Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  She stared at the table of contents and frowned. Someone had defaced the page, scribbling out the words in heavy blotches of black ink. She turned to the next page. This, too, was ruined with ink. A third, a fourth. She skimmed the entire book only to find horrid marks across every page. Most were illegible scribbles with the occasional word – bird, cantor, coal – that made no sense. Perhaps a child? But when had a child last lived at Thornecroft?

  Eliza set the book aside and chose another, Imaginary Conversations – 1825–1826. She opened to a random page. It was written over in red and black. As was the next and the one following that. The entire book ruined. This kind of defacing was deliberate. It took time.

  She closed it and took another, Memorials of Human Superstition. Red lines like scars tore many of the delicate pages.

  She tossed it onto the ruined pile and opened another – Law of Husband and Wife. This too was destroyed, though the words were clearer – harlot, trollop, disease, filth. The handwriting here was different, thin and feminine. Though hurried, Eliza remembered that same spider’s scrawl from the letter in Aunt Bess’s handbag. She snapped it shut and left it at her feet.

  She found a French title – Le Magasin des Enfants by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont. Eliza remembered the author’s name. She once had a copy of this same book in English. It contained one of her favourite fairy tales, one Mother would read her every night before bed, before Rebecca was born. Eliza turned to ‘La Belle et La Bête’ and dropped the book in horror. The Beast had a sword protruding from his back, blood spurting from the wound, and a grotesque tongue dangling from his mouth. A noose hung round Belle’s neck while blood dripped from an incision down her chest. She looked at Eliza with eyes scratched out in red ink. The word WHORE was scrawled on the page opposite, written over and over again. But this was not Mrs Pollard’s writing nor the heavy male hand of the other books. It was simple, untrained, like a child’s. A young girl’s.

  No. She would not think it. Eliza scrambled to her feet, bumping over another stack. Several books tumbled to the floor, every open page defaced with violent words, graphic drawings. As Eliza grabbed the lamp, something soft fell onto her head and to the floor. A dead mouse lay at her feet. She backed away, deeper into the darkened room, eyes fixed on the mouse as if the books themselves had somehow poisoned it. But from where had it fallen? Eliza raised the lamp. A loose strand of twine dangled above her. She turned slowly about the room. The light fell on a pair of tiny feet – doll’s feet. The Victoria doll hung from the rafters with twine. Beside her hung a squirrel, another mouse, a fellow doll, a pigeon, a rabbit. Like ornaments from a tree, their bodies hung in neat little lines all across the ceiling as far as Eliza could see. She looked away and covered her nose with her hand, desperate to block the sudden smell of sulphur.

  On the floor, across from the fallen mouse, lay Mrs Miniver. She reached for it with a shaking hand and opened the cover.

  For my girls. No day is complete without a story. With love, Father.

  Eliza dropped the book. She felt rats gnawing on her skin as she ran from the room, the books closing in around her as she frantically navigated the maze.

  She never stopped running – all down the twisted stairs, down and down through the hall to her bedroom. The door was locked. She tried the handle several times, but it refused to turn. She ran through the kitchen, out into the rain and to her window, forgetting it had been nailed shut.

  ‘No, no,’ she panted, setting down the lamp. She tried to lift the sash, but it would not budge. ‘No, please!’

  She gave up and went back through the kitchen, where the Tilley lamp faded, depleted of oil. In the dark and quiet, shivering in her wet clothes, she rested her head against her door in despair.

  It clicked open.

  Eliza entered cautiously. It was empty. The door was never locked, she thought, as she shut it behind her. It couldn’t have been.

  Ruth was right. There was a poison here. It thrived within the walls, infecting every room. The house itself was poisoned with madness, and she could no longer allow herself to succumb to it. The longer she remained here, the more it ruined her mind. She could still save Rebecca, but she could not save her if she remained within Thornecroft.

  *

  Mrs Pollard was preparing breakfast in the kitchen when Eliza approached. She already wore her coat, her suitcase in hand.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she announced.

  Mrs Pollard cocked her head to the side and smiled. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘I came here on the condition that it would be to care for my sister. As Rebecca is no longer here, there is no reason for me to stay. Consider this my notice.’

  The housekeeper would no longer have any hold over her. Eliza knew now where the source of the hate came from, and she was no longer afraid.

  Mrs Pollard set down her spoon. ‘Well, then, if you’re so certain. There is one thing, however, before you go.’ She untied her apron. ‘Something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’ She disappeared into her office and emerged a moment later with a slip of paper. ‘Where, may I ask, are you going to go?’

  ‘I’ll return to my aunt in London.’

  ‘Ah yes, quite a good idea. Although that may be somewhat difficult as your aunt is dead.’ Mrs Pollard handed her a telegram.

  Eliza forgot about the books, about the poison, about Rebecca.

  She couldn’t be. Aunt Bess couldn’t be. The words of the telegram, the sender’s address in Swansea, were blurred. Only the date remained clear.

  ‘This . . . this is dated weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me straight away?’

  ‘It kept slipping my mind.’

  ‘Our last living relative – Rebecca’s guardian – dies, and it slips your mind?’

  ‘You’ll watch your tone, Miss Haverford.’

  ‘No I will not! You had no right to keep this information from me or Rebecca!’

  Mrs Pollard smiled. ‘Rebecca knew. Her guardianship was transferred to me upon your aunt’s death. Would you like to see the paperwork? Rebecca was quite pleased. I thought you would be, too. You never seemed to like her much.’

  Eliza struck Mrs Pollard. It hurt her hand, but the pain felt good.

  Before she could hit again, Mrs Pollard backhanded her twice across the face then grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, straining her neck. Eliza cried out and clawed at Mrs Pollard’s arm, but her head was thrown forward into the countertop. She crumpled to the floor, a fresh wetness on her forehead. Mrs Pollard took her by the hair and pulled her across the kitchen floor to the office. Eliza kicked and screamed, but there was no one to help her. Ruth. Where was Ruth? Mrs Pollard yanked open the trapdoor and kicked Eliza into the dark hole. All the air was knocked from her as she hit the packed dirt floor.

  ‘You’ll remain there until you learn a little respect. No one touches me. Not in this house.’

  The door shut, leaving Eliza in darkness, the smells of the cellar morphing into the smell of sulphur and sweet marrow as she lost her battle with consciousness.

  26

  Ticket queues wound through the station while passengers hurried to and fro, bumping into one another from lack of space. Smoke wafted to the ceiling and the smell of coal dust was nearly unbearable. The only sound that carried above the loud crowd was the whistle of departing trains.

  There was too much noise, too many people. To Peter it all sounded like screams. The smoke from the train was the smoke from his building; the hurrying passengers were tenants desperate to escape the flames. All eyes watched him, blamed him.

  It had been better in Shepperton, that fear someone was always watching him. Shepperton was so quiet. He knew every neighbour, every shopkeeper. There was no place for strangers to hide. In Paddington, every face was unknown to him. He used to love the contact of strangers on the bus or underground, the odd sense of camaraderie that they were all surviving London together, each in their own way. Now it felt like survival was not a group effort but a com
petition pitting man against man, one where not everyone could survive.

  The queue inched slowly forwards. The address book felt heavy and solid in his pocket. There was a train to Swansea leaving within the hour. If the queue was quick enough, he could make it. He felt exposed, as if Stephen would know precisely when he crossed London’s borders. He had asked Michael to join him – the journey safer with two – but Michael refused. He knew how dangerous leaving the house could be.

  Peter felt trapped. Michael said it was better being a moving target, but Peter could only move as the queue allowed. He kept his eyes on the faces around him. Two men bowed heads to whisper to each other about Peter. A pair of old women laughed at his discomfort. The mass of coats, shoulders, caps, umbrellas all blurred into one beast. One smirking, snarling beast with a pug-like face . . .

  Someone tapped on his shoulder. Peter’s breath caught in his throat else he would have screamed. The old woman politely asked him to pay attention. The queue had moved forward. Peter obliged, removing his handkerchief to dab his face. His palms were sweating and he closed his eyes to try to block out the sights and sounds around him. He opened them and wished he hadn’t.

  Lurking at the entrance to the platforms was Stephen. His ragged blue and yellow cap was pulled low on his head, hands jammed in his coat pockets as his eyes searched the crowd. Peter turned up the collar of his coat and moved forward with the queue. Stephen made eye contact with someone. Peter followed his line of sight to a man down the station. The barman from Angelo’s, a bandage on his head. He shook his head once – no – and Stephen did the same. Stephen looked the other way, making eye contact with another, but this time Peter did not see who.

  Peter used the crowd to his advantage, keeping his head down, staying turned away from the platforms.

  The queue was interminably slow. Policemen loitered about, but Peter ignored them as they did him. He moved closer to the counter as Stephen moved closer to the queue.

  Peter bought his ticket just in time for the train. The warning whistle sounded. No longer could the queue protect him, but the path to platform four looked clear. He kept his head down as he hurried across the station and didn’t see the man he bumped into.

  ‘Hello, mate.’ Stephen smiled.

  Peter struck him in the face with his suitcase. The bag fell to the ground and burst open, scattering its meagre contents. His ticket clutched firmly in hand, Peter ran for the train but was grabbed by the arm. The barman. Peter elbowed him in the stomach. The train whistled. Smoke burst from the chimney. Peter ran. The crankshafts began to move, the coupling rods pulling the train forward. Someone snagged his coat collar, the third man. Peter snapped his head back and smacked the man on the nose. Freed, he ran and leapt onto the last carriage.

  The train pulled out of Paddington as Stephen and the two men were accosted by the police. Peter watched until the train left the station then found a place to stand in a crowded coach. He couldn’t see London as they left, but it didn’t matter. He and Eliza would see it together when they returned.

  27

  You know what you must do.

  Eliza woke in darkness to the feel of hard-packed dirt beneath her hands as the smell of damp lingered in the air. She could not see where she was, but, as her thoughts returned, she remembered her fight with Mrs Pollard. She was in the kitchen cellar. She felt the ground around her, but could not find the stairs. From her pocket, she withdrew her matchbox and shook it, trying to discern how many were left. It rattled lightly. The scent of marrow liqueur tickled under her nose. No. No, there was no time for those thoughts. In utter blackness, she willed her hands to calm as she slid the box open. A drop of sweat, or blood, trickled down her face. Her fingers, less nimble than she liked, grasped one of the small matches. She closed the box, nearly dropping the small match onto the hard ground, where it would have been lost forever. She struck it. It took three times to light.

  Father’s feet dangled above her.

  She screamed. The dropped match extinguished in the dust.

  ‘Stop it! You saw nothing. Nothing.’

  She found another match and lit it. The smell of marrow faded away. Cupping the fragile flame with her hand, she tried to get her bearings. No one’s feet hung from above. She glanced a wooden staircase that led up to the trapdoor. She scooted towards the nearest wall and used it to pull herself up. Her head felt like it had split open where Mrs Pollard smacked it on the kitchen counter. The match burnt down and nipped her fingers. She dropped it and lit another. There were shelves beside her, and she found the stub of a candle just as the second match burnt out. Her fingers failed to find another. The marrow smell became strong again.

  Eliza drew back her hand, took a breath, and searched again. There was one match left, stuck in the inner edge of the box. As careful as if handling a sick animal, she drew the stick out, lit it, and transferred the flame to the candle.

  She searched the wooden shelves for any other tools, hoping for a torch or a lamp. There was an old lantern, but it held no oil. On a bottom shelf, she found another candle. This she lit and, after melting its bottom wax with the fire from the first, stuck it to the lowest stair. Carefully, she climbed up to the trapdoor. It wouldn’t budge. She put her shoulder into it. Not even the slightest movement. Perhaps there was another way out.

  After crawling down to the floor, she took more time to examine the modest cellar. It ran from underneath Mrs Pollard’s office to the width of the kitchen. Wooden shelves lined both sides, but they were mostly empty, home only to dusty, disused items – broken lamps and gardening shears, bits of chicken wire and rusted meat hooks. Eliza crossed underneath the staircase, hoping for a second entrance, some other means of escape, but there was nothing save a cold, white brick wall turned yellowish-grey from centuries of soot and dirt.

  She turned and spotted the trunk. It was large and domed, made from some type of metal. Faded stickers decorated the top and sides – Cunard Line, White Star, Paris, Belfast, India. It was locked, but the key from Mrs Pollard’s room was still in her pocket. It slipped straight in. Eliza lifted the lid.

  The entirety of Mrs Pollard’s life lay before her for the taking. Old children’s clothes and toys. Clothes for a young woman, hair clips and a box of jewellery. Books on archaeology and Ancient Egypt, their pages left unscarred, hand brooms, line levels and a trowel. At the bottom was a cigar box filled with photographs – names and dates scrawled on the back. The top photograph, dated 1907, featured Mr G. Pollard, wife and infant daughter. A family portrait for each year followed, and Eliza saw Mrs Pollard’s sharp features in the growing girl. She removed the photo of Georgina and nanny from her pocket. It fitted between the years 1913 to 1914. The family portraits continued until 1919. The final photograph had only mother and daughter, dressed in black.

  A second cigar box contained frail, yellowed letters. Eliza skimmed through, stopping when her fingers fell on a piece of familiar grey stationery. She held it to the light. The envelope listed an address in Dover.

  6 June 1919

  Dear Mrs Lilith Pollard,

  Thank you for your recent correspondence. I am sorry to hear of your unfortunate circumstances. It is indeed true that I seek additional help at my estate. While your daughter is young to perform the duties required of this house, she is of a prime age to begin proper training for the position. Send Georgina upon receipt of this letter. Her salary will be sent directly to you as per your request. Your daughter shall work hard, but you shall want for nothing.

  Sincerely,

  Mr E— Brownawell

  Eliza reread the letter until she heard the footsteps above her – heavy and hurried. Another pair followed – lighter but firm. The voices were muffled but loud enough for her to hear.

  ‘Which was it? Which?’ Mrs Pollard. Eliza wasn’t sure if it was the distortion of the cellar, but the housekeeper sounded panicked.

  ‘New Cware.’ Mr Drewry.

  ‘Have they gone through old Cware? Well, have they?
’

  ‘That’s all the information I have.’

  ‘You must take me there immediately.’

  ‘It’ll be faster . . .’

  The footsteps moved, carrying into the kitchen. Eliza moved with them, missing only some of the conversation.

  ‘. . . that is final.’ Mrs Pollard again. ‘. . . would you go? Who would take in a worthless murderer such as you?’

  A murderer? Of course. What if Mr Drewry was entirely responsible? Maybe she and Ruth were both wrong.

  ‘What about the girl?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s been taken care of for now.’

  ‘For now?’

  Mrs Pollard’s voice came again, but she spoke too low for Eliza to understand. There was no reply from Mr Drewry that she could hear. The footsteps resumed. She made to follow them but was distracted when wax dripped onto her hand, scalding her skin before cooling quickly. She peeled it off and flicked it away. As she watched it fly off into the darkness, something else caught her eye – a large black shape frozen in the far corner. An old, iron furnace. Though it was cool to the touch, the ash smelled fresh, like a bombsite in Hungerford visited the day after it was hit, not old, like the ruins of her parents’ home.

  She opened the door. Unidentified bits were half-buried in soft grey peaks of ash. Eliza reached in and pulled out a piece of leather. She dusted it off. It was the cover of a journal. The pages inside had all been destroyed, but an embossed inscription could still partially be seen.

  . . .lasto

  ‘Vlasto,’ she decoded. ‘Sorry, Pip.’