The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  I leaned out the entrance, desperately gulping in the cool night air, when a pair of hands wrapped around my throat. Gasping, struggling in the midst of the curling smoke, I dug my nails into my attacker’s flesh, clawing, fighting for my life. A gurgled shrieking sound burst from my body. He was strong. Somehow I knew it was Alex and not Pawel. I recognised those fingers without even seeing them.

  As suddenly as the hands clasped my throat, they let go. When I spun on my heel, I had to bring my sleeve up to shield myself from the boiling-hot flames, and then I saw Alex step out through the smoke. His face was set into an expression of tight determination. He grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me out of the house. Never had I felt terror as I did then. Alex had zeroed in on me with all his psychopathic resolve, and now I had no idea if Ade was alive or dead inside that house. But when I tried to rush back in, Alex shoved me down so that I landed on my backside, hands scrabbling in the gravel. And he kept coming. Even as I scrambled away, he kept coming.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. When I’d used myself as bait, I’d had a plan. I’d organised it so that I knew what I was doing at every moment. Yes, it had been dangerous and scary, but I’d felt in control, knowing that each element of our attack had been meticulously planned. Now I had no tricks up my sleeve, no sleight of hand whatsoever, except…

  I grabbed a handful of stones and threw them as hard as I could, aiming up towards his face. At least half hit the target and his arms flew up to protect himself. While he clutched his injured face, I climbed to my feet and ran back towards Highwood. I couldn’t leave Ade in there even with the tall flames licking the ceiling. The windows were lit up from the fire, which meant it was only a matter of time before someone in Paxby called the police.

  “Ade!” I covered my mouth with my hand, squinted through the hot smoke, eyes searching for him.

  He was lying on his back near the stairs, legs and arms limp and lifeless. I had no idea how I’d get him out of there, but I still ran in, trying not to listen to the tiny explosions popping and hissing through the house. I grabbed his foot, and I pulled and pulled. But just as I managed to yank him almost to the door, Alex’s arms wrapped around my waist. He dragged me outside, threw me down on the lawn and climbed on top of me, pinning me to the grass. He glowed orange from the fire, his usually perfect skin marred by the tiny cuts across his nose. Cuts I’d caused with the stones. I noticed one bright red spot on his eyeball.

  “Stop making this harder than it needs to be!” Alex demanded.

  I spat at him and he roared back at me.

  “If I didn’t make it hard, it’d be boring for you,” I said, taunting him. “Or am I wrong? After all, you’re the voyeur, aren’t you? You just like to watch. This is new to you, this violence. You’re pampered and spoilt. Daddy’s little boy. Or is it Daddy’s little disappointment? Aren’t you sadistic enough for him? Not enough of a killer?”

  His sour, laboured breath hit my damp skin. Above me, his skin burned bright red with either rage or shame or both. His fingers tightened around my wrists, and yet he still hesitated. He pinned me, but he didn’t try to hurt me.

  “I’m sorry your plan didn’t work. You thought Pawel would kill me, didn’t you? Set the place on fire and let me die slowly and painfully. But now you’re faced with doing the job yourself and you can’t do it.” I watched his lip twitch and enjoyed it. “How old were you when he first made you watch? Were you just a boy? Did he tell you all about the traditions in the family, about how the powerful Howard men take what they want when they want it?”

  Alex said nothing, but the pressure of his hands on my wrists was almost unbearable. I squirmed beneath him. He remained solid.

  “He always made you watch. Training his boy to be a miniature psycho version of himself. You’re a victim, Alex. He doesn’t understand you. He just wanted to dominate you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Let me go. Let me go and run. You’re not Bertie’s lapdog anymore. You don’t need to stay here and destroy the evidence. Let me go so I can help Ade and then get out of here. Let your survival instinct kick in.”

  But Alex shook his head.

  “Why did you come back here?”

  He smiled. He wanted to talk. “There was an agreement I had to keep.”

  “How did you even manage all this?” The longer he talked, the longer I stayed alive.

  “There’s a way to get into the house unnoticed. Under the stables.”

  “You could’ve just gone to Spain.”

  He shook his head. “Daddy and I always agreed someone would destroy it. Them. That we’d destroy them.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” he said through gritted teeth.

  “The bodies.” A chill passed over me. “My mother.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I had to burn them and the room and everything else.”

  “Why bother? The police will have enough evidence anyway.”

  Alex shrugged. “It was our arrangement.”

  “Whatever helps you get away with it.” Of course, I thought. Men like Alex and Bertie never saw the end in sight; they saw what they could still cling to. They would fight until the bitter end. I should’ve considered that.

  “Tell me where you put her,” I said. “Please.”

  To my surprise, Alex pulled me up to a sitting position and rolled off me. He still had his back to the house, but his weight was no longer on top of me. He pointed over to the stables to the west of the sprawling estate, away from the gates. I hadn’t even noticed that it was on fire.

  “Underneath,” he said. “A cellar of sorts.”

  “Every day you go to work and take calls and you sit at your desk and have meetings on top of the bones of the women your father murdered.”

  His blue eyes held mine. There was no remorse in them, but I saw intrigue. He saw things from my point of view as not only a maid, but the daughter of a victim. I saw his mouth open and close as though he wanted to talk. I smiled then, and he paused. He didn’t know. He didn’t see what I saw.

  “Goodbye, Alex,” I said softly, and Ade brought the remains of my mother’s portrait down onto his head.

  Alex fell onto me first, until I pushed him off me. Ade turned the panel on its side and rammed it down three more times until we were sure. Then he threw the panel away, grabbed his hurt shoulder, and collapsed onto his knees. I hurried to his side, and we huddled there together. The wail of sirens sounded out in the distance.

  Chapter 52

  Ade struggled to breathe. I helped him loosen the clothes around his throat and pulled the sling into place around his hurt shoulder. I couldn’t even imagine the pain it’d taken to lift the wood panel and bring it down on Alex.

  “Can you breathe?”

  He wheezed in and out. I tried to help him find a rhythm with his breath. But as he strained, tears gathered in my eyes. I saw him losing consciousness and rubbed his chest, not knowing what to do. In front of us, the hall blazed, its structure crumpled. I saw Margot’s curtains tumble from the window as a fire engine roared onto the driveway.

  I waved my arms, and several men came running out of the vehicle. Two of them carried Ade over to the engine while another stayed with me on the lawn.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. His face paled when he saw Alex’s smashed face.

  I nodded, and he reached down to help me up.

  “Let’s get you checked over.”

  But I paused. There she was, on the grass. The wood panel. My hand stretched out once, but I changed my mind and left the portrait where it was. Nothing would bring her back. Yes, her body would be tied to Highwood Hall forever, especially after Alex’s cruel final act, but it didn’t matter. It was just her body, not her essence. Whatever had made her Emily Ferguson no longer existed.

  I could never go back and meet her. I had to make peace with that. Taking a piece of wood with her face on it wasn’t going to change anything. I let the fire fighter walk me over to Ade.

/>   “I told them about Pawel,” Ade said, doubled over, a blanket around his shoulders.

  I nodded, suspecting that Pawel was probably dead by now. I struggled to feel sympathy for him. He’d murdered my friend and then had the gall to pretend he was heartbroken.

  And as we waited for the ambulance, I watched the great hose unspool. I heard the thunderous gusts of water that spewed onto the remains of Highwood Hall. Above our heads, ashes floated into the night. Tiny burning flecks of gold. They danced.

  No doubt, in time Lord Bertie would speak about the heinous acts executed here—he’d want the attention—but for now, I wouldn’t know what prompted Pawel to turn over to their side. I’d been so sure that he’d loved Roisin. Maybe he’d simply wanted to possess her.

  Lord Bertie and Alex Howard didn’t just use their power to do what they wanted; they corrupted the people around them. Margot, Mrs Huxley, Pawel and others. I had to believe they were as capable of good as they had been bad. I needed to believe they would’ve remained good if they’d never met Bertie. But in the same breath, I had to believe that I wouldn’t have been corrupted so easily. And there it was, the fairy tale I told myself. What happened to them would never happen to me because I’m better than that.

  Ade received oxygen in the ambulance, and soon we were on our way out of Highwood. I tried to wipe away the residue of smoke and grime from my face, but it wouldn’t come off. Instead, I leaned back inside the ambulance and imagined the dark branches of the woods that slanted towards the house. Highwood crumbled, but the nature below would survive. Perhaps it would even flourish.

  A week after the fire, I went to Heather Grove to visit Charlie. It was my promise to Mrs Huxley, and I intended to keep it. Ade had left the hospital the day before, and I’d stayed in his house until I got back on my feet. Margot had, however, paid me one month’s wages along with the money for Charlie’s care. At least I had some spending money now. The GoFundMe was still in progress, and Alex’s last stunt had ended with Ade and I receiving over half a million pounds in donations. We were overwhelmed to say the least. I hadn’t even thought about what we might do with the money. Not yet.

  I’d heard news that Mrs Huxley had been admitted to hospital and was receiving chemotherapy for advanced lung cancer. She’d been allowed one visit to see Charlie and say goodbye. I was still deciding if I wanted to visit her or not. I had a lot to process.

  The sun shone down on Heather Grove, turning the lush vines emerald green against the limestone walls. Pink and purple flowers bloomed through the garden, heavy with paper-soft petals. Ade would know the names of them all, but I didn’t. I gazed at a rose bush, remembering Mrs Huxley taking a flower and smiling at her son. She was indirectly responsible for my mother’s death, and yet, I couldn’t hate her. Not even close.

  “Hi,” I said to the young woman behind the reception desk. “Ruby Dean. I’m here to visit Charlie Huxley.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “One of the nurses will take you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I waited for a few moments, casually browsing the internet on my phone. The Howards were all over the news. The paparazzi had caught a photograph of Lottie crying on the street. Heiress grieves over monster brother. I thought that was unfair.

  Lord Bertie’s mugshot had been plastered onto every news article. He had such piercing blue eyes and handsome features that, apparently, he received fan mail in prison. Nothing surprised me anymore.

  “Are you ready?” A smiling nurse beckoned me over.

  I nodded, placing my phone back in my bag.

  “He’s so excited to meet someone new. He wants to show you his art,” she said.

  “Oh lovely! Did you receive the money?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Everything’s sorted.”

  “Great.” My chest loosened as we made our way through many white corridors towards the room.

  “I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through,” the nurse said. “I mean… I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

  “Thanks.” I wrapped my arms around my body as we reached a brightly painted open area. Some of the residents played board games or read a book or watched television. They were loud, rambunctious, giggling and singing. Life went on, and here was the evidence.

  “I’m so shocked by Vera,” the nurse said.

  “Who?”

  “Vera Huxley.”

  I laughed, and the nurse gave me a bemused look. “Sorry, it’s just I never knew her first name. I don’t know how I never learned it even now. She was always Mrs Huxley to me.” Even in the news reports, Mrs Huxley had been referred to as “the housekeeper” or “middle-aged woman” not by her actual name.

  “Oh, I see. You know she was such a nice lady. I can’t believe she did those things.”

  We left the communal area, and the nurse stood outside a room with a blue door and a nameplate on the outside.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she would’ve done it if it wasn’t for her son. She felt trapped, I think.”

  “Still,” the nurse said, her eyes moving towards the door. “Anyway. Charlie is a lovely boy, but you should know that at times he doesn’t communicate too well. If he doesn’t talk to you, don’t take it personally. Sometimes Charlie goes through non-verbal phases. But don’t think that you can’t talk to him. He loves the sound of voices. It brightens him up so much. I’ll leave the door open in case you get overwhelmed, but I think you’ll be just fine. I’ll be right outside.”

  “Thanks.”

  She opened the door and I stepped in. I immediately understood why Mrs Huxley had wanted her son to live here. The room was lovely. Bright and airy with high windows that let in sunshine. It overlooked the roses and beyond to the sprawling meadows that lay like patchwork. I allowed my eyes to roam over the rest of the room, to the boy—no, man—sitting at the desk by a window. An open face lifted to see me. He was so like Mrs Huxley and yet, so different at the same time. He had her high cheekbones, but I saw a softness too. His eyes were deep hazel, but they were the same shape as Bertie’s. He waved to me, and I responded.

  Then I saw what he had in his hands. It was a small lump of plasticine that he moulded between finger and thumb. I found a chair over by the wall and dragged it closer to his desk.

  “Are you working on your art?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  He reached forward, showing me a box. It was cut open, and inside he’d painted his room. The artistry was perfect. Every detail had been re-created, from the tall windows to the desk—fashioned out of cardboard—to the paintbrushes lined up along the wall and a figure hunched in a chair. He’d used a little doll that he’d customised to look just like him. He’d placed an empty chair next to the desk in almost the exact position I’d moved the chair for the visit.

  “Are you making me?”

  He glanced up at me and lifted the lump of plasticine. I saw that he was moulding it into the shape of a person’s face.

  “Did you run out of dolls?”

  He nodded his head.

  “But you remembered what I look like because your mum showed you a picture?”

  He nodded again. And then he held up a finger as though asking me to wait. He pushed his chair back and reached under his desk. There he lifted up another box, this one opened in the same way. Inside, he’d reproduced the communal area in the care home with tiny dolls and plasticine figures occupying sofas and chairs. He’d even painted a television on the wall with actors on the screen.

  “These are beautiful,” I said. “Did your mum ask you to make special ones?”

  He smiled and nodded his head again. I had to wonder whether he’d understood some of the scenes he’d made. I now knew that the first diorama had been of my mother, laid flat on the floor by the stairs, blood coming from her broken skull. Lady Laura hanging from the chandelier. But he was so happy to be making them regardless of their dark themes.

  “Shall I sit still for you so that you can make me into a doll?” I
asked.

  He nodded enthusiastically and picked up his plasticine. When I pulled a funny face, he laughed. I laughed too. It was over, I thought. The nightmare was finally over.

  The hour with Charlie went by in a flash. He’d promised to finish up my diorama by the time I went back next week. And as I walked out of the home, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I’d never experienced this lightness before. This bountiful sense of possibilities. For so long I’d had a single purpose in my mind that I wasn’t sure what to do next. I couldn’t stay at Ade’s indefinitely. Our relationship had gradually evolved to more than friends, but it was new and fragile, and we couldn’t just move in together without building a foundation first. Both of us had come out of Highwood with hidden bumps and bruises. We needed space to heal separately.

  Which meant I needed a job. I’d had offers from journalists and publishers. Tell your story, they said. I heard Make us money, and I felt nauseous.

  I caught the bus back to Paxby, walked around the village for a while, bought a coffee and browsed the ads in the window of the newsagent. Then I made my way back to Ade’s cottage. He still used his YouTube channel as a platform to talk about gardening, though it had exploded since the live stream in the red room. But now he had to deal with a constant barrage of questions about the monster of Highwood Hall rather than horticultural matters. He’d even had calls from TV producers asking him if he wanted to be on Gardener’s World.

  Ade had a future. He was skilled and he knew what he wanted. I didn’t. I hadn’t trained in anything, and aside from managing to catch a serial killer, I’d done nothing with my life. What was I going to do?

  For a week I floated around, sleeping in until noon, staying up until the early hours of the morning, trying not to remember Alex Howard’s eyes appearing in the dark shadows of Highwood Hall. For that entire week, I thought of Heather Grove. The bright walls, the smiles, the giggles and loud voices. Perhaps that was what I needed after so many years of quietude at my aunt’s home.