The man was suspended from the great arch that surmounted the gates, the crude noose made fast to the ironwork of the armorial crest itself. He swung by a little way, like a pendulum that was still but has been disturbed. The wind had caught his cape, spreading it behind him as if in some grand display of ceremony. Angie stood solemnly at his feet. Her arms hung at her sides, and her face was raised in contemplation. Her agitation seemed to have passed for now. She was at peace.
‘Quickly, Bliss,’ said the inspector, bounding across the drive and taking hold of the man’s legs. ‘There may be time yet. Here, you must fish out my pocket-knife. I will support his weight until the last possible moment, then give you a leg-up so that you may cut him down.’
Gideon came to a halt with an ungainly skid, keeping his eyes averted as he followed Cutter’s directions. Delicately, he patted the outer pockets of the inspector’s coat, then drew back his hands and coughed in embarrassment.
‘Do you recall, sir, where it was about your person that you placed it?’
‘It is in my right trouser pocket. Where else would a man put a pocket-knife so as to have it ready to hand? Get it out now quickly and none of your foostering. What rhyme was she singing, Bliss?’
‘Excuse me, sir?’ Some moments passed as he fumbled in the inspector’s clothing, and when at last he located the knife, he spun away in such embarrassed haste that he immediately dropped it.
‘Mother of Christ,’ said Cutter. ‘I might as well entrust my knife to a showman’s monkey. Open it up, like a good fellow, and do your best not to stab me in the eye. You will need the blade at the ready once you are up. That’s it. Now, come and stand beneath him.’
Gideon shuffled into position, holding the pocket-knife awkwardly apart from his body. Above him the cloaked hulk lurched in the wind. He fixed his gaze on the rope.
‘On the count of three, Bliss,’ said Cutter, ‘I will let go his legs and take hold of yours. Get a grip on the rope and saw at it just beneath your fist where it will be tautest. Keep your strokes square against the same mark for a clean cut. Are you ready?’
‘In all honesty, sir, I cannot tell you if I am or not.’
When it was done at last and Cutter had let him down, Gideon staggered away and retched. The inspector paid no attention. He had retrieved his knife and dropped to his knees, lowering his head to the fallen man’s lips as he probed his wrist for a pulse.
Finding none, he paused for a moment in consideration, then began examining the remainder of his person. Gideon saw his expression darken. In agitation, he unbuttoned the man’s topcoat, then pressed a hand to his abdomen before raising it to his face to examine his fingertips.
‘What rhyme was it, Bliss?’
Gideon shuffled to Cutter’s side. ‘Sir?’
Cutter only shook his head. Laying open the man’s coat, he set about the buttons of his waistcoat. The urgency was gone from his movements now, and he proceeded with grim deliberation. He opened the man’s hands to examine his palms, then worked the noose from behind his head. He probed the knot with his thumb, as if to test its strength.
‘Riddles and rhymes, you said. Do you remember what they were?’
‘Oh. Yes, sir.’ A small movement caught his eye, and Gideon looked up to find that Angie had drawn near. She looked on, silent and attentive. ‘Perhaps you know it, sir. It is about a baby asleep in a tree.’
Cutter drew a wallet from the man’s coat and looked over its contents. He looked up at Gideon, his face strained.
‘Of course I know it, Bliss. It’s a fucking nursery rhyme. Rock-a-by, baby. Everyone knows it.’ He turned to Angie then. ‘When the bough breaks, eh?’
Her gaze flickered for a moment when he spoke. She set her head to one side, as if some distant music had caught her attention. Absently, she took her afflicted hand in the other, tracing its vanished surfaces with her thumb. She made a cradle of her arms and, rocking them gently, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the rain.
Cutter stood, regarding her warily, then made his way slowly to the gate. He kept his eyes on the ground, and when he was directly beneath the arch, he lowered himself once more to a crouch.
‘Narrow enough,’ he mused. ‘Only a cart, maybe. It was let in, whatever it was. These gates were chained when we got here, but of course he would have had a key. It may be about him still.’
Gideon moved to his side. ‘The carriage we heard in the lane, sir?’
‘No doubt,’ said Cutter, rising. ‘The driver had the fear of God in him by then. He drew up here and stopped, for the tracks go no further. And then His Lordship climbed on top.’
‘His Lordship, sir?’
But the inspector was not listening. He rasped his chin against his palm. ‘He tied his own noose. He was no great hand at knots, but he managed it. And then he gave the word himself, I imagine. She would have made him give the word.’
‘The word, sir?’
‘To the driver, Bliss. To drive away. To let him drop.’
Gideon turned to Angie, who was watching them serenely. She opened her cradled arms, one whole and one vanished, and let them fall to her sides.
‘And baby,’ she said softly. ‘And baby and all.’
She turned away and started towards the house.
‘Get along after her,’ said Cutter, rising. ‘I will keep watch here. Rouse the servants when you reach the house. Tell Mrs Cornish to send her young lad. There is some heavy work to be done. The remains must be carried to the house, until suitable arrangements can be made. Do not allow Lady Ada to be woken yet, if it can be helped. I would sooner give her the news myself.’
‘The news, sir?’
‘That her brother is dead, Bliss. That Lord Strythe is dead.’
XXIV
Octavia dreamed of the house on Vesper Sands.
A storm had come and gone in the night, or she had imagined one, and her sleep had been restless and shallow. She had wandered the sands, in the dream, and had seen the house that rose from the dunes. She knew it somehow, though she had never seen it, and she hurried towards it. Behind her the water was rising, and rags of shadow skirted the pale blade of the moon.
She ran, but the tide surged around her and she could not keep her feet. As she sank to her knees, she saw Lord Strythe, and she knew the girl at his side by something other than sight. Angie Tatton wore a bridal gown, its train spreading serenely over the water, and they made their way in calm procession as the sea rose all around them. Octavia called out to her, before the waves overcame her, but Angie did not hear. She glimpsed her once more, in the far distance, a bright wraith that passed out of sight as she buckled under the flooding cold.
She was breathless when she woke, and feverish in spite of the chill. It was not yet light, but she knew that she would not sleep again. She sat up, meaning to bathe her face at the wash bowl, and caught sight of something by the door. An envelope. The night porter must have slipped it under the door, not wishing to disturb her.
She took the envelope to the small writing table near the window. It was heavy, for a letter. A packet, really. Her name had been scrawled on it, but nothing else. It was not stamped, and bore no postmarks. It had been brought by hand, then, and had come in the night. She went to light the lamp, but something made her wary. At this hour hers would be the only window to show a light. She made do instead with a misshapen stump of candle that she had set at her bedside.
She broke the seal and drew out the topmost sheet. The writing paper was handsome, if not impeccably clean, and the letter was in the same hand as the envelope. It was elegant enough, but betrayed a certain haste.
My dear Miss Hillingdon,
I pray this does not reach you too late. Be warned of this much first, since he may be near you. (If you are observed, give no sign of what you have learned.) Lord Hartington is not your friend. I have not yet uncovered all, but I am sure of this much. He conspired with Lord Strythe in abduction, murder and other dark acts. He is one of those they call the
Spiriters.
Octavia broke off. She stood, breathing slowly. The wind was restless still, and she could not tell if the hotel was entirely quiet. A light had been left burning on the landing, and a dull blade of yellow showed beneath her door. She crossed the floor quietly. The door was bolted, but she wanted to be sure. She took a shawl from her case and wrapped herself in it, then stood for a moment with her eyes closed.
She sat at the table and began again.
I will be brief because I must. Read to the end if you can. I have enclosed certain photographs and documents. I took them from the other man, after what happened on the train. Do not judge me harshly for that. You will understand soon enough that I did only what I must.
Do not take these items out unless you are alone. But do look at them, if you can bring yourself to it. They will show you what I cannot explain. They will show you the nature of those we must confront.
The women, first, and the girls. They were only children, some of them. Only children. I will come to them first, for it is they who have always mattered most. They wanted them for their brightness, Miss Hillingdon. For the brightness of their souls. You will wonder at that, and perhaps you will suspect me of some infirmity of mind, but you of all people ought not to doubt the truth of this.
You ought not to doubt it, because you yourself are possessed of the same brightness. Your being is suffused with it, like the phosphorescence that mariners observe beneath the skin of the sea. I saw it myself when I entered your compartment on the train. You did not notice me, perhaps, but I could not help but take account of you. It has been visible to me always, this particular brightness, and in this it seems I am something of a rarity.
Perhaps you doubt me still, as well you might. I will try to offer you some proof, so that you do not dismiss these as the ramblings of a madman. Do you experience visions, Miss Hillingdon? I imagine that you do, and that they have troubled you lately. It is common in those gifted as you are, especially when others of your kind are in peril.
If I have missed my mark, then by now you will have cast my letter aside and all will be lost. If not, then I hope I have your trust.
They took the last of my poor girls, Miss Hillingdon. They took Angela Tatton, whom I had cared for longest, the last and the brightest. She is not gone yet, I hope, but she is fading. I want to see her before the end.
And before the end, by the grace of God, she will see justice done.
There is much more to say, but it must wait until we meet. Lord Strythe is not dead, whatever Hartington may have led you to believe. He is gone to Vesper Sands, and that is where you and I must go too. That is where this must end.
Look at them now, Miss Hillingdon. Look, if you can, at these lost bright souls. We will try to honour them, you and I, in the work we must now do.
I am thus, and shall remain, your dutiful servant,
H. Neuilly
Afterwards, Octavia dressed heedlessly. She had brought other things, but could give no thought to choosing among them. She put on the stale travelling clothes of the day before. She lurched towards the door, meaning to go down and ask for a cab, then remembered the envelope. She wrapped it in a chemise and stowed it at the bottom of her case. It was to keep the contents safe, but not only that. She wanted to keep them –
Lottie Hinde (aged 17)
– out of sight. Those photographs. She wanted not to have seen them.
She had bundled them together without looking again, touching them only at their edges, had pushed them away and staggered from the table. She had stood at the foot of the bed, gazing about her in bewilderment. She had clutched herself, as if an ache were welling in her. As if something might rupture.
Tabitha Norton (aged 22) – The life everlasting.
She turned to lock the door behind her, fumbling even as she tried to keep her movements quiet. At the end of the landing, when she stumbled, she saw that she had put on only one shoe, that she was still clutching the other. She paused to slip it on, and to pin up her hair before a mirror. But a moment later, on the stairs, she had no recollection of her appearance. She halted again, putting a hand to her face. Had it been a mirror, or only a picture?
She reached for the banister, feeling herself sway, and her vision swam and darkened. She saw the room, as she always did, and the girl in white, supine and still. The men crouching over her were in shadow, just as before. She tried this time, tried to look, but nothing could be seen of their faces. One of them held something, a flask or vessel, and from it a shadowy vapour rose. The girl’s body was jolted by a violent spasm. She arched her back, spreading her arms stiffly, and for a moment she was still. Her eyes opened wide then, and her mouth gaped as if she were screaming. Above her the air was disturbed – for a moment Octavia could make no sense of it – then a smoke poured from her, a slow coil of shadow at first, then a living swarm of black moths that filled the air and became the darkness.
It was gone. Octavia clutched the banister, waiting for the lightness to pass.
‘Wavy, old thing. You’re up early.’
It was him, of course. Behind her, at the head of the stairs. She heard him descend, his tread deliberate and unhurried. She would not turn. She would not see him.
Johanna Styles (aged 19) – Perpetual light grant unto them, o Lord.
But he had reached her already. He turned on the step below her, looking her over with careful levity.
‘How’s your room, my darling? Did you sleep well?’
Beneath her, in the entrance hall, the rose-patterned carpet showed a warm spill of light. What was his name?
‘I say, Wavy. Are you quite well?’
He was pale and unshaven, his voice not quite airy. He leaned on the banister, his arm slack but blocking her way. The porter’s name. He had given it as he brought up her bags. What was his name?
‘Alfred?’ At the root of her throat she felt a small flux of panic. ‘Master Alfred! Are you there?’
For a moment Elf regarded her in frank surprise, then something changed in his face. She saw his displeasure. A tremor of contempt. He looked down to the hallway, where a hulking young man had edged into the light.
‘Master Alfred?’ she said again. But no, the uniform was not right. Surely a night porter would not – the young man uncovered his head, shaking the ropy curls from his face.
‘Georgie?’ Half a flight of stairs separated them, but she raised a hand, unthinkingly, as if to touch his face. ‘Georgie, is it really – but how did you—’
He took another step, so that his face was no longer in shadow. She saw the patient set of his brow, the furrowed attentiveness. ‘Well now, sister. It is a tale and a half, but the long and short of it is that I was disappointed of my place on the Osprey. I was not as sorry as I might have been. There’s been all manner of talk in town about – well, about that business we was looking into. I wasn’t easy in my mind.’
‘Dear Georgie,’ she said. ‘But how did you find me?’
‘Old Healy at the Gazette. I followed by the mail train, though I didn’t trouble to tell the guards they had a passenger. I got here just after four, and Master Alfred here has been uncommon civil. He set me up nicely with a toddy and a sandwich, and he has borne all my talk of the service such as he ought to be sainted.’
Lily Chorley (aged 15) – And ever shall be. World without end.
She steadied herself. For a moment her senses whitened. Georgie advanced to the foot of the stairs, his face showing a plain concern. He took note of Elf, appraising him slowly.
‘Octavia?’ he said. ‘Is something the matter? Master Alfred, might I trouble you for a drop of brandy for my sister.’
Alfred came to Georgie’s side, a loping and gangly sort of boy, but obliging in his demeanour. ‘Miss?’ he said. ‘Are you took ill, miss?’
‘I am all right,’ she said. ‘It is only that – would you excuse me, Lord Hartington?’
Elf stared for a moment, then detached himself from the banister, edging aside with a
tepid smile. He glanced at Georgie, mouthing a conspicuous yawn.
‘It is only that I have had some troubling news, Georgie, and must leave as a matter of urgency. I should be very grateful, Master Alfred, if you would send for a cab. But perhaps it is much too early. I’m afraid I’ve had rather a shock, and I am not at all sure of the time.’
‘It is getting on for seven, miss. The drivers are abroad this hour and more. Should you like to take a bite of breakfast as you wait?’
‘You are very kind, Master Alfred, but I don’t feel at all hungry.’
‘You must go and lie down, Octavia,’ Georgie said. ‘We might be waiting half an hour for a cab even if Master Alfred sends out. I shall run out myself and flag a driver down between here and the station, where they are most likely to be found.’
‘No, Georgie,’ said Octavia at once. ‘I’m sorry, what I mean is—’
Behind her on the stairs, the timbers complained softly. She turned her head by a fraction, but did not look round. Georgie studied her with concern, then looked beyond her to the staircase. He drew in a long, considering breath and she noticed, as she had often done, how warily he inhabited his own bulk. He had surged into manhood at twelve or thirteen, and had returned from his first six months as a ship’s boy seeming twice the size. But he had not coarsened, as she had feared he might, or grown swaggering in his ways. There was a gentleness in him that would not permit it.
‘Goodness, Wavy,’ said Elf from behind her. ‘What is this news you have had? You won’t dash off alone, I hope. I’m sure I can be of some service.’
Octavia’s eyes flickered aside at the sound of his voice. She made no reply, and still did not turn around. Georgie was again intent on her face.
‘Octavia?’ he said.
‘Master Alfred will see about the cab, I am sure. But you might help me down with my bags, Georgie. And I have – there are some things I must keep about me, things I must keep safe.’
The House on Vesper Sands Page 26