Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  ‘And then you started losing.’

  ‘Kept thinking my luck would change. Didn’t realise it already had. Stephen said Angelo would forget my debts if I did a little work for him. Lucky me, eh? Two jobs when all these girls can’t find one. Thought all I had to do was work at the club for him, smile at the gents, serve a few drinks. That sort of thing.’

  The biscuit was dust. Jessie brushed off her fingers, finished her cigarette and pulled another from her handbag.

  ‘Then Angelo said I needed to earn money, to make up for what he lost. But there’s only one skill I have to sell, and it ain’t my needlework.’

  Peter choked on the tea. Sell. Like Bess sold . . .

  He set down his cup. ‘Eliza’s in Wales. She’s working as a housemaid in Wales.’

  ‘They said you knew that. They said . . .’ Jessie looked out of the window towards the church then quickly down at her lap. ‘They said a lot of things.’

  Peter reached for her hand. Jessie latched onto his touch. The crumbs stuck to her fingers scraped against his skin.

  ‘Peter, there are rumours Angelo . . .’

  The church bells tolled a mournful chime. Jessie released him and lit her cigarette. Her hands shook.

  ‘Never mind. That’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘Then why are you?’

  ‘To settle my debts.’ She checked her watch.

  ‘What rumours?’ He reached for her hand again, but she moved it under the table. ‘Jessie?’

  ‘I want to go home, Peter. To my mum and dad. I don’t want to do this any more.’

  ‘You don’t have to. What rumours, Jessie? What is he doing?’

  A tear ran down her cheek, taking her mascara with it. Peter handed her his handkerchief. The tears made her eyes glisten, reminding him of the Jessie he used to know.

  ‘They say Angelo keeps an eye out for . . . girls that have a certain look. For a special client.’

  ‘Pollard?’

  ‘I don’t know the name, or what happens to them. But whoever it is pays Angelo a nice fee for finding them.’

  ‘So he can get in touch with Eliza. Or whoever took her.’

  Michael said there was a certain thrill that came with going on an offensive, a lightness in the chest coupled with a hardening of the soul. Eliza wasn’t lost. He wasn’t a failure.

  Jessie tossed the handkerchief at his chest. ‘Peter, why can’t you leave it alone? Haven’t you learnt yet? The house always wins. But if you walk away now, it might let you live. Just walk away. Now.’

  ‘Don’t cause trouble? Is that what you’re saying? Let those in power do what they will? I thought the Germans never invaded.’

  ‘I’m trying to help you.’ She flicked ash into her teacup. ‘But you men. Always making this about the war. Always wanting a fight. Well, I’ll tell you what, Peter Lamb, I’ve spent my life fighting – my parents, my bosses, myself. And where has it got me? You want to see the other bruises? Pay a few quid and I’ll even let you touch ’em. Fine. You keep fighting, if you like, but they’ll find a way to bring you down. That I can guarantee.’

  She extinguished her cigarette into her biscuit crumbs and grabbed her handbag. She reached for his lighter, too, but Peter put his hand over it before she could take it.

  ‘Don’t pretend Eliza wasn’t your friend,’ he said. ‘You were going to tell her, weren’t you? That Saturday after she disappeared. Ask her for help. Look, I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. For what Stephen did. But if I leave it alone, it means giving up on the woman I love. I’d give my life for her.’ He pushed the lighter towards her. Jessie hesitated then tossed it into her handbag.

  ‘No one’s life is worth another’s.’ She glanced at the church then pulled down her veil. ‘But if that’s how you feel . . . let’s go out the back.’

  *

  The filth of the club was clearer in the daytime. Black stains from coal dust and car exhaust plastered the red door, the dried vomit on the entrance hall carpet unmistakable. Peter’s shoes stuck to the wooden stairs, and he could smell the heavy dust collected on the wall sconces. This place was not meant to be seen in the light.

  He followed Jessie up to Angelo’s office, keeping an eye out while she unlocked the door with her hairpin. He didn’t like the quiet. London should never be this quiet. Quiet in London meant something was wrong. Jessie struggled with the lock. He wanted to slap the pin from her hands and try it himself, but his were shaking too badly.

  The door clicked open. Peter rushed in ahead of her. The light switch didn’t work, and quickly he drew back the curtains. Together, they searched the desk.

  ‘He must have an address book,’ Peter said as they rifled through the drawers.

  ‘He is an organised man. Likes things a very particular way.’

  Downstairs, a door closed. Footsteps travelled up the staircase. Peter and Jessie froze.

  ‘You told them I’d be here.’

  ‘No, Peter. I . . .’

  Someone entered the gambling hall. Peter crept to the office door, listening. No one approached the office. Whoever it was might leave on his own time. He and Jessie would have to wait. There was no other way out.

  A heavy thump sounded behind him. Jessie stood in shock by the overturned desk chair. The footsteps hurried towards the office and the door swung open.

  The barman shook off his surprise and lunged for Peter. Peter dodged the first blow but caught the second on the chin and went sprawling to the floor. He rolled away from the barman’s foot, but a second kick landed on his ribs. His breath rushed out of him. On the third kick, he caught the foot in his hands and shoved the barman back. Peter crawled to his knees but was grabbed by the shirt collar and hauled to his feet, the man’s fist primed and ready to strike.

  A shower of glass came down over the barman’s head. He lost consciousness as he fell to the floor, blood already seeping from a gash in his head. Jessie stood behind him, holding the remnants of Angelo’s desk lamp. She dropped it then grabbed a small leather-bound book from the desktop and tossed it to Peter – an address book.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. He raced after her out of the building and into the alley. ‘Don’t go straight home,’ she said, pushing Peter away. ‘And don’t come looking for me.’

  ‘Jessie . . .’

  ‘Go!’ She ran off into the crowds of Shaftesbury Avenue before he could thank her.

  *

  Though it was hours after the assault at the club, Peter remained dazed as he exited Earl’s Court station. The address book was tucked safely in his jacket pocket, but he hadn’t looked up Pollard, afraid that if he opened the book, it would somehow signal his whereabouts to Stephen and Angelo. Jessie had not sought him out in the hours that followed. With no way to contact her, he could only hope she was somewhere safe. He debated writing to Mrs Rolston, but thought the truth could be more devastating than her uncertainty. Jessie would tell her parents in her own time.

  The bruise on his chin garnered him unwanted attention from weary glances as he walked home. Though it was only early evening, he was exhausted. He still hadn’t found time for a proper meal. So when he spotted the grey smoke billowing into the sky, he thought he was imagining things. Then he noticed other people pointing at the rising ash. As he walked more quickly towards his flat, he drew closer to the smoke. He wanted to deny it, wanted to hold on to the hope of a different possibility, but as he reached the fire brigade’s barricades, he was forced to accept the truth.

  His building was in flames. Fire shot out of the windows as water hoses battled to keep it from spreading. His landlady stood to the side, gaping at the destruction while her little dog barked in her arms. Nearby, a body covered in a white sheet was being loaded into an ambulance. A pair of turquoise high-heels stuck out of the bottom.

  Stephen stood across the street. He tipped his checked cap to Peter then slipped away as another body was carried from the building.

  23

  Eliza sat at the table watching
her porridge run off her spoon the way the rain ran down the glass. Her eyes felt swollen and sore. She wouldn’t touch them for fear of itching them raw. One of these nights, she needed to get some decent sleep.

  Mrs Pollard mashed up fruits for Mr Brownawell’s breakfast. The squelching they made reminded her of the butchered sheep’s carcass. Eliza lost her appetite and took her bowl to the sink.

  ‘Has there been any news concerning Rebecca?’

  ‘I’ll be informed if she dies.’

  ‘Is there an address so I could send her a letter?’

  ‘If you wish to write to her, I’ll post it for you.’

  The bowl threatened to break in her grip. ‘I would send it myself if only you gave me the address.’

  ‘If you’re so keen to write to family, why don’t you send a letter to your dear aunt? I’m sure she’s missing you terribly.’ There was laughter hiding in Mrs Pollard’s voice, like a background conversation on a crossed telephone line. Eliza dropped her bowl in the sink, enjoying the displeasure on Mrs Pollard’s face as it clattered against the porcelain.

  ‘I’ve heard that several of the children from town were sent to the hospital in Swansea. I’m sure someone in the village has the address. Or even the ’phone number.’

  ‘Why don’t I make it easy for you?’ She motioned for Eliza to enter the office. The trapdoor was slightly ajar. Mrs Pollard slammed her foot down, closing it properly, then continued to her desk. She opened a small tin box full of index cards, flipping through it until her fingers stopped and drew one card from the stack.

  Cefn Coed Hospital

  Cockett

  Swansea, SA2

  ‘Children love receiving post, don’t they? It’s only when we’re adults that we fear the day the letters stop.’ She stared at the card, rubbing her finger along its edge.

  ‘And what day did your letters stop?’

  Mrs Pollard thrust the card forward. ‘Write to her all you like, Miss Haverford. But do remember there is a paper shortage.’

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs Pollard finished preparing Mr Brownawell’s breakfast tray, and left Eliza alone. It took Mr Brownawell approximately thirty to forty-five minutes to finish breakfast, depending on his mood, which gave Eliza plenty of time. When she was certain Mrs Pollard had left the east wing, Eliza hurried into the hall and tried the door to Mrs Pollard’s room. It was locked. She peeked through the keyhole, though she could see little. There was, however, a window.

  Eliza returned to the kitchen, slipped on the oversize raincoat and wellies Mrs Pollard left by the door, and waded through the mud to the window. The rain made the sash slick and Eliza’s fingers kept slipping as she struggled to get a good hold. Once she managed to draw up the window, she crawled through the opening then sat on the sill, removing the wellies and setting them outside. If Mrs Pollard noticed tracks of mud across her room, Eliza would have more to worry about than wet stockings. She felt no shame as her feet slipped quietly to the floor. Mrs Pollard had stolen her privacy; Eliza was only returning the favour.

  The room was the same length as Eliza’s but about a foot or so wider. The bed was small with a wooden frame, plain headboard and brown top sheet. The single nightstand had no drawer and held only an alarm clock, oil lamp and two books. Out of habit, Eliza examined the titles. One was a book on archaeology. The other’s name had faded from the spine. Eliza opened the cover page, but the title had been scratched out. Useless was scribbled underneath the censored title. At the bottom, in a different hand, someone had written Property of Thornecroft Reading Room. Footsteps sounded above her. Eliza returned the books and continued searching. The floor underneath the bed was empty and spotlessly clean. Nothing hung on the bare and yellowed walls. The electric lamp awkwardly installed in the ceiling was the only item gathering dust. The final piece of furniture was an immense Victorian wardrobe too big for the small room.

  That’s where you are, she thought, approaching it with caution. There was a noise from the hall. Eliza paused, her mind racing through acceptable excuses should Mrs Pollard find her. There were none. She listened, but heard nothing more. Nothing but an old house sinking into its pains.

  Eliza opened the wardrobe doors one at a time. All of Mrs Pollard’s black and brown dresses were neatly hung, her shoes aligned in a strict row. She flipped through the clothes.

  ‘You must have something,’ she whispered.

  On the floor sat a sewing box. Eliza unlatched the lid and sorted through the items. Needles, thread, scraps of fabric in assorted colours. At the bottom was a small brown bottle, similar to the one Mrs Pollard kept on her person. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed – the same strong smell as the syrup given to Rebecca. Eliza returned the bottle and sewing box then searched the top shelf where the undergarments and night things were stacked and folded. Though she wanted to search behind them, she was too short to reach all the way back. Instead, she ran her hand along the front of the shelf.

  ‘You must have been a person once.’

  Her fingers fell on a key.

  She turned it over in her hand, trying to determine to what it belonged. There was a keyhole on the wardrobe, but the one she held was much too large. Eliza searched the room again but found nothing else that would require unlocking. Of course Mrs Pollard would have nothing here. She probably knew Eliza would sneak in as soon as she had the chance.

  Eliza was closing the wardrobe when something caught her eye – a slip of paper stuck inside the frame near the bottom. She tugged it free.

  It was a photograph of a young girl, aged six or seven, with familiar dark eyes and distinctive sharp cheekbones, holding the hand of a beautiful Indian woman. Eliza ran her fingers over the dust coating it and turned it over. The words ‘Georgina and nanny’ were written on the back of the photograph. This nanny, she must have been important to the family if they chose to photograph her, she thought. Eliza stuffed the photo and key into her pocket.

  There was only one other place Mrs Pollard kept any of her belongings. Eliza climbed back out of the window, her stockings landing in the thick mud. The wellies were filled with water and her feet were soaked through as she sloshed into the kitchen. She returned the coat to the hook and went quickly to change her stockings before returning to the quiet kitchen. Still no sign of Mrs Pollard. Eliza snuck into the office. A multitude of locks adorned Mrs Pollard’s desk, but the key belonged to none. As she stepped back, her foot bumped against the iron ring of the trapdoor.

  Eliza had been everywhere on the ground floor of Thornecroft. Everywhere except that cellar. She hadn’t been in any cellar since Father’s death. Since she ran with Rebecca’s hand in hers. He wouldn’t be down there, of course he wouldn’t. There would be no body, no marrow liqueur, no tapping of feet. Yet no matter how much she called herself a coward, she couldn’t bring herself to reach for the handle.

  A voice in the hall made the decision for her. Eliza hurried into the kitchen, pretending to clean up her uneaten breakfast. As footsteps approached, Eliza realised it was not one voice but two. Mrs Pollard and another woman. Her heart leapt for Rebecca but quickly extinguished its excitement. Rebecca was still a child.

  The kitchen door swung open with a violent lurch.

  ‘Ah. There you are,’ Mrs Pollard said. ‘Well, Miss Haverford, you’ll be happy to hear your sister’s absence will not lead to your solitude. Someone else is apparently eager for the job.’

  She yanked Ruth into the room. Ruth refused to meet Eliza’s eye.

  ‘I would give you time to get to know one another, but I have it on good authority you already do. Miss Haverford, go see to the veranda. Mr Drewry says the doors are leaking again. Mrs Owen, you’ll be so kind as to stay here with me.’

  Eliza scurried out of the kitchen. Before she could take another glance at Ruth, Mrs Pollard slammed the door in her face.

  *

  She stood in the doorway, the mice scampering around her feet, drawing her deeper into the room.

  You know what you
must do, said Rebecca.

  It’s him keeping us here, not her, Pip added, her smile obscured by the blood trickling down from her nose.

  It’s him, Rebecca agreed.

  It’s him, Pip said.

  It’s him . . . It’s him . . . It’s him, they repeated back and forth, speaking in time to their feet moving through the empty air as their bodies swung from the meat hooks in the larder. Eliza wanted to leave, but the door had vanished, a grey brick wall in its place. She ran her hands over it, unable to find an escape.

  It’s him . . . It’s him . . . It’s him . . . A high voice followed by a low.

  There must have been a way out because more mice had found their way in, and they were crawling up Rebecca and Pip’s legs to their faces, where the first few had begun to nibble at the soft whites of their eyes.

  Eliza shot up in bed, gasping. Breath came to her in shallow gulps, the lack of air keeping her from screaming. When she first heard the gentle tapping at her door, she shrunk in the bed, fearful of the mice, but then she heard the voice.

  ‘Eliza, are you awake?’

  She recognised immediately the soft, Irish accent and hurried to open the door.

  ‘Ruth!’ She spoke louder than intended. Ruth pressed a finger to her lips and nodded to Mrs Pollard’s door. With a single candle to light their way, Eliza and Ruth crept down the hall to the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind them.

  Though the nightmare still clung to her, the images of Rebecca and Pip’s bodies visible every time she blinked, she felt minor relief in Ruth’s presence.

  ‘I’ve wanted to speak with you all day,’ Eliza panted, still recovering her breath.

  ‘I don’t think Pollard wants us alone together at all,’ Ruth said.

  The house creaked. A footstep? Eliza couldn’t tell. Ruth took her hand and led her deeper into the kitchen, and into the larder. Eliza wanted to protest but couldn’t find her voice. Instead, her body trembled. She pretended it was from the cold, and avoided glancing at the wall where the too-familiar meat hooks were embedded.