by Sarah Rayne
‘We’re going to live in London with our mother,’ affirmed Daisy.
‘Let them come with us,’ said Hurst, impatiently. ‘It’ll teach them a lesson if nothing else.’
So they came with us, walking down the steps and along the stone corridor. I had the oil lamp, and in fact it was useful to have the two girls with us, for Rosie was able to carry the second of the lamps.
We went past those silent rooms where condemned prisoners were once kept until their execution. Even to me it’s a bad place – I do not accept that emotions can linger in a building, but since coming to live at Deadlight Hall, there have been times, walking along that corridor for some ordinary domestic reason, when I have felt the weight of those prisoners’ fear and despair.
The furnace room is a dingy, dismal place, and if there had been any other means of heating I should have insisted that the furnace be ripped out by its roots, and the room closed off. But I do not think there was any other way, and as far as I could ever make out, the furnace and all its pipes are built into the structure of the building.
Hurst had fired the furnace effectively – I suspect he would be efficient at whatever he did – and it was roaring away, heat belching out, the scent of hot iron tainting the air. Scarlet fire showed all round the edges of the door.
Hurst laid Esther’s body on the ground, then turned to face us. ‘When I open that door, you two, Rosie and Daisy – and you, as well, Mrs Porringer – must stand well clear. The heat will be immense. You understand?’
We all nodded, and indeed I had already moved well away from the furnace, and was standing on one side of the door of the room, up against the wall. Hurst levered back the front cover, using the long hooked rod kept for the purpose. As it came open, heat poured out, blisteringly hot, so that my eyes felt scorched and my skin prickled.
‘Quickly now,’ said Hurst, bending to lift Esther. He glanced across at me. ‘Mrs Porringer, we have no clergyman to speak the funeral service, but—’
I said, ‘She has already had the funeral service. It was read during the procession to hang her – outside this very room, in fact. But,’ I said, as his expression darkened, ‘perhaps we should all say the Lord’s Prayer, as a wish that the woman’s soul will find repose.’
‘And sanity and some peace,’ said Hurst.
I began the prayer. Behind me, Rosie and Daisy drew closer together, and I saw them link hands. I cannot be sure that they joined in the prayer, but I think they did.
Hurst lifted Esther’s body, and carried it to the furnace. His skin was flushed from the heat, and he was keeping his head slightly turned away from the open door.
As we reached the words ‘forgive us our trespasses’ he swung the body towards the furnace.
And Esther Breadspear opened her eyes.
It was too late to stop the momentum of the throw. Hurst had put all his force behind it – like a man throwing a ball at cricket – and that force had propelled Esther inexorably into the furnace. Hurst realized what was happening, and he also realized he was powerless to stop it. His face twisted with horror, but she was already tumbling into the depths of the furnace.
Someone had begun to scream, but I cannot say, even now, if it was Esther who screamed, or if I was screaming, or even if it was John Hurst.
In that moment the two girls rushed forward. They looked like small demons – lit by the flames, their hair tousled – and at first I thought they were following their earlier avowal – that they wanted to make sure she was dead and that they were now making sure she burned. Then I saw I was wrong. The reality of what was happening had hit them, and they were trying to do what neither I nor Hurst could – they were trying to save her. It was no use, of course, because they could not get near enough, but they tried to grab the woman, reaching for her with their small hands. Esther was probably dead already, from shock, if from nothing else. At least, that is what I tell myself.
John Hurst had backed into a corner, and was huddled there, his hands over his face, like a terrified child suffering from a nightmare. Somehow I managed to get him back up the stairs to my own room. I sent the children to their beds – a couple of the boys helped Douglas Wilger – telling them we would discuss this more in the morning.
Nothing I could say or do seemed to break through John Hurst’s frozen horror, and I wondered if I should send for Dr Maguire – although what explanation I would have given I have no idea. I poured a glass of my own sleeping draught, and Hurst had just taken it from me when I realized that Rosie and Daisy had not been with the other children when they went off to their own rooms.
With that realization came another. Deep within the basement, the furnace was still thrumming.
I did not stop to think or reason. I ran from the room, down the main stairs, and down the narrow stone steps to the furnace room. Halfway down I heard Hurst coming after me, and I was aware of gratitude. As he caught me up, I saw that his eyes were sensible and clear, and I managed to gasp out an explanation. ‘The two girls – Rosie and Daisy – I think they’re still down here.’
He flinched, then said, ‘Pray God you’re wrong.’
But I was not wrong. They were both in there, standing up against the iron door – which was closed. They were beating on the round glass window with their small fists, and screaming for help, their faces wild with fear, their eyes wide and terrified. But they were silent screams, for the massive old door smothered their cries. That’s another of the things that I believe will haunt me – those silent screams.
Behind them, the furnace was roaring up, and the black iron lid – the lid that I thought we had closed before leaving the room – was no longer in place. The fire belched out, uncontrolled and fierce, and the iron door, even from this side, was already almost too hot to touch. The open furnace was heating up the room.
John Hurst and I fought to get the door open, but it resisted all our efforts. It had jammed, or its lock had snapped – I do not know which, and it does not matter. The moment when I realized we could not reach those girls is one that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
We put everything we had into trying to get that door open, but it was all to no avail. Neither Hurst’s greater strength nor my lesser, puny strength could free the lock. I remember he ran down to the scullery, and I heard him crashing into cupboards, ransacking the place for an implement that would force the door. He came back with chisels and knives and a couple of wooden mallets used for tenderizing meat. He tried everything; his hands were blistering from the heat of the door, and his hair was beaded with sweat.
‘The only thing left is to try to smash the glass and help them climb through,’ he said, and I nodded, and seized one of the mallets.
But the glass was fearsomely thick – intended to act as a barrier between the furnace’s heat and the rest of the house – and the mallets were not designed for such a task. We barely managed to splinter the window’s surface.
‘They’ll die,’ I said, in despair. ‘They’ll roast alive.’
As I said the words, something seemed to huff malevolent breath on the furnace so that it roared up, like a fire will roar up inside a chimney when strong bellows are used on it.
The room became bathed in angry scarlet – I do know that sounds fantastical, but it is what happened. The screams did reach us then – but only for a few seconds. Then there was silence.
Nell laid down the journal for a moment, and reached for her wine.
‘It’s appalling,’ said Michael, after a few moments.
‘Yes. Those little girls – and that poor creature, Esther. But,’ said Nell, ‘did you pick up an odd crumb of actual humanity in Maria Porringer towards the end of it all?’
‘Just a crumb or two,’ said Michael. ‘But she still kept Esther imprisoned, even when she knew she was innocent.’
‘But what was the alternative by then?’ said Nell. ‘Esther was completely insane, poor woman. If they hadn’t deported her, they’d have thrown her into one of those appa
lling Victorian asylums.’
‘Professor?’
Leo was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were in shadow, and it was a moment before he spoke. Then he said, ‘Those two girls …’
‘I know,’ said Nell at once. ‘I can’t bear it either.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘I think we saw them. As we were leaving the Hall tonight.’
‘Two small girls, with long chestnut hair?’ said Leo.
‘Yes.’ Nell looked at him in surprise. ‘They were a bit blurred, but just for a moment they were there.’
‘They were going away from the house,’ said Michael. He was looking at Leo, as well. ‘Hand in hand – as if they were going quite freely and – well, almost happily.’
‘One of them turned and put up a hand as if saying goodbye,’ said Nell.
‘I didn’t know you’d seen that,’ said Michael, turning to look at her.
‘I didn’t know you had, either.’
The moment lengthened. Nell thought: there’s something behind this – something the professor hasn’t told us. But perhaps it’s something he doesn’t want to tell us. With the idea of smoothing this over, she said, ‘There’s just a couple more pages of the journal – although I shouldn’t think there’s any more to tell.’
‘Professor, are you all right to stay with this?’ asked Michael, and Nell heard the note of concern in his voice and knew that he, too, had picked up that sudden spike of emotion when the professor had asked about the two small girls she and Michael had seen.
But Leo said, ‘Of course I am. Please finish reading, Nell. But I’ll have a half glass more wine, if I may?’ He glanced at Michael. ‘Yes, I am supposed to be driving back to College,’ he said. ‘But if necessary I’ll call a taxi and leave the car here. I think my reputation will allow me this one gaudy night. Let’s finish the journal and wind up the spell.’
Maria wrote in the last pages:
Today I came to Deadlight Hall for the last time. I cannot say why I did so, for I am not given to sentimentality or emotional farewells. There was no reason for me to enter the house ever again. It is closed up – the children gone to different homes and different employers. Even the Wilger boy has found a home – one of John Hurst’s cousins, so I hear, and Douglas will help with the writing of letters and keeping of accounts.
It was strange to walk through the village again this morning, and to see our old shop. A distant cousin of Mr Porringer’s took it over – the name is still over the door, which Mr Porringer would be glad to see. As to the cousin, I make no comment, but most of the men in that family were sadly weak.
I had expected Deadlight Hall to be deserted and empty, but as I reached the courtyard I saw someone was ahead of me. A thin rain was falling – I had needed my umbrella – and there were wet footprints on the steps leading up to the front door. My heart began to beat faster. The main doors were slightly ajar, and after a moment I pushed them wide and went inside.
The hall was dim and silent, but the house did not feel empty. Standing there I had the strong impression that someone watched me – someone who crouched on the stairs in a twisted, hunched-over way, and someone who had walked these rooms, calling for the children.
With the thought, a faint soft whisper formed on the silence.
‘Children, are you here?’
She’s still here, I thought in horror. Esther Breadspear, who it was believed butchered her two young daughters, and who cheated the hangman – not once, but three times. No, four times in all. Thrice in the execution shed, and once again in the attics.
I do not believe in ghosts – I should like that understood by anyone who ever reads this. But if ever a soul had cause to haunt, then surely that is Esther.
The line of damp footprints went across the hall and up the main stairs. There was no reason why I should follow them. If someone was here, it was none of my business, not now, not ever.
But I went quietly up the stairs to the first floor. As I reached it, the whisper came again, and with it, the sound of someone struggling to breathe. Esther, I thought. Strangled on the end of a rope.
You will think, you who may one day read this, that a prudent woman would have gone back down the stairs, and out into the safe, rain-scented gardens. But I needed to know, you see. I needed to be reassured as to what was in here. And ghosts, surely, do not leave wet footprints.
The prints continued to the second floor, then along to the narrow attic stair. They were drying and fading, but they were leading to the attics.
It was as I approached the attic stairs that I heard the sounds, and cold fear closed round my heart, for I had heard those sounds before – I had heard them on the night the children tried to hang Esther Breadspear. It was the sound of her heels drumming against the walls as she twisted and struggled and half strangled to death.
I called out, ‘Hello? Is someone here?’
The rhythmic sounds increased – they became frenzied. I said, ‘Esther?’ and the old house picked up the word and spun it mockingly around my head.
There was faint candlelight now, and as I stepped on to the attic floor, I saw the shadow that danced grotesquely against the wall. I knew it at once for what it was. And I knew who it was who danced and struggled. Not Esther, this time – not even a poor sad remnant of her – but a living person. A human being who could no longer live with the knowledge of what he had done – that he had burned another human creature alive and in the wake of that, two small girls had also died. A man who had come to the place where it happened, to end his own life.
John Hurst, hanging by candlelight from the same roof beam where the children had tried to hang Esther, writhing and squirming, and slowly strangling to death.
I tried to get him down – I really did. I climbed on to the table – the very table he himself had used when trying to free Esther – and I tore my fingernails to bleeding shreds in an attempt to loosen the rope.
But the rope was too thick and the knots too firm. As for lifting him – he was a well-built man, tall and muscular, and I am well beyond my youth. I climbed down and I ran all the way down to the sculleries, my heart pounding, praying to find a knife. But there was nothing. When Deadlight Hall was closed, its contents were cleared out, and there was nothing anywhere that I could use.
He is not yet dead. I am sitting here, in the small room where once I kept watch on Esther, writing in my old journal, and he still struggles and writhes in front of me.
A moment ago the momentum of his frantic struggles brought his body jerking around to face me, and the blood-flecked eyes stared into mine.
I cannot do anything for him, but I shall stay here with him until he dies. I do not know if he realizes I am here, but I shall not leave him.
Later
It is over at last. He is dead. I shall not cry, for tears are of no use to anyone.
I shall never know whether he killed himself from remorse or as atonement for what happened to Esther Breadspear and the Mabbley girls, or whether …
Or whether the rest of the children were watching him, and followed him out here – perhaps even lured him here with some message. And once he was here, they killed him – either to stop him from incriminating them, or because of what happened to Rosie and Daisy.
There is one more thing I can do for him, though. I can make sure that his death is regarded as suicide, and that if the children were his killers, they are not suspected. This, I know, is what he would want, especially for his son, Douglas, who will live on in the area.
There is so much shame surrounding a suicide, but I do not think that John – I will call him by the name I always used for him in my mind – I do not think that John will care for that.
So I have written a note purporting to come from him – I think I have made a fair job of forging his hand, and I do not think it will be questioned.
I have not referred to any of the deaths, of course – Polly Mabbley’s cottage is shut up, and as far as anyone hereabouts knows, she and her two daughters went of
f to London one night, as she had so often said they would. People can continue to believe that.
In the note I have simply said it is impossible to face the burden of debt any longer, and for that reason, he is ending his life. I have no idea of his financial situation, but I feel this is as acceptable a reason as any. I shall place the note in the pocket of his coat. It may be a while before the body is found, but I cannot help that. It will be found in the end, and the note with it.
I want no involvement in any of it, though. I know the truth and the secrets, but cannot see that revealing them will do any good to anyone.
It is all done. And now I have given way to the stupid painful tears for the man who had been irrepressible and ungodly and whom I shall never forget.
Signed, Maria Porringer.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘So,’ said Nell at last, ‘that’s what happened. It’s a remarkable story.’
‘Yes.’ Michael was looking at Leo.
Leo’s eyes were still in shadow, but at Michael’s words, he seemed to recollect his surroundings.
He said, ‘I think this is the time when I tell you my own part in Deadlight Hall’s history.’
‘If you felt you could do that, it wouldn’t go any further,’ said Nell, and he smiled at her.
‘I know that.’ A small frown of concentration touched his brow, as if he was assembling his thoughts, then he said, ‘It’s a long story, though, so I shall have to begin right at the beginning.’ He smiled at Nell. ‘And follow Beth’s maxim to go on until I reach the end.’
‘Good enough.’
‘It began when I came to England, when I was six,’ said Leo. ‘When I and a group of other children were smuggled out of Poland by a man we knew as Schönbrunn.’
Nell, listening to him, watching the play of expressions and emotions on his face as he spoke, heard – and knew Michael would be hearing – the deep sadness behind his words. He spoke concisely and well – she supposed this was to be expected – but she still found herself fascinated by his voice.