Peter, who got lost in his own town, who could hardly order a different sandwich at the Corner House without panicking, he had tracked her all the way to Wales. He had not forgotten her. He had fought for her. Her own fairytale prince.
‘I suppose I do.’
‘There’s no supposing about it. You either do or you don’t.’
Her hand felt bare without his ring. She rubbed her palms together as they walked the path Eliza had seen Mrs Pollard take the previous night. ‘Where do you think she’s going?’
‘To check on the collection.’
‘You mean the books? But they’re . . .’
‘I don’t know what it is. But I know where it is.’
After a long walk, they came to a clearing. Eliza realised where they were – on the opposite side of the quarry. She could see the pithead and outbuildings from the site of the mine collapse. It was calm now, but the hectic signs of the previous day’s events could be seen in the leftover debris.
‘This way,’ said Mr Drewry.
She followed him down the steep incline that led into the quarry. The path was narrow and Eliza clung to the rock wall, careful of the loose stones beneath her feet. Mr Drewry made a torch from a fallen branch and handed it to Eliza. She looked across the quarry, towards the main road that led to Thornecroft. The ground was so flat here that a light on the quarry path would be visible from that road, even in the fog.
Halfway down they reached an old mine entrance excavated into the rock. There was a fresh smear of blood on the wooden frame supporting the opening. Together, they went inside.
All night-time sounds dropped away, leaving only their breathing and the scrape of their footsteps against the rocky ground. By torchlight, she could see broken lanterns strung along the wall, the indentations where pickaxes had been used to carve the way. It was numbingly cold as they descended deeper into the earth and only her hand, by the heat of the torch, was kept warm. Above them, rotting wooden beams supported the tons of dirt gravity wished to descend. She pictured how easy it would be for one to break and bury them alive.
For fifteen minutes or more they walked, becoming ever more shielded by layers of earth until suddenly the claustrophobic narrow tunnel opened onto a massive underground cavern.
Eliza stumbled to a stop. Above her a ceiling of stalactites hung like blades, ready to drop on any unsuspecting creature below. The bottom of the cavern was too far down for the torch to light. They stood on a narrow path that clung to the side of the cavern wall. Before them were a few rusted mining carts covered in bat droppings. She and Mr Drewry kept close to the cavern wall and followed the path’s descent.
They were halfway down when Eliza noticed a dim light on the opposite side of the cavern. She tapped Mr Drewry on the shoulder and pointed. He nodded and continued onward. Eliza was careful to make her steps silent. Silence was their only protection.
They wound their way to the cavern floor. It was a mess of twisted tracks and abandoned mining equipment, and Eliza trod carefully for fear of tripping.
The other light came from a separate tunnel. A quick-moving shadow darted back and forth. Eliza heard it muttering to itself as they drew nearer.
‘Insolent child . . . as she’s told. No matter. No matter . . . the others. Never changes . . . for you . . .’
Mr Drewry slowly removed the rifle from his shoulder. Eliza stood back with the torch as he aimed.
‘That would be a mistake, Mr Drewry.’ Mrs Pollard remained out of sight, but her voice was clear. ‘There was quite a bit of explosive material left here when we shut down the entrance in ’31. Miss Haverford’s exposed flame is worrisome enough. We don’t need to be adding gunpowder and sparks to the mix, unless you want to blow us all to pieces.’ Her skeletal frame appeared in the entrance to the tunnel. ‘But you’ve done that once already, haven’t you? Or are you still blaming the Germans for unpinning your grenade?’
Eliza saw the sweat that was forming on Mr Drewry’s face despite the chilling cold. His arm began to shake.
‘How many of them did you kill? Wasn’t it your entire squadron? Amazing what a grenade can do when you drop it by accident. All those men who looked up to you. Depended on you. All of them dead. What were their names? Oh yes. Scott. Galloway. Benge. Davis. Shall I continue?’
The rifle quivered back and forth.
‘Put it down, Ben. You’ll only hurt someone else.’
It clattered to the ground as he buried his face in his hand, cowering from ghosts only he could see.
‘Don’t forget, Mr Drewry, this is your home, too. If anyone ever discovered you dropped that grenade, accident or not, there would be no end of volunteers to walk you to the gallows. Come now, Miss Haverford. It’s time for you to meet the real master.’ Though her voice was confident, Eliza could see the unhealthy paleness of her skin, the wet stain on her dark grey dress. Eliza stepped forward. A hand held her back.
‘Don’t,’ said Mr Drewry, his body shaking, face wet with tears. She knelt down to meet him eye to eye and clasped his hand in hers.
‘It will be alright.’ She leant closer and whispered in his ear. ‘You were a better shot than you thought.’
Mrs Pollard waited patiently as Eliza approached her.
‘Show me the way.’
The women walked side by side in the wide tunnel.
‘Why is Mr Kyffin in Thornecroft and Mr Brownawell in the mines?’ Eliza asked.
‘The master prefers the cold. And to be close to his collection.’
‘Why not keep the collection in Thornecroft? Wouldn’t that be more convenient?’
‘He did. Before I came along and convinced him it would be more discreet to store it elsewhere. One of the many contributions that changed my fate.’
‘You must have been so young when you first came here.’
Mrs Pollard paused. ‘I was Rebecca’s age. Had I not proved myself useful in other areas . . . I wanted to be an archaeologist, you see. It was all the rage when I was a girl. The world had other ideas.’
Eliza remembered the archaeology books untouched by cruelty.
‘I found the reading room,’ she said as they came to a sharp bend in the tunnel.
‘I thought you might. You’re so alike, you and your sister.’
‘You said books should be properly maintained. Then why destroy them in that way?’
Mrs Pollard laughed then grimaced and gripped her side. ‘That’s not destruction. That’s salvation. His father built the library and put those books there, but all they did was shout at the master and cause him pain. He could hear his father’s voice in every one, he used to say. His father’s or Victoria’s. I helped to silence them. But my time of servitude is at an end. I’ve been waiting for so long for someone suitable to take my place. I thought she wouldn’t arrive in time, but for once fate has decided to show me kindness.’ She smiled, and Eliza saw the solemn girl from the photographs. ‘Still, there are a few things we need to put in order. You’ll have to change before we begin. It’s so much easier when they die already dressed.’
They turned the corner. The fear Eliza had lost found her again.
The wall was lined with corpses. Each stood propped against a metal pole with a noose to hold her head back against the wall, like porcelain dolls on a stand. Dolls wearing Victoria’s dress.
‘My talents for organisation proved very useful. Before I came, the master could only manage one every decade or so. This is the real Victoria Kyffin.’ Mrs Pollard pointed to the first corpse. Her dress was yellow and tattered. All her skin had rotted away, leaving only a blackened skull and matted tangles of brown hair, her jaw locked open in a smiling grimace.
‘When Mr Kyffin came to claim her, the master let the fool believe he would see his daughter if he waited long enough. The man lived in that cellar for years, poor thing. Until I discovered a better use for him. The master isn’t much for entertaining these days. It makes him so weary. But a house must have its presumed leader.’
&nbs
p; Each corpse they passed was less decayed than the one before. They were all so similar – same build, same hair – it was like watching a sick reconstruction of Victoria returning to life.
‘Someone would notice. All these girls. Someone would care.’
‘But that’s the wonderful thing, Miss Haverford. No one did. No one who mattered. And the war made it easier. All those refugees. Before, most of them were from the kingdom – English, Welsh, Scottish. Even an Australian. But Olenka here was Polish. Amelia after her, French.’ They reached the end of the line. ‘And then there was dear Pip.’
The freshest of the corpses, only Pip’s eyes had completely decayed. The skin of her face was grey – sunken and drooped – but the scream she held as she died was visible on her dried, receding lips.
‘She was holding that book you found when I stabbed her. Thought it could act as a shield. But it was easy to slip the boning knife up between her ribs.’
Beside Pip was an empty metal stand, a noose dangling above. Hanging from the pole was the dress Eliza wore to dinner, the dress that haunted her dreams.
This was to be her resting place.
As Eliza stared at the waiting space, Mrs Pollard continued down the tunnel.
‘Mr Brownawell, aren’t you proud of me? I’ve brought you another bride.’ A silent wheelchair rolled forward.
This corpse wore a red dinner jacket and bow tie, his skeletal hand adorned with a gold ring while his face held the permanent smile that matched his brides’. Eliza’s eyes met his empty sockets.
‘Nineteen forty-five wasn’t a good year for his condition. But you’re holding up admirably, aren’t you, my dear?’ She stroked his shoulder. ‘For nearly thirty years, I’ve been his one, faithful companion. I promised I’d serve him till death. Sadly, that day has come sooner than expected.’ She coughed into her handkerchief. Eliza glanced at the bloody wound staining Mrs Pollard’s side, but the woman merely smiled. ‘No, not that. I have the cancer. Known it for some time. But, unlike others, I’m able to make my peace with death. For in death, we can be together.’
She leant down and kissed the decayed scalp of her master. Eliza pictured the germs that must have transferred onto Mrs Pollard’s lips, saw them sinking into the delicate, thin skin of her lips and worming their way into her bloodstream. Eliza understood why the woman had cancer. What shocked her was the thought that she had ever tried to reason with or appease Mrs Pollard. One could not reason with irrevocable madness. Mrs Pollard reached into the darkness and pulled forward another chair over which another gown, one different to Victoria’s, was draped.
‘I will be his true bride. The only faithful woman he has ever known. And remain here with him forever.’ She caressed his cheek.
‘If you’re his wife, then he won’t need any more brides,’ Eliza said. ‘So why need someone to carry on his work?’
Mrs Pollard laughed. ‘Because of the children, of course. We both want children. And we have plenty of space for them down here. But first things first, Miss Haverford. I promised him you, and I’ve never broken a promise to my master. That’s why he loves me.’ She stepped forward and fingered the dress that was to be Eliza’s. ‘I’ve already decided the best way to go about it. A hanging. In honour of your dear father. Won’t that be nice? Now, put on the dress.’
‘No.’
‘Alright. Put on the dress or I kill Rebecca. She’ll die willingly if I tell her to.’
Eliza couldn’t move.
‘You would do anything for your sister, wouldn’t you? You’ve hurt her so much already. The only way you can make it up to her is if you sacrifice yourself. She’ll never forgive you otherwise. I know. She told me.’
Eliza felt the coldness within weaken her. She reached for the dress.
‘That’s a good girl.’
It had to be eradicated. She pulled the dress from the hanger.
‘I told you, sir. There was no need to ever doubt me.’
There was only one way to remove it. Eliza held the dress to the light.
‘I always do as you ask.’
The delicate lace caressed the lick of flame from the wall lantern, and the dress caught fire. Eliza tossed it onto Mr Brownawell. Mrs Pollard screamed, and Eliza ran, yanking lanterns off the wall and throwing them onto the corpses. The passage burned behind her. Each body became consumed by flames as the fire crackled. The orange light behind her grew like the oncoming dawn as black smoke drifted ahead of her, trying to block her path. The heat boiled her skin as sweat coated her like a shield, and she struggled to breathe in the oxygen-starved air. Through the smoke, she could see the exit to the tunnel of flame, and the figure of Mr Drewry waiting beyond. Only a few feet stood between them.
Mrs Pollard tackled her. ‘You will do as you’re told. You will take your proper place!’ She tried to pin Eliza’s arms behind her back. The smoke scalded her nose. All she could smell was ash. She tasted it on her tongue.
Eliza rolled over and kneed the gunshot wound. Mrs Pollard gasped, and Eliza punched her again. The housekeeper fell backwards. Eliza got to her feet and ran until she reached the cavern. Mr Drewry sat on the ground, rocking back and forth. Eliza grabbed his arm.
‘We have to go! Mr Drewry!’
He wouldn’t budge. Eliza took his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes.
‘Ben, it’s time to go.’
He responded, noticing for the first time the fire in the tunnel.
Mrs Pollard hobbled from the flames, coming for them. Ben grabbed the rifle and fired. Mrs Pollard fell then pushed herself up to her knees.
Together, Eliza and Ben pushed one of the heavy mining carts in front of the entrance. Mrs Pollard threw herself at it but was too weak to move it away. Her bloodied fingers reached for them as Eliza took her torch and lit the wooden tunnel entrance. The fire climbed up either side and lit the top of the frame, surrounding Mrs Pollard in flames.
‘She’ll never forgive you!’ she screamed, blood spitting from her lips. ‘She knows the good work I do here. She won’t fail us!’
A flaming beam cracked and fell on top of Mrs Pollard. Her angry shouts turned to screams of another sort as Eliza watched the flames engulf her body, sending her to the same end as the brides in the tunnel. Her dying wish, at last.
‘And they lived happily ever after,’ Eliza whispered. Ben pulled her away.
Together, they ran from the burning cavern and through the tunnel, not stopping until they reached the outside quarry path. The clear, fresh air on the surface calmed her.
An explosion shook the ground. Eliza fell sideways towards the gaping quarry. Ben grabbed her and pulled her back, losing his grip on the rifle. It tumbled into the void as the ground rumbled again. They kept running, the path threatening to collapse under them. Behind them, the path fell away. They were almost on solid ground.
Eliza reached the top first and helped Ben up after her. They ran from the unstable edge as the ground continued quaking beneath them, the underground flames burning away the last of Mr Brownawell’s poison. At the treeline, they paused and watched the quarry breaking apart as a multitude of stars looked down upon them.
34
Peter walked for hours, his legs going numb from the effort. Many times he thought he was only wandering deeper into the unforgiving Welsh countryside. He had images of walking all the way to the sea or stumbling across the English border, his collapsed body found by miners, gnawed on by foxes.
When he saw the manor house, he wept. The place appeared abandoned, half-hidden as it was behind a high brick wall. He wiped dirt away from the plaque mounted by the front gates.
Thornecroft.
He laughed. He had found it. After all this time, despite what everyone said, he had done it. He had found her. Peter pushed open the heavy iron gates and approached the house. All was pitch black except for a small light glowing in the window to his right. Someone was home.
He rang the doorbell but heard no sound. Thinking it broken, he knoc
ked. No one answered. He tried the handle. The unlocked door opened onto a dark entrance hall.
‘Hello?’
His voice echoed through the blackness.
‘Eliza?’
No answer.
‘Anyone?’
To his right was the small orange light.
‘Hello?’
It moved deeper into the house.
‘Wait!’ Peter ran after it, bumping into walls and furniture, finding it difficult to navigate the twisting passages. He entered a hall decorated with old paintings. Each he passed depicted the same woman and scrolled like a film reel as the woman drew closer and closer to an entrance in the distance. Peter stopped at the last painting. It was the entrance to a mine. Ahead, someone coughed, drawing his attention. The light hovered there.
‘Hello?’ As he approached, he saw the illuminated face. ‘Please. I need your help. I . . .’ He paused. ‘Rebecca? Oh, Rebecca! Thank God you’re alright.’
Rebecca’s face was blank. The poor girl must be traumatised, he thought.
‘Rebecca, it’s me. Peter. Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’ve come to save you.’
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said.
‘I know. But we’ll move quickly. I’ll have you out of here quick as a flash. Where is Eliza?’
‘You’ll have to go. We don’t need you here.’
‘Rebecca,’ he laughed. ‘What’s got into you? Stop being silly. Here. Take my hand and show me to your sister.’
Rebecca set down the Tilley lamp then reached for Peter’s hand, keeping the other behind her back.
What a queer motion, he thought, before a sharp pain erupted in his stomach. A knife handle protruded from his abdomen. He tried to speak. Only blood came from his lips. Rebecca pulled the knife out. He staggered back. A doorframe. He tried to support himself. His feet slipped on the bloody floor.
‘This is our home now. You don’t belong here.’
‘R . . . Rebecca . . .’
She plunged the knife in again. This pain was less than the first but caused more blood to spill. She pulled out the blade. He fell back onto something soft. He was sweating. It must have been from the heat. The blood was so warm. But he was so cold.
Abigale Hall Page 31