by Kate Mosse
The only word that was clear, at the top right-hand corner of the piece of paper, was ASYLUM. Had the letter come from Graylingwell? If so, from whom? He had no contact with the place, so far as Connie knew. She had never once heard him mention it.
Time seemed to slow. The familiar sense of everything darkening, fading to black. Connie fought it. She would not let herself be pulled under. She would not let her father down; whatever he had done or wherever he was, she had to keep her head.
She sat heavily down on the bed and tried to focus on the scrap of paper.
Chapter 8
Gifford raised his head from the ground, tasting dirt, straw and blood in his mouth. He felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with Jack Johnson. His knuckles were cracked, his lips too. When he tried to blink, he realised his left eye was swollen shut.
A few moments passed, then, gingerly, he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He managed it, but the effort left him gasping for breath. He slumped back against the wall, his chest tight and his ribs sore.
After a few moments, he got himself more comfortable on the tiles, legs straight out in front of him, and tried to remember what had happened. For years, he had been waiting, one day knowing he would be called to account. Finally, that day had come.
His sins had caught up with him.
At first, he’d stayed in his room to avoid Connie, not wanting to lie to her. Trying not to drink, failing. Knowing that his loosened tongue was dangerous. Connie always could see through him in any case, sharp as a tack, even when she was little. Used to call him Gifford from time to time, made the customers laugh. And hadn’t he noticed in the last few days the different way she looked at him, when she thought he wasn’t watching? He knew she was trying to remember. He wished he could tell her why it was safest to forget.
It was the one thing he feared more than anything. Because then, like a crack in the sea wall, once her memories came flooding back, who could say where it would end?
What had he given away earlier in the afternoon? In his drunken meanderings? They had talked, that he remembered. But as to what had been said, it was a blank. She had made him talk and say things he should not have said. He felt cold with fear. What secrets had he betrayed?
He felt bad, bruised from top to toe. He should have stayed in his room, only he hadn’t been able to bear it any longer, cooped up with only his accusing thoughts for company, and his grieving heart.
Ten years. He’d been living with the consequences ever since. No harm in it, so he’d thought. Four fine gentlemen looking for a special night. A night to remember.
Gifford covered his face with his hands.
All these years and he hadn’t talked. All these years, he’d taken their money and used it well. Used it right. They had no cause to come after him, had they? He stopped, the effort of remembering making his head throb.
That glimpse of chestnut hair in the water.
Not possible. In the churchyard, not possible. She was dead. He’d had a letter telling him so.
The Eve of St Mark, a night of ghosts.
*
Gifford didn’t know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness; he wasn’t certain. Only that when he next woke, his senses were a little sharper. A smell of damp bricks and dust. Feathers. He ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the scratch of several days’ stubble. He wondered what had happened to his hat. He was wearing his coat.
Filled with a sudden panic, he struggled to stand. Willing strength into his legs, pushing his shoulders into the bricks to lever himself up. He put his hand out and felt the cool dome of glass. His brief moment of courage died. Now he remembered.
Burning the letter in a panic, then staggering back downstairs. Taking the key off the hook and coming here. Hidden amongst the bell jars and treasures of his past. And the one newer glass case. The one piece of evidence he had of that night.
Gifford felt a moment of hope, then the spark died, to be replaced by terror. Remembering how he had stumbled on the steps and fallen down, down in the dark, hitting his head at the bottom.
In the depths of his deadened, drink-ruined mind, he realised he’d left Connie alone. No one was there to protect her if they came. When they came.
With a howl, he again tried to struggle upright, but he couldn’t find the strength. He started to crawl towards where he thought the steps were. Slowly, closer to the door. To the light.
Pushing against it, except it wouldn’t open.
Why wouldn’t it open? He hadn’t locked it after him, had he?
The door was a close fit to keep the exhibits at a steady temperature. No light or warmth from outside got in. Gifford pushed with his shoulder, using what little strength he had, and this time heard the padlock rattle over the latch.
Still, it refused to give. He was trapped.
Gifford shook his head, setting the world spinning. If they’d wanted rid of him, they’d have done it by now. They had no scruples. There were plenty of names carved in stone in the graveyard of those who’d been claimed by the treacherous mudflats. Easy to add one more to their number. No one any the wiser.
‘But I told no one,’ he muttered into the darkness. ‘I kept my word . . .’
Chapter 9
‘Miss Gifford?’
A man’s voice calling, not one she recognised. Connie leapt up from the bed, for a moment forgetting where she was. Then she looked down at the half-burnt piece of paper in her hand and realised it had happened again. She had slipped out of time. How long had she been sitting here?
‘Miss Gifford?’
She ran to the window and looked down. Mary was standing in the garden, her hands clutching at her apron. Beside her was a young man in his mid twenties. In the slightest of moments between one breath and the next, she took in his appearance: medium height and build, brown moustache, starched collar, and a waistcoat, suit and tie each a different shade of blue. Turn-ups on his trousers and a pair of polished Oxfords. Connie was certain she had never met him before.
‘Are you there, miss?’ Mary called.
‘Here,’ she replied.
The stranger looked up and started to talk. Connie could see his lips were moving, but somehow she couldn’t distinguish a word he was saying. ‘I’ll come down,’ she called, ‘if you wouldn’t mind waiting.’
Why had Mary disregarded her instructions? Where was Dr Evershed? There was no doctor’s surgery in the village, so although he was retired – a well-respected amateur artist these days – he would know the correct procedures to follow. Who was this stranger Mary had brought instead?
Connie took a last look around and hurried out of her father’s room, locking it behind her.
*
The back garden was now entirely in shadow. Connie recognised that she must have been upstairs for quite a bit longer than she’d thought.
Mary darted forward. ‘I’m sorry, miss, I—’
‘That will do, Mary,’ she said, cutting off the girl’s apology. She tried to behave as if everything was normal.
‘I’m Constantia Gifford.’ She met the man’s gaze. ‘And you are?’
‘Harold Woolston.’ He raised his hat, then removed his gloves and held out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Connie took his hand and shook.
‘I did what you said, miss,’ Mary gabbled. ‘The doctor wasn’t there, but—’
‘I was,’ Woolston said. ‘Your girl came flying out of nowhere, saying that she needed help. So here I am.’
‘Are you staying in the village, Mr Woolston?’
‘Just passing through.’
Catching the hesitancy in his voice, Connie waited for him to say something further, but he did not. He had the most extraordinary colour eyes, she noticed. Almost violet.
‘Did Mary explain what has happened?’ she asked.
‘No. Only that she had been sent to fetch the doctor. Since I was on hand, I thought I might offer myself in his place.’
‘You are a f
riend of Dr and Mrs Evershed?’
His eyes widened. ‘Arthur Evershed?’
‘Well, yes, but if—’
‘I’d heard he lived near Chichester,’ Harry said. ‘He’s the most remarkable artist, all while working as a doctor, too.’ He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m apt to let my enthusiasm run away with me.’
Connie stared at him. The habits of caution bred into her by watching over her father for years ran deep. On the other hand, she couldn’t cope on her own and it would be an ugly business. Drownings always were. She’d witnessed that at first hand in January when the mill pond flooded and the body of an itinerant had been found in the reeds.
‘It is rather unpleasant, I’m afraid,’ she said.
He gave a brief smile. ‘I’m sure I am equal to it.’
‘Can I go inside, miss?’ Mary asked.
Connie hesitated. It would be easier with three of them. But though she forced herself to rise above the rumours and gossip that circulated about her father, she didn’t want to be accused of causing distress to a young girl. Besides, she was genuinely fond of her.
‘Yes. Mr Woolston and I can manage.’
Connie walked a few steps back towards the house with the girl.
‘I don’t suppose you saw Mr Gifford, did you? On the path or in Fishbourne?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, miss.’
Connie held her gaze. ‘Thank you. I will call you when we’re finished. Perhaps you could make some tea and take it out to the terrace for when . . . for later.’
She took a deep breath, then turned back.
‘So, how can I be of service?’ Harry asked.
‘I regret to say . . .’ She paused, hating how stiff she sounded. ‘There’s been a drowning. A young woman. Mary saw her in the stream and, of course, it gave her a fright.’
He blanched. ‘A drowning?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Is it common—’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean common as such. Rather, is this something that happens at this part of the creek? Here, I mean. This spot. You’re so close to the water.’
Connie shook her head. ‘Not often. You see—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Woolston jumped in, misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘Thoughtless of me to fire questions at you. I’m sure I can manage alone. If you’d rather. Not the sort of thing a lady should . . .’
‘It will take two to bring her out, Mr Woolston,’ she said quietly.
‘Harry.’ He was awfully pale. ‘Harry is fine.’
For a moment, the intimacy of his Christian name hung between them.
‘Right,’ he said, his voice falsely bright. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Chapter 10
Connie pointed to the far bank of the river.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It – she – is on the far side.’
Woolston removed his shoes and socks, then rolled his trousers up to just below his knees. He handed her his jacket, then folded back the sleeves of his shirt too.
It wasn’t unusual for objects to be washed up into the creek and the little rills and streams. Flotsam, a torn coal sack or a child’s fishing rod, seaweed when the spring tides coincided with a strong sou’westerly. But not a body.
Down on the coast, in the fishing creels of Selsey and Pagham and Littlehampton, drownings were a fact of life. This far up the estuary, accidents were more likely to occur on the marshes than in the sea itself. Men missing their footing in the dark, stumbling into the sinking black mud and unable to free themselves. Could the body have been swept all the way up here by the tide? Connie didn’t think so.
‘I think the best thing is for me to climb down,’ Woolston said. ‘See if I can pull the body – young lady – out without you having to get wet into the bargain.’
‘Thank you.’
He stepped down into the water, then steadied himself in the current.
‘How deep does it get?’ he called up.
‘Two feet, perhaps, in the middle. Less at the banks.’
She watched him wade across, the incoming tide splashing up against him until the backs of his trouser legs were wet. When he drew level with the body, he hesitated, then reached out and took hold of the sodden shoulders of the woollen coat. The sudden movement caused the woman’s head to loll to one side, her face breaking the surface of the water as if she was trying to breathe.
White face, blue lips, red hair.
Connie caught her breath. The sudden, sharp stab of memory. Blood, skin, bone. Dust on bare floorboards, feathers.
‘But not water,’ she murmured. ‘Not drowned.’
‘She’s caught on something,’ Woolston was saying. ‘There’s some kind of a wire, all tangled up. Fishing line, perhaps? Do the lobster boats come this far?’
Connie forced herself to answer. ‘No. Not usually.’
Harry put his hands beneath the woman’s arms and tugged. At first, nothing happened. He pulled again, a little harder, and this time, the corpse came suddenly free. He staggered back, almost losing his footing in the water, but then adjusted his grip and slowly dragged the woman cross-current towards the near bank. As the water grew shallower, Connie saw how the woman became heavier in his arms.
She leaned down to help, grasping handfuls of wet wool and trying to pull the body up on to the bank. Such a dreadful way to die, struggling for breath. She shuddered and hoped that it had been quick.
Between them, they eventually hauled her up on to the grass. Breathless from the exertion, Harry rolled her over on to her back, then stood up and walked a few steps away.
Connie looked down at the young woman. Her face was bruised and her features distended by her immersion in the water; she couldn’t be sure whether or not this was the woman she’d seen watching the house, or, for that matter, the woman in the churchyard. The one face had been concealed by a veil, the second by the night-time shadow and rain and the brim of her hat.
But it was the same coat. Connie didn’t think there could be two such distinctive pieces.
She knelt and laid the cold arms across the chest, noticing how the backs of the woman’s hands were scratched. Her skin was oddly pimpled, as if she had goose bumps from the cold, and there was a white foam in the corners of her lips and nose, tinged with blood. Her shirt had a pretty red embroidered pattern around the neck.
‘Choked . . .’
The word slipped out of Connie’s mouth. She felt her knees buckle, but she stayed upright. Woolston didn’t notice. He was putting on his shoes and socks, rearranging his own clothes.
‘Forgive me, I didn’t hear what you said.’
‘I said nothing,’ she said. Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.
‘A suicide, do you think?’ Woolston said. ‘Though I can’t understand how she got so badly caught up. Do you think she might have come off a boat? A fishing trawler, something of the sort?’
‘No. Women don’t go out on the boats,’ Connie said, trying to think.
She didn’t know what to do, only that she had to get rid of him as quickly as she could. She walked to where the laundry still lay on the ground, picked up a sheet and laid it over the body.
‘There’s nothing more we can do,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you please go and tell Dr Evershed what has happened. He will make arrangements. She – the body – will have to be taken to Chichester.’
She felt his eyes on her, admiring how well she was taking things. Or disapproving, perhaps. Would he prefer her to be one of those frilly creatures forever collapsing in a haze of sal volatile and tears? If only he knew the turmoil she actually felt.
‘I could do with that tea,’ he said. ‘Something stronger, even.’
She met his gaze. ‘The sooner the right people are informed, the better. Don’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes. Of course,’ Harry said, realising she was dismissing him. ‘May I at least wash my hands?�
��
Connie could see no possible way of denying him that. She led the way across the lawn and in through the front door, then escorted him along the corridor to the downstairs cloakroom. Did he think her callous? She was surprised by how much she would mind if he did.
‘I really am very grateful and I’m sorry to ask you to go straight away. I simply cannot bear the thought of being left here with . . . her for any longer than necessary.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
They were standing close to one another by the front door. Connie felt suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. She slipped past him and out on to the path. He stepped out to join her.
‘Do you live here alone? It’s awfully isolated.’
‘No. With my father.’
He looked back into the house. ‘Is he here?’
Connie found a smile. ‘No, otherwise of course he would have dealt with all this . . . I am expecting him back at any moment.’
‘Maybe I should wait until he returns?’
‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I will feel better knowing the arrangements are in hand.’
Harry tilted his head. ‘Thing is, I feel like I’m running out on you. In any case, you’ve hurt yourself.’
‘Hurt?’
He reached out and took her wrist, turned her hand over in his. Looking at the cuff of her shirt speckled with blood. Connie felt a charge shoot between them.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, pulling her hand back.
‘You should put a dab of iodine on it all the same.’
‘It’s nothing, Mr Woolston,’ she repeated, desperate for him to go.
‘Harry. Please. Mr Woolston is awfully formal after all this.’
‘I suppose it is.’ She paused. ‘Usually, I’m known as Connie. Not Constantia.’
‘Connie.’ He put on his hat. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. And I hope we will run into one another in less disagreeable circumstances. Perhaps I might call?’
