Write to me. I’m so mad at you and Josephine for cutting me off. Don’t leave me out here on my own. Please. I need someone, or I think I might end up being lost. Please. I’m so alone. This house scares me, and I’m so alone.
Oh God, those awful thoughts. How could I think about leaving my baby? But I want to run away from Highwood and I have nowhere to go. Maybe I could start a new life, be a different person. Find a husband and have a planned child instead. Maybe then I’d be a good mother, not like now.
Fuck, I didn’t mean that. I swear, I didn’t. I love Ruby more than life. I wouldn’t leave her.
But I dream about it too, you know. I do.
Write to me or I’ll never speak to you again.
Emily
Chapter 42
I’d had my suspicions for a long time, but now it was time to confirm them. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found anything incriminating in Lord Bertie’s office, and I knew I needed to know the full truth before I did anything about it. Women had a habit of dying at Highwood Hall, and it was time to break that cycle.
You see, it had all started a few years ago when I went to visit my father. I went because I wanted to know him but also because I wanted answers. My mother hadn’t been seen by anyone since I was six months old. That was when she came to Highwood Hall to work as a maid. She was here for just over three months, and then she left a note saying she couldn’t cope with her responsibilities any longer and vanished.
Dad filled in the gaps Aunt Josephine had left out over the years. He gave me Mum’s letters from when she worked here, and I’d read them so many times that I sometimes felt like I’d become her, walking these halls, cleaning these rooms.
She worked here before Lord Bertie became a lord, and in her letters, she said they spent time together. I’d speculated that they’d had a relationship. My mother also mentioned that Highwood Hall frightened her. What had happened to her here? The very first letter she sent sounded as though she was building a future for herself, not preparing to abandon it altogether. And why did history keep repeating itself? Maids had a habit of leaving suddenly, like Chloe.
The Howards hired parentless, rudderless young women for a reason. They chose girls who would not be missed, who could be considered flighty. This was a pattern. An awful, disgusting pattern. I was sure it involved Lord Bertie, that his misconduct forced those girls out of a job, and I knew one person to ask. Mrs Huxley.
“I think you know why I’m here,” I said.
After the first whisky, she poured herself a second and shook her head. “You don’t want to know. Trust me. If you have anything between your ears, you’ll get out now and never look back. You should’ve left the first day after that box arrived.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not leaving until I have all the answers. I know about your son in the care home. I think Lord Bertie killed Roisin. And I don’t think it’s the first time he’s killed someone, is it?” I gazed at the empty tumbler on the desk. My heart raced as quickly as the tempo of the music. This was a risk, going to her. She was an agent for him—I was sure of it—and yet, I had a feeling… a misguided one, but nonetheless it was a feeling that I could appeal to her humanity. I knew it was in there even if it was buried deep. “The box you sent to yourself threw me off at first, but then I realised what you were doing. You sent that diorama to me to frighten me away, didn’t you? If you’re threatening them, you’re sick of whatever it is they make you do. But you’re also stuck. That care home must be expensive. Is Lord Bertie paying for it in exchange for your silence?”
Her eyes widened, expanding until two saucers stared at me in the low light of the room. Her jaw hung loose for a second, but every other muscle in her body appeared to be drawn tight. She downed the last dregs of her drink.
“Don’t say another word,” she said, turning the music up a few more bars.
“Has he bugged your room? Are they listening?” I kept my voice low.
“I don’t know.” She frowned and stood. Her eyes trailed the corners. I saw them flick over to the secret door. She paced the room with her arms folded across her chest.
“He uses the corridor to come and visit you,” I said.
She nodded.
“Your son. Is he also Lord Bertie’s son?”
She stopped pacing. Her sharp face turned to me.
Of course he was. That was just one of the reasons why Mrs Huxley had remained so loyal all these years. But I wondered when their relationship had turned sour. If Lord Bertie was anything like his son, domination and control excited him, not love and compassion.
“Did he kill his wife?” I asked, again keeping my voice low.
Mrs Huxley’s face screwed up for a moment. And then she nodded slightly.
Tears flooded my eyes. “Roisin?”
This time when she looked at me, her face had softened. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“They were in a relationship.”
“I know they were,” Huxley replied.
I walked over to her, taking her by the arms. She recoiled for a moment, and I felt her rigid body beneath my grip. “Tell me everything.”
“I can’t.” Her eyes were wet. She shook her head so quickly, it had a manic quality. “I can’t tell anyone.”
“But you want to. I know you do. You’ve had enough of working for them. Haven’t you? You’re sick of doing their dirty work and letting them get away with whatever they want. I can help you stop them.”
She pulled herself out of my grip. “I knew you were trouble as soon as you arrived here. Bertie couldn’t see it, but I did. Your surname is different, isn’t it? But you are the spitting image of her.”
“You remember her?”
“Of course I do,” she snapped. “All their faces are imprinted on my mind. I can’t forget even if I wanted to.”
All their faces. I stared over at the diorama, and a chill spread over my body. “How many?”
She closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m tired. I’m so tired.”
“The women on the dining room wall.” My stomach lurched. I wanted to throw up on the carpet. “That face, the one I thought looked like me. It’s my mother, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“We have to stop them. You need to tell me. Tell me everything!”
She slumped back into her chair. “What you’re asking me to do is turn myself in. You have no idea what I’ve done. You have no idea. Your mother, she was one of the first ones they… It was the last Lord Howard who controlled everything back then. Bertie was in his late twenties and… Well, let’s just say he was already a monster. I think he came out of the womb like that. I swear I didn’t know the extent of what was happening, but even if I did… I don’t know if I could’ve stopped it.” Her eyes glazed over; she was lost to the past. “I was pregnant, and I loved him. I helped him. And then… Suddenly I was part of it. When Charlie came along, I tried to get out. I even lived with him in the village for a time, but Bertie wanted me back. Charlie needed special care that I couldn’t afford and it trapped me here.”
“Tell me what happened to my mother. Please. I need to know. I grew up believing that she’d abandoned me.”
“She used to talk about her baby all the time. She showed me pictures. I fell pregnant with Charlie not long after she arrived so I enjoyed seeing them.” She sniffed. “Bertie told me that she’d been telling lies about him and that she was unhinged. He told me she’d try to run away, and if she did, I was supposed to make sure she went back to him. And I did. I saw her running away, saying crazy things about him trying to hurt her, and I led her straight back to him.”
“Then what happened?”
“She fell down the stairs,” the housekeeper said. “Which is half-true. I believed it at first. By the time I reached her, she was at the bottom of the staircase and Bertie was at the top. He told me she’d tripped and fallen.”
“Which staircase?”
“The spiral staircase.”
�
��So that’s why you sent me that diorama. It wasn’t me after all; it was my mother.” My stomach and chest cramped with a sudden, intense ache. I leaned forward, placing my head in my hands. “You’re as sick as them.”
She shook her head slowly. “You don’t know how sick they are yet.”
I paused. I needed a moment to breathe. “Do you make them? The boxes?”
She shook her head. “Bertie chose you from the beginning you know. Providence sent over your details. I saw a photograph of you included in the file, and I knew then who you were. I made a choice. For the first time, I didn’t warn him. And then I took the photograph to someone…” She drifted off.
“Why didn’t you warn him?”
She poured another whisky. I worried she’d pass out before I got the whole truth out of her. “I kept more from him than the dioramas. A diagnosis.” She slugged the shot of liquor. “I don’t have much time left. All I can do is salvage the mess I’ve made. And yet… Well. I’ve already made a mess of that too. I thought to myself if I could save one, just one, then I’d done something good. But then I thought, what if I scared all of them? Margot and that brat, Lottie, and… him.”
“Lord Bertie?”
“Yes. I’ve come to hate them quite a lot.”
“So, the boxes were your revenge?”
She shrugged. “I suppose you could call it that. I sent the first one and… Well, I got a little power back that day. Have you ever felt completely powerless?”
I sighed in frustration, confused and disappointed by her ramblings. “Mrs Huxley, please tell me what they’ve done. Tell me how to stop it.”
“You have to make a promise to me first.” I noticed a little of the old steel coming back into her dark eyes. She lifted her chin, an unsmiling face regarding me coldly.
“What is it?”
“I’ve managed to save money for my son. You see, I’ve thought about it a lot, what will happen when I die or go to prison, whichever comes first. He won’t understand. One day I’ll just stop going to visit him, and he won’t understand why.” The tears finally fell from her eyes. She had a heart. I wondered what her life would’ve been without the Howards in it. “I have enough money saved for Charlie to stay in Heather Grove for another few years, but after that, it dries up. His needs are complex. He could maybe live outside the home, but I worry it wouldn’t be what’s best for him. He’s happy there. It’s his home and I can’t stand the thought of him losing it. If I do as you ask and tell the police everything, then Bertie will go to prison. I need another source.”
“Who?”
“She has a soft spot for you. It happens on occasion. She’s as stuck as I am, you see. She knows who Bertie is, and she knows what he did to her daughter, but she’s too old and frail to do anything about it. She stays to make sure nothing happens to Lottie.”
“Margot.”
“You have to promise me that you’ll go to her.”
“I will.”
“And you have to promise that you’ll visit Charlie every Sunday.”
“I will.”
Her chin wobbled as she continued. “And you have to promise me we’ll finish this once and for all. I can’t start anything that will fail. I’ve brought you in now. I’ve trusted you. It’s time for you to take this… this weight from my hands and make sure it ends.” She closed and unclosed her fists in front of her body, as though handing the metaphorical weight to me.
“I promise.”
I saw her swallow the rest of her tears, controlling the spasm working its way across her face, and I saw the determination flood back into her. “All right then. I’ll tell you everything I know. But I don’t think we can do this alone.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I know someone who will help us.”
She nodded. “Well then. The first thing you need to know is that Lord Bertie is a serial killer, and Alex isn’t much better.”
Chapter 43
Lord Bertie entered the red room first, but Ade was close behind him, a shotgun jammed into Bertie’s lower back. I’d never seen such rage on another person’s face before, but it was there, red and ugly like a screaming newborn. The man once in control of everything at Highwood Hall had finally lost his grip on it all.
“Alex, restrain this idiot behind me, won’t you?” Bertie commanded.
But Alex was still too distracted by the diorama. Ade retracted the gun, turned it over in his hands and hit the lord squarely in the spine using the butt of the rifle. Bertie crumpled to the floor with a gasp, suddenly appearing his age for once.
“Have you any idea what you’re doing? All of you?” The smooth-talking, controlling and formerly powerful man writhed on the floor. He’d been reduced to complaining like a spoilt brat at a disappointing birthday party.
“Yes,” I replied. “We know exactly what we’re doing.”
Bertie rubbed his back and positioned himself upright. He stared up at Ade, who had the gun trained on him. I felt terrible for Ade because I’d sprung my plan on him just a week ago. He wasn’t someone used to fighting, and he certainly had little practice with a shotgun, but he’d done this for me. I saw the tremor running up and down his arms, and I hoped he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger.
“How the hell did this gardener jump me in my own office or know about the tunnels I expressly keep to myself? And the code to the damn door too. What the fuck is going on?” Bertie sat at an odd angle, one hand on his injury.
I answered for Ade. “I found the entrance to one of the secret corridors in the wine cellar. And then, when I hid under your desk, I heard Alex use another secret door in your office. The rest we had help for. Oh, and the code for the door is 1603, the date you killed my mother.”
That brought Bertie’s attention back to me. His eyes widened in surprise, and for the first time, recognition swept over him.
“That’s right,” I said. “Emily Ferguson. I took my aunt’s married name as a child. I was worried you might recognise me when I came for the job interview, but you never did. You groomed her, like Alex has been grooming me, playing piano for her, building up her trust. And then you tried to bring her here. She was supposed to be killed in this room, wasn’t she? But she ran away, and you pushed her down the stairs. That was the day you decided never to slip up again. And from then on, you never have. Who built this place? Was it your father?”
Alex dropped the diorama to the floor. His arms and jaw appeared slack, but he turned to me, and I recognised the same glint in his eyes that I’d seen when we played our games. That day cramped up in the cupboard together when I’d met his challenge. When I’d backed into the priest hole. The way I always answered no when he asked Do you trust me?
When Bertie refused to answer, I addressed Alex instead. “Who built this place?”
Alex simply shrugged. “Perhaps we found it. And maybe, just maybe, you lost your marbles, tried to kill us, and had to be detained here while we called the police. Or maybe you and the gardener are trying to steal from us. I managed to lock you in here, but then he came in with a gun and we had to shoot him. It was self-defence.”
I ignored his fabrications. “How many girls have you kept in here? What do you do to them?”
Neither of the men answered.
“You’re rich, Lord Howard,” I said. “You had a beautiful wife, and I’m sure you, Alex, have had many beautiful girlfriends. But that wasn’t enough for either of you. You need complete control. Both of you. You need to know you can get away with whatever you want. Right? Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“You have no proof of anything,” Bertie said. “You’d may as well give up now before either of you get in trouble. I tell you what, I’ll even unchain you right now and let you both go. There’ll be no contacting the police. You both get to live. Perhaps we’ll give you… a severance package for your hard work at Highwood Hall. As a thank you.”
His smile was sardonic, and for a moment, jarring. I’d known Bertie as the attractive older boss who cracked
a dad joke every now and then, petting his Labrador as he chit-chatted. But here he was, in his true form. Here he was, the serial killer.
“No,” I said.
“No?” He laughed. “You do realise that I know the chief of police, not just in Yorkshire, but in England. We went to school together. What do you think will happen next, maid? Do you think you’ll win? Are you that delusional, girl?”
“I think you’ll go to prison for murdering not just my mother but for killing your wife, probably your sister, Roisin, and what, a dozen maids? How many have you killed, Lord Howard?”
“That’s a very imaginative story,” he said. Slowly Bertie climbed to his feet. He stepped closer to me, somewhat unsteadily.
Ade’s eyes widened in fear, but I nodded to say I’d be okay.
“You have no proof,” he repeated. “I already told you that.”
“I have Mrs Huxley.”
For the first time I saw him falter. He stopped, an arm’s length away from me, and then the anger rippled across his face. He grimaced, grabbing me by the jaw, those strong fingers digging into my flesh.
Ade raised the gun. “Let her go.”
Bertie tugged me higher and higher until I had to stand on my tiptoes. My neck stretched, my eyes watered, and I emitted a high-pitched squeal of pain. But inside, I prayed Ade didn’t shoot. It wasn’t time. We needed them to stay alive so they’d pay for their crimes. After a long few seconds, he finally released me. My heels hit the floor and I whimpered.
“Stupid child,” Bertie muttered, shaking his head. He saw the diorama lying on the ground, lifted his foot and smashed it.
The Housemaid Page 21
