldn’t distinguish faces. With the number of umbrellas and overcoats, it was hard to tell which were men, which were women. There were so many people.

  ‘Purvis makes sense. My being attacked after I went to her flat. Her things being taken. What he said to Mrs Rolston. It all makes sense.’ He stamped his foot on the ground, shaking the table.

  ‘No idea what you’re on about. Should I call for the bus to Bedlam or do you want to start from the beginning?’ Stephen reached for the whisky. Peter stopped him.

  ‘I’ve been wrong about everything. Bess . . . Bess sent Eliza to Wales.’ He withdrew the letter and handed it to Stephen. ‘Somehow this Pollard woman got her address. Bess sent Eliza out there to pay off her debts. That’s what Mosley said, and he was right.’

  ‘There’s no address,’ Stephen said, reading the letter.

  ‘I know. It’s all so . . . damn foolish. Why should Bess send me this instead of telling me where Eliza is?’

  ‘Maybe it’s against the rules.’ Stephen put the letter in his pocket.

  ‘I just want to know she’s all right.’ Peter rested his head in his hands.

  ‘Well, if this has to do with Bess’s gambling, I know someone who might know a thing or two.’

  Peter’s head snapped up. ‘How did you know about the gambling?’

  Stephen smiled. ‘You told me, remember? That day I saw you in Whitechapel?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. M
y memory . . . it’s been very odd lately.’

  Stephen sipped his drink. ‘Why keep doing this on your own, ginger? Why not let your mate Stephen help you, eh?’

  Peter took one last glance out the window then grabbed the glass. The whisky burned as it made its way down his throat and settled nicely in his stomach.

  18

  The dress wrapped itself around her, inhibiting movement, strangling breath. Her body slept peacefully below while Victoria beckoned from the doorway, but Eliza could not move. Victoria grew impatient. The dress grew tighter and Eliza thrashed against it. It started to tear at the seams and she was free of it, she was almost . . .

  Eliza woke up gasping. When she recovered her breath, she checked it was her nightdress she wore. For two days the dreams had tormented her. Every time she closed her eyes Victoria was waiting, drawing closer, holding her down. The time would come when she would not wake.

  Dawn was just breaking over the horizon. Two days and she had not yet spoken to Mr Drewry. She curled her knees to her chest. She could put off apologising no longer. He was their way to Plentynunig. She had thought about what to do, and it was Aunt Bess’s advice she kept returning to, the advice Aunt Bess gave just before her first date with Peter.

  ‘You want a man’s attention, that’s easy enough, but if you want his heart, you go through here,’ she pointed.

  Several hours later, Eliza stood in the garden wall doorway watching grey ash float towards the sky with Aunt Bess’s advice cradled in her arms – a basket of freshly baked rolls. The carriage house was dark, but smoke from the chimney told her Mr Drewry was inside. The rolls were wrapped in a kitchen cloth to keep in the warmth, but the cold air quickly absorbed their heat. This had to be done. They wouldn’t be able to reach Plentynunig alone, not in time for the market cart. With each tentative step down the gravel path, she willed her nerves to remain steady.

  She was two feet away when Mr Drewry flung open the door, his rifle aimed shoulder high.

  ‘I told you . . .’

  ‘I brought you rolls.’ She held up the basket like a shield as his eyes searched for any other intruders.

  ‘Bring ’em here then.’ He put the rifle down.

  The little confidence Eliza had managed to scrape together vanished as she approached. He grabbed the basket and tucked it under the stump of his right arm, flipping back the cloth with his left hand.

  ‘Pollard tell you to bring these?’

  ‘No. I—’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘I wanted to apologise. For my sister. How is Kasey?’

  ‘Your sister can apologise for herself.’ He covered the bread. ‘But she won’t, will she?’

  ‘It’s never been her strength.’ Unable to meet Mr Drewry’s eyes, she glanced past him into the carriage house. An army officer’s trench coat hung from a hook by the stairs. Father’s friends wore ones like it when they came for tea. Mr Drewry caught her staring.

  ‘Tell the girl she’s lucky me dog ain’t dead.’ He slammed the door shut. Eliza started back towards the house when the door reopened behind her. Mr Drewry held up a bitten roll. Eliza flinched, afraid he would throw it at her.

  ‘These taste okay.’ He disappeared without awaiting her reply.

  Pulling her jumper tight around her, she returned to the manor.

  Eliza often struggled to understand the ways of men. She had never spent much time alone with Father, not before the war. He would be there at breakfast and dinner, accompany them on family holidays, ask about school, but there was never time for the two of them together. Even on their day trips to museums and libraries, Mother would be there to act as a barrier. When the war ended and she returned home, Eliza came to know his anger. His hurtful words would gather on her skin like paper cuts, wounding her all over till she couldn’t move near him for fear of pain. She thought it was because he had not been allowed to go to war, but maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe that was just who he was.

  At least Mr Drewry seemed appeased, she thought, as she began cleaning the dishes. Through his stomach, Aunt Bess said, that was how to win a man. As she never cooked, it was her excuse for not marrying, though Eliza knew it had something to do with her ex-fiancé, that American. The one whose picture Aunt Bess kept in the bottom of her stocking drawer. The one Father laughed about returning to his wife. Yet for once, Aunt Bess’s advice appeared to have worked. Mr Drewry would surely agree to take them to the village on Friday, so long as Rebecca did nothing else to anger him.

  *

  Eliza set the mixing bowl in the sink and ran her hands over her neck. All day, she had kept feeling a tightness there, as if a pair of small hands were strangling her. She rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension and returned to the washing-up. As she did so, laughter sounded from outside – Rebecca’s laughter. Worried about what catastrophe Rebecca chose to laugh at now, Eliza went to the window. Rebecca played hopscotch in the grass. Only hopscotch. A simple, childhood game. But Eliza’s smile faded when Rebecca started arguing with the air.

  She had yet to notice any change in her behaviour since starting her on the tablets. Was there something wrong with them? Had they expired, lost their potency? Or was Rebecca too old for them now? Was that dosage meant for a smaller child? Maybe more time was needed for them to take effect. Rebecca threw a pebble at the window. Eliza jumped back as it bounced off the glass right in front of her face.

  ‘Stop spying on me!’ Rebecca shouted, her voice muffled by the walls of the house. She came stomping inside the kitchen, a light film of sweat on her forehead. ‘Why are you always spying on me?’

  ‘I’m not spying, I’m looking after you. It’s what older sisters do.’

  Rebecca seemed pale. ‘Older sisters shouldn’t be so nosy.’

  ‘Are you all right, dearie? Your colour looks off.’ Eliza placed the back of her hand on Rebecca’s forehead, but Rebecca turned away.

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, so I’d appreciate it if you left me alone, please.’ Rebecca clomped out of the kitchen, knocking over the bin but not stopping to put it right.

  Eliza gathered the spilled rubbish. There was no more time. Friday was only two days away. If Rebecca kept behaving this way, Mr Drewry would not want to help them. Maybe an extra tablet would do, just for a little while. Just to make sure Rebecca would be all right.

  She called down the hall. ‘Rebecca! Time for tea.’

  *

  Eliza wore a muslin dress, though it couldn’t be the same one because this one was yellowed, not shimmering white. The lace was torn and curling and a stain spoiled the skirt. Several buttons were missing and it kept slipping off her shoulders. On the floor below, her body slept on the dead girl’s mattress. She reached down to touch it when from the door came a sigh.

  There stood Victoria. Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but Victoria raised a single finger to her lips. She reached out a hand and beckoned Eliza to follow. Eliza moved easily.

  The train of Victoria’s dress led her through the manor like a path of breadcrumbs. She had to gather up her skirt to avoid tripping as she followed. Though the halls were dark, Eliza saw clearly.

  They passed through an Abigale Hall filled with floating corpse candles. Eliza let them dance on her fingertips. Victoria called for her.

  Come, Eliza. Come with us . . .

  Together they snuck into the Ancestral Parlour. Here Victoria stopped at the far end of the dining table. Though the portraits were covered, Victoria pointed to each in turn and again put her finger to her lips. Then she hurried to the veranda. Eliza followed. The doors were wide open.

  Outside, all was dark. If there was a moon, the clouds obscured it. Victoria stood on the west lawn, waiting. They continued across the high grass, two ghosts in the night. It wasn’t until they reached the iron gate that Eliza realised they had come to the little cemetery at the edge of the woods.

  She wanted to turn back, but Victoria would not allow it. She appeared beside Eliza and grabbed her arm. Her gri
p was cold and froze Eliza’s skin. She pulled her forward to the grave marker closest to the trunk of a large yew tree. Eliza could not get close enough to read the name. An open grave lay in front. She tried to run, but Victoria held firm. Her face now resembled the doll’s. Bloody holes remained where her eyes had once been and deep gashes ran down her cheeks. The blood dripped onto Eliza’s skin.

  Come, Eliza.

  Father waited in the grave, his face red and purple, swollen, eyes bulging. Victoria pushed her into his arms.

  Eliza’s knees smacked against the hard ground. She started backwards.

  Her first realisation was that she was awake. Her next was that she was not in the muslin dress but her old cotton nightgown. Her last was that she was outside, kneeling in the little cemetery.

  She scrambled to her feet, the dream already fading, unsure as to how she got there. It was the middle of the night, but the moon was bright and clear, illuminating the name on the grave marker before which Eliza stood.

  Victoria Kyffin.

  Eliza ran back to the house, feeling the damp grass on her bare feet, small rocks and twigs stabbing her soles as foxes screamed to each other in the night. The door to the veranda was open. She had difficulty navigating through the black house, having to turn around twice before finding her room. She crawled into bed and curled up under the thin top sheet.

  ‘Please, give me another day. That’s all. Victoria, please. Please.’

  Tears dried on her face as she fell asleep.

  Eliza . . .

  A whisper woke her. A pale ghost stood at her side. Eliza nearly screamed, until she saw who it was.

  ‘Rebecca?’

  Rebecca opened her mouth as if to speak then vomited all over the mattress.

  *

  ‘Easy, easy, dearie. Let it out. It’s all right.’ Eliza held back Rebecca’s hair as she vomited into the toilet, and rubbed slow circles on her back, trying to soothe the convulsions. Rebecca said nothing, merely cried as her body was wracked with another wave of nausea. The sweet stench of bile made Eliza’s own stomach lurch. How much sleep had she had since arriving at Thornecroft? She could probably count the decent hours on one hand. Without Rebecca, she could have a few more. Rebecca collapsed into her arms, too weak to continue, as a shadow was cast over them.