Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  The train turned round a steep bend, shaking the carriage. Peter stumbled against the wall, catching his hand on the window ledge. His palm cut on a splinter of wood, and he shook it to dispel the pain. Drewry stared at him, as if the scent of blood had drawn his attention. Peter curled his hand into a fist and slipped back into the shadows of the train.

  From the next-door compartment, Peter watched the sun’s descending red rays. It was beautiful to see the colourful light over the hills, but it wasn’t long before the sky filled with clouds and streaks of rain dashed the windows. The storm continued as the train pulled into a station. Peter saw Drewry leave the coach and waited a few moments more before doing the same.

  On the platform, Peter turned up his collar as he studied the worn wooden sign – Plentynunig. He had never heard of it. He looked for Drewry but the platform was empty. Had he not disembarked here? It was too late to board the already departing train. He followed the Way Out sign. Someone might know where this house was.

  Peter descended a set of rotting wood stairs onto a grassy bank and spotted a pub across the road. As he stepped towards it, someone grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the station wall.

  ‘I know who you are,’ the man growled. ‘And it would do you best to leave this place now.’

  Peter wriggled free and turned to face his attacker.

  ‘I’m not leaving without Eliza.’

  ‘You can’t help her. And it’ll only be tears for you if you try. Go back to London, lad. This ain’t your war.’

  ‘I won’t let you keep her prisoner. Do what you like to me, but I’ll free her, even if it’s the last thing I do.’ Peter raised his fists and braced himself for a fight. This was his purpose, and he would no longer allow any man to come between him and his Eliza.

  Drewry regarded him a moment, his expression unreadable, then started towards the pub. ‘Put those away.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to do? Get some help from your friends because you’re too cowardly to face me on your own?’

  Drewry called over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to buy you a drink,’ and continued across the road.

  ‘You’re . . . what?’ Peter hesitated then jogged after him.

  He entered the pub a moment after Drewry. Only the publican and the one-armed man were present. Candles and lanterns lit the dim, wood-walled space. Peter walked across the grey stone floor, unsure of where to stand. Drewry took two tankards of beer in one hand and walked to a high-backed corner booth. Peter followed, the publican eyeing him with mistrust as he passed. Drewry pushed a tankard towards him as he sat on the creaking wooden seat.

  ‘No one else’s ever come this far. I’ll give you that, Lamb.’ He sipped his beer.

  ‘Where is Eliza?’

  ‘Up the road at the manor.’

  Peter rose.

  ‘Sit your arse down and listen, will you?’

  ‘Why? You work for her, don’t you? This Pollard?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling my employment will soon be at an end.’ He drank more, tilting his head far back, downing most of his pint. ‘Look, Lamb, I’m on your side.’

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘Why else? A woman.’ He leaned in. ‘There are things in motion. Things you don’t need to understand. But I give you my word, I’ll bring Eliza back to you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘And her sister? Rebecca? She won’t go anywhere without Rebecca.’

  Drewry leaned back. Worry crossed his face. ‘I’ll do what I can about . . . that.’

  ‘Brilliant. Though of course I have no reason to trust you.’

  ‘Course you don’t. And I ain’t got time to try and make you.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old notebook and pencil. ‘Here are directions to the house. It’s called Thornecroft.’ He scribbled down a few notes and a rudimentary map then tore out the paper and handed it to Peter. ‘If we’re not here by closing time, then come and find us.’

  ‘Of course. And it will be another false address. Another trap, like Death House.’

  ‘Swansea ain’t a trap. It’s a safety net. A way of hiding the trail when girls go missing. Of keeping little shites like your old pal Stephen away from here.’

  ‘How many girls have you helped to disappear?’ He expected Drewry to deny it, to proclaim some noble intentions.

  ‘Three. Including your Eliza. And one I shouldn’t have . . .’ He drank the rest of his beer then glanced at the clock sitting on the fireplace mantle. ‘I gave someone else my word that I’d not let this happen again. That I wouldn’t let Eliza disappear. And if it gives you any comfort, I care about this person a great deal more than you.’ He rose and threw some coins on the table. ‘Get yourself another drink. You look like you need it.’

  He was gone before Peter could protest.

  *

  Time passed slowly in the strange pub. Few men entered and those that did looked nearer to death than life. Like old Addy back in Swansea, their skin was taut and grey. Sunken eyes glanced at Peter then stared into stale pints. No one spoke, not even to order. The bald, pale-faced publican simply set a beer on the bar for whoever approached. The longer Peter sat, the more uncomfortable he became. He could feel his skin shrinking like that of the other patrons, his complexion changing to grey. The cold pub felt like a cocoon transforming him into one of these moth-like men who hovered by the lantern lights as if they were their only salvation.

  Peter was on his second drink when he realised he was an idiot. Trusting a man like Drewry? Believing his nonsense about bringing Eliza back? All Peter was doing was giving him a head start. But it hadn’t been too long, only an hour. No other trains had come or gone. He would’ve heard them at the station. He left his unfinished beer and Drewry’s remaining coins on the table and walked out of the pub. Some men loitered outside with their pints, staring at Peter as he passed, the smoke of their cigarettes becoming lost in the fog.

  With every step, the word echoed in his head – Thornecroft. Thornecroft. Thornecroft. Something was pulling him towards that word. Towards Eliza. The fog swallowed the world around him and he felt safe, alone with his thoughts. It was only him and the road. He would be there soon.

  It suddenly struck him how silent the world was. Where once there were birds chirping, now there was nothing. He listened for the wind, but that, too, had fallen still. The silence broke Peter from his trance, and he realised he had no idea where he was. He looked at his feet. He wasn’t even on the road any more. At some point, the fog had become heavier and he hadn’t noticed. Yet in the distance was a light, a round ball hovering in the air. Peter stepped towards it.

  A twig snapped behind him, and a figure emerged through the fog.

  ‘Hello, mate.’

  ‘Drewry told you to go back to London,’ Peter said.

  ‘And leave my dear old friend on his own?’ Stephen took a step forward.

  ‘Why did you follow me?’

  ‘No choice. If you had stopped all this when I told you, we wouldn’t be here now. Could still be friends. Teasing Purvis at work, going to the pub at weekends. You had to go and spoil everything.’

  ‘I couldn’t let her go.’

  ‘You should have.’

  ‘How long? How long have you been kidnapping girls?’

  Stephen laughed. ‘I’ve never kidnapped anyone. Girls need work, I find them work. Usually it’s a matter of putting them on the streets. Like Jessie.’

  ‘And how many have you killed, like Jessie?’

  ‘She broke the rules and got what she deserved. Once the police finish their inquiries and find out she were strangled, in Peter Lamb’s flat, then you’ll get your chance to suffer. Or rather, your reputation will.’ His hand reached into his pocket.

  ‘And what about Eliza?’ Peter asked as he searched the fog for an escape.

  ‘Eliza was the first of the special ones I found. Was supposed to get a nice cut of the profits. But you had to go snooping about, and
now Angelo won’t give me my share until this business with you is settled.’

  Peter had nothing to defend himself with except for his fists. Stephen might have a knife or even a gun in his pocket, and he was now only an arm’s length away. Peter steadied himself.

  ‘If you needed money, I could . . .’

  ‘You made me look weak! Like I didn’t know what I was doing. Like I was stupid! You’re my friend. You’re not supposed to make me look stupid.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late for that. So be a good lad, Peter, and let me do my job.’

  Stephen lunged and they both fell to the ground. Hands clasped around Peter’s neck and pressed down, cutting off his air. Peter jabbed his knee upward, hitting Stephen in the groin. Stephen’s grip loosened enough for him to roll out from underneath. He could have run then, but Peter was tired of running.

  He kicked Stephen in the head, knocking him backwards. He went in for another kick, but Stephen caught his ankle and yanked him to the ground. The air was knocked from his lungs, but he dodged Stephen’s next blow. He coughed violently, forcing his lungs to work, until Stephen stomped a foot into his back.

  Peter was pressed into the ground. He scrambled for purchase but could find none on the wet grass. Stephen kicked him and shoved him onto his side.

  ‘You won’t forget it this time,’ Stephen panted, drawing a gun from his coat pocket. ‘But you won’t have long to remember it, either.’

  Stephen drew back the hammer. Peter launched himself at his legs. The shot went harmlessly into the air as Stephen tumbled backwards then disappeared. Peter thought he vanished in the fog, but as the sound of the shot dissipated, he heard Stephen screaming – a faint sound growing further away. Peter crawled forward, panting, towards the spot where Stephen had just stood. His hands met air. Peering down, he saw the fog swirling in a bottomless quarry. Soon, the screaming died.

  Peter crawled to his feet, regaining his breath as he stared into the abyss.

  ‘You should have listened to Mr Drewry.’

  33

  The gunshot faded into the night. Someone hunting foxes, Eliza thought, as she forced the veranda door open. She used one hand to guide her along the hall. The other held the fire poker from Mr Drewry’s loft. Her clothes were heavy and stiff, stained in Ruth’s blood.

  The house gave no sign of Rebecca or Mrs Pollard or Victoria. Then she remembered, and the house no longer held any fear over her. There were no ghosts keeping it alive, only Mrs Pollard. Thornecroft was another dead thing, like the rest of Plentynunig.

  At Abigale Hall, she paused. It held no feeling any more. It was just another part of the sickened house. The echo of warmth and protection she once thought existed here – of the heart of the house fighting some encroaching illness – was as much an illusion as Ruth’s ghostly Victoria. No part of Thornecroft held any care for her. Abigale Hall would give her no strength. She skirted its circular edge, avoiding the illumination of the night-time sky now cleared of clouds. She wanted to remain a part of the shadows.

  The east wing was darker and colder, as if Mrs Pollard’s presence sucked all the warmth from the air. Eliza passed Victoria’s portraits, gently touching each frame. Her ghost might not roam Thornecroft, but the poor girl was murdered here. She deserved retribution.

  The doors in the servants’ passage were closed tight. Once, they all would have appeared the same, but Eliza had learnt this house and learnt it well. Quietly, she twisted the handle to Mrs Pollard’s room. It was unlocked and swung soundlessly inward. Silently, she approached the single bed and peered over it. Only pillows and air.

  ‘Looking for me?

  Eliza spun round and swung the poker. She felt it hit hard flesh. Mrs Pollard cried out. Eliza swung again, but the poker was grabbed before it struck. Mrs Pollard yanked on it, trying to tear it from Eliza’s hands, but she clung tight until she was shoved into the door frame, the poker arm pressed up against her neck, choking her.

  She kneed Mrs Pollard in the stomach, and the poker fell. Eliza ran for the kitchen. She slammed the door and turned the key. It wouldn’t hold Mrs Pollard forever, but it would give her some time. She lit the stove and cranked the flame all the way up.

  A metallic scrape filled the kitchen as the key twisted in the lock. The door sprang open. Mrs Pollard entered. By the gaslight, Eliza saw a pair of needle-nose pliers in her hand and the blood dripping from her forehead.

  Eliza held the address book over the open flame. ‘Don’t step any closer.’

  Mrs Pollard paused. ‘Do you even know what that is?’

  ‘The list of your victims.’

  ‘Potentials, Miss Haverford. Potentials. I keep track of the chosen in an entirely different matter.’

  ‘So you won’t mind if I burn it then.’

  ‘Go right ahead. There are always more where you came from.’

  Eliza tossed the book onto the flames. Mrs Pollard didn’t flinch.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’

  ‘I assure you she’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘That’s very little comfort.’

  ‘You’ve never seen how special she is. She told me so.’ Mrs Pollard took one step forward. Eliza took one back. ‘I must say, I was quite annoyed with your aunt when the two of you were presented on my doorstep, but Rebecca . . . She has proven to be more useful than I could ever have imagined. You might say she’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Mrs Pollard came another step closer. ‘Nearly thirty years I’ve been here. Can you imagine what that does to a woman?’

  ‘Why did you kill Mr Brownawell?’

  She laughed. ‘Quite a dim child, aren’t you? After all your time here, you think I’d ever harm my master?’

  ‘Perhaps. Maybe I should ask Reg Kyffin what he thinks.’

  Mrs Pollard feigned surprise then smiled. ‘Ah, so you’ve discovered my little secret. How ingenious of you. No one else has come that far.’

  ‘Except for Pip. And the other girls you murdered.’

  ‘Pip never knew nor did anyone else. Oh. Is that why you think they died? Oh, you poor, simple thing. Those girls died because they needed to. In death, they found their purpose. As will you. Come along, child. It’s time to end your tenure here. There’s already a new girl on her way.’ Mrs Pollard held out her hand.

  Eliza stepped back. She felt a hard object, the rolling pin, on the counter behind her. ‘Don’t you remember? I already resigned.’

  She swung at Mrs Pollard but missed. The housekeeper grabbed Eliza’s arm and twisted it until the pain caused her to drop the rolling pin. Mrs Pollard kicked Eliza’s feet out from under her and began dragging her out of the kitchen. Before Eliza could struggle free, a gunshot sounded.

  Mrs Pollard shouted and dropped her. Something wet dripped onto Eliza’s face. Instinctively, she wiped at it. Her hand came away with blood. There was another shot. Eliza turned and saw the end of Mrs Pollard’s dress as she ran away.

  A dog barked.

  Eliza turned to see Mr Drewry standing over her, Kasey at his side, the rifle pointed towards where Mrs Pollard had departed. He lowered it and slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘You alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you hit her?’

  ‘Just grazed. Should have killed her.’ He offered his hand. Eliza hesitated then took it.

  ‘Ruth . . . she’s . . .’ She stuttered, unsure how to tell him.

  ‘I’ve been to the loft.’

  Eliza noticed the blood on his clothes. ‘I tried to . . . It was too deep . . .’

  He reloaded the rifle. ‘We have to go after her.’

  ‘She could be anywhere in the house. We’ll have to . . .’

  ‘She won’t be hiding in the house.’ Mr Drewry headed out of doors.

  Eliza followed. ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘I know the old snake better than you.’

  They crossed the east lawn, heading for the treeline.<
br />
  ‘Ruth said I could trust you. Should I believe her?’

  Drewry paused. ‘Not before. It’s different now.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Pollard broke her promise. You coming or what?’ He walked off without waiting for Eliza’s answer. She followed. Together, they entered the woods.

  Kasey stayed behind to guard the carriage house but to guard it from what, Eliza did not know. There were thousands of questions she wanted to ask Mr Drewry, but the man was silent, brooding. Eliza supposed he was mourning the loss of his love, but she had assumed such things before.

  ‘Did you love her?’ she asked, breaking their silence.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters a great deal. It matters because I want to know whether you’re going to help me or whether you’re taking me out to a quiet place to kill me.’

  ‘Could have killed you at the house if I wanted. Only Kyffin would’ve known.’

  ‘So you know that isn’t Mr Brownawell?’

  Mr Drewry didn’t respond.

  ‘Do you know what happened to the real Brownawell?’

  ‘Gone before I came here. And yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, I loved her. Pollard promised to let her be, so long as I stayed out of her way. Not ask any questions.’

  ‘Even about Pip?’

  He coughed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘If I had, Ruth would’ve died a lot sooner than she did,’ he said softly. ‘Ruth is . . . was a good woman, but she was like everyone else in the village. Didn’t care what happened at Thornecroft until it took someone that meant something to her. I even warned her not to let Pip take the job, that I knew Pollard had plans for her, but Ruth insisted. Said Pip could handle herself. When that woman got an idea in her head, Devil himself couldn’t talk her out of it.’

  They walked in silence for a few steps before he spoke again. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That boy from London. One who’s been following me round.’

  ‘You’ve seen Peter?’

  ‘Picked him up in Swansea, like a bad smell. He’s been looking for you. Told him to wait at the Old Hare. Safer for him there.’