The Taxidermist's Daughter

by Kate Mosse

  Davey hesitated, then put his hand on Gifford’s shoulder, felt how his jacket was thick with dust and straw, and wondered what he’d been up to down in the sunken ice house. He wanted to go and look. He was nervous of what might be down there; curious, too. But he didn’t think he ought to leave.

  ‘These things pass,’ he said, repeating the words Mrs Christie said to him when things were especially bad for him at home. Davey didn’t know if he believed it. Not much in his short life had led him to think that tomorrow would be better than today, but he’d been comforted by her, and how it made him feel safe for an hour or two.

  ‘Won’t seem so bad tomorrow. These things pass.’

  ‘What else . . .’

  ‘Mary’s gone to fetch Miss Gifford,’ he said, hoping the old man could hear him.

  Gifford suddenly tried to sit up. ‘Got to tell her . . . warn her. Mustn’t trust anyone.’ His muscles were shaking with the effort and he fell back. ‘Keep her safe. Get away . . .’

  Davey increased the pressure on Gifford’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up, sir. Miss Gifford’s all right, don’t you worry about her.’

  *

  Connie came flying out of the side door, with Mary following behind holding a lantern and a glass of water.

  She saw the little boy sitting beside her father on the ground. He leapt up as she approached.

  ‘I don’t know how long he’s been in there, miss.’

  She was horrified by the look of him, emaciated and filthy, but she held her voice steady. She didn’t want to alarm him.

  ‘Father, can you hear me?’ she said calmly, talking to him as if he was the child and she the parent. ‘It’s me, Connie.’

  The effort of speaking had taken what little strength Gifford had remaining. He was now lying slumped on the wet brick steps with his eyes closed.

  ‘He looks worse than he is,’ Davey said. ‘That’s what I think.’

  Connie took the cup from Mary and, holding Gifford’s head up, poured a little water into his parched mouth. He coughed and choked, but finally managed to swallow. She kept going until the cup was empty.

  ‘Father, we’re going to try to take you inside. Do you think you can stand up?’

  He made no answer, so Connie put her hand beneath his head to encourage him to sit up. Another torrent of words fell from his mouth.

  ‘Get Jennie to take her away. Keep the girl safe.’

  Connie looked at Davey.

  ‘Has he said what happened?’

  Davey shook his head. ‘Can’t make head nor tail of it to be honest, miss. No offence.’

  Gifford suddenly fell on to his side. ‘Don’t trust him . . . Worst of all . . .’

  ‘Father,’ Connie said in a firm, clear voice. ‘Gifford? Can you stand? We must get you in inside.’

  Davey felt the dew on the grass and the dampness in the soil. There was a sharp salt tang in the air.

  ‘Best be quick. More rain is on the way.’

  Connie straightened. ‘Mary, you put your arm under his left shoulder, I’ll do this side, and let’s see if we can’t get him up.’

  Gifford was bone thin from a fortnight of barely eating and the past twenty-four hours trapped in the ice house, but even so, he was too heavy for the two women to carry. They tried, several times, Connie encouraging her father, but it didn’t work.

  ‘I got an idea, miss,’ Davey said. ‘If we got him on to a blanket or something, we could drag him back to the house. Might be easier to get him on his feet once there’s something for him to lean on.’

  ‘That’s a sensible idea. Mary, there’s a tarpaulin inside the scullery door. Can you fetch that?’

  Mary rushed back towards the house.

  ‘How did you find him, Davey?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I never done it before, cross my heart, but the rain was coming on and I thought I’d shelter, and—’

  ‘It’s all right, Davey, it’s good you did.’

  Mary returned, out of breath, holding a large square of brown tarpaulin in her arms. It smelt damp and musty. Between them, they managed to slide Gifford on to it and settle him in place.

  The first drops of rain began to fall. The two women – with Davey in the middle – pulled Gifford across the slick grass towards the house. He was a dead weight and seemingly unaware of what was happening to him, but slowly they succeeded in covering the distance between the ice house and the side door.

  In the distance, Connie heard a rumble of thunder. There was a pause, as if the night itself was holding its breath, then the familiar sound of the rain falling harder, as if a tap had been turned on. Striking the leaves and the roof of the storeroom, the chimneys and red tiles of the house.

  A combination of the rain on his face and the light from the lamp above the door jolted Gifford back to consciousness. Without warning, he flung his arm across his eyes, then, in part of the same movement, propelled himself into a sitting position. He looked like a puppet without strings, all folded in on himself. Connie felt the familiar mixture of pity and disappointment that he had come to this.

  ‘All the money, but no need of it now. No need. She’s dead.’

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ Connie said. ‘Save your strength. I need you to stand up. Mary, Davey and I are going help you to walk. Just into the drawing room. Not far.’

  Gifford blinked at her through blurred eyes, but seemed to have understood the instruction. He put his hand out to steady himself on the jamb, his skin grey and sickly in the yellow cast of the light above the door. With their help, he heaved himself up on to his feet. Davey positioned himself behind, in case he fell backwards. Though his legs trembled, Gifford held his ground.

  ‘Proof,’ he said, gesturing wildly. ‘I kept it. Keep her safe.’ He peered at Connie. ‘Jennie will help. You can trust Jennie.’

  ‘He’s been talking like this the whole time, miss,’ Davey said. ‘About keeping you safe. Seems to upset him worse than anything.’

  Connie didn’t respond. She wasn’t certain her father was thinking of her. Or at least, not only of her.

  PART III

  Friday

  Chapter 35

  Themis Cottage

  Apuldram

  Frederick Brook stared at the narrow track leading from Apuldram Lane to Themis Cottage.

  For a moment, he wondered if he was in the wrong place. He understood the need for discretion – to be away from prying eyes and ears – but this was very remote even by those standards. Then again, these select gatherings were often arranged in unusual locations, and White’s directions on the invitation had been clear. And there were ruts in the lane, suggesting a cart or carriage had recently come this way.

  Brook set off, unsteady after several hours’ drinking in the Crown and Anchor, picking his way carefully along the muddy track sodden with rain and seawater. He felt light-headed with expectation and whisky and ale. He was grateful, now, that he hadn’t changed out of his shooting clothes. In the dark of the Sussex night, with the promise of an enjoyable night ahead, Brook felt as if he was going hunting. A pulse of desire surged through him, cutting through the effects of the whisky, as he allowed himself to imagine the evening that was waiting behind the closed door. What kind of girls might White have rounded up?

  It began to rain again, harder this time.

  In the dark beneath the canopy of branches, Brook took his lighter from his pocket and held it in front of him. A gift from a grateful client, to whom Brook had given favourable terms in return for one or two pieces of information about his rival suppliers. The flame guttered, so he kept his thumb on the wheel to keep sparking the flint.

  The beech trees loomed above him as he staggered on, his weight sending him deep into the mud with each heavy footstep. He could hear the wind in the highest branches and, just audible now, the suck and pull of shingle and the sea. The flame went out again. This time, it refused to be revived.

  Finally, after it seemed he had walked about half a mile, Brook
rounded a bend in the track and saw, to his relief, a single light burning in the window of a cottage ahead, set in a large garden. So far as he could see, there were no other houses anywhere close by. From the sound of the waves on the shore, he realised he was now right down at the water’s edge.

  He stepped off the muddy lane on to a paved path, ghostly in the moonlight, that led to the front door of the cottage. He immediately felt reassured. He put his dead lighter in his pocket and got the worst of the mud off his boots on the scraper, then knocked with mounting anticipation. He wondered what tantalising surprises the evening might have in store.

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he, miss?’

  Connie put her hand on Davey’s shoulder. ‘I think so.’

  It was just after midnight. Connie was in her usual armchair, with the boy sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside her. Mary had also refused to go home, despite already having stayed on many hours past her regular time, and Connie was grateful. And although it was ridiculous – she had known him for less than forty-eight hours – Connie wished Harry could be here also.

  She felt guilty. All afternoon she’d sat chatting with Harry, instead of keeping to her original plan to check the storeroom as soon as she came back from the village. If she had done so, she would have spared her father several hours of distress.

  ‘You weren’t to know, miss,’ Davey said, seeing the expression return to her face.

  ‘It is lucky you were here, Davey.’

  ‘It’s all right, miss. Glad to help.’

  Between them, they had managed to help Gifford out of his dirty clothes. Connie had washed and treated his injuries, which – as Davey had said – weren’t as bad as they’d looked at first sight. They’d settled him for the night in the drawing room, the stairs being too much for him to cope with. He had drunk a cup of beef tea and eaten a little bread, and now was sleeping on the day bed with a blanket over him. Mary sat on a chair beside him, struggling to keep her eyes open.

  ‘You don’t have to stay, Davey,’ Connie said. ‘Mary and I will manage between us.’

  ‘I’m all right. Don’t like to think of you out here on your own.’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Different now, though, isn’t it? Things have changed.’

  Connie stared at him with interest. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Didn’t mean to be impertinent. That’s what Ma Christie says.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be passing on what one person says to another,’ Mary put in. ‘Not if it’s private.’

  ‘That’s not private, it’s learning. Increasing my vocabulary, that’s what your ma says.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky in front of Miss Gifford.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Connie smiled. ‘I’d like to hear what he thinks. Go on, Davey.’

  The boy shifted position. ‘Well, the police for one. Then, poor Birdie being found here.’

  ‘Birdie?’ Connie said.

  ‘Vera. That’s what we all called her. I mean, I know she wasn’t on your property as such, miss, but near enough. And Gregory Joseph’s up to something, strutting around, cock of the walk, pleased with himself.’ He hesitated. ‘Then there’s the guv’nor. I know he’s partial to a drop, but it seems to me something set him off. More than the usual.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, genuinely interested.

  ‘Mary said – she wasn’t talking out of turn, just ordinary chat – that Mr Gifford never goes to the storeroom. So, my question is, why now?’

  Even in her exhausted state, the boy’s words struck a chord. Davey was right. She’d been so busy trying to work out how long her father had been trapped in the storeroom that she had failed to consider why he’d gone there in the first place. He must have had a very compelling reason, given the state he had been in. What triggered him to come downstairs, locate the key on the hooks, make his way to the ice house and go inside?

  ‘Did you go in, Davey?’

  Davey shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if you had.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to, miss, not without an invitation. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘Davey,’ Mary warned.

  He flushed. ‘All right, I might’ve taken a peek,’ he admitted, ‘but it was dark and I couldn’t see nothing. I didn’t go down.’

  Connie glanced over at her father. The rage and the shame that characterised his expression when he was awake had fallen away. For now, he was sleeping peacefully. Bruised, tired, but set free for a moment from the secrets that tormented him. Victim or the architect of his own misfortunes, Connie still didn’t know. But, as Davey said, it was different.

  Why now?

  Had Gifford been looking for something in there? Or concealing something?

  Connie stood up. ‘Would you like to see inside properly?’

  The boy’s eyes flared wide. ‘Now?’

  ‘My father won’t wake for a few hours at least. Mary will keep an eye on him.’

  ‘What if he wakes, miss?’ Mary said anxiously.

  ‘We won’t be long.’

  ‘Won’t it be ever so dark, this time of night?’ Davey said.

  Connie smiled. ‘We’ll take the lantern. You don’t have to come, if you’d rather not. You can stay here if you like.’

  Davey scrambled up from the floor. ‘No, I’ll come. What do you think you’re going to find, miss? What are you looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘But I hope I’ll recognise it when I see it. As you said, Davey, there must have been a reason for my father to go there.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the lamp.’

  Themis Cottage

  Apuldram

  Brook knocked. No one answered or acknowledged him. No one asked for his name, but the door opened all the same.

  He shut it quickly behind him, then stepped face first into a black curtain draped immediately in front of him. Irritated, he pushed it aside and went through into the small entrance hall.

  He frowned. Odd that there was still no one to greet him. He was surprised that White hadn’t arranged things better, that he wasn’t here himself. At the same time, Brook felt his senses – sight, smell, touch – starting to come under pleasurable assault.

  Hundreds, it seemed, of tiny flames from candles set on every surface. Reflecting in the red floor tiles and the mirror, dancing up the walls and across the low ceiling. A scent of incense from two burners on the window ledge, and the hiss and crack of gramophone music playing in another room. The air was hot and dry. His skin prickled with anticipation.

  There was a narrow flight of stairs immediately ahead, a twist of red velvet brocade across the bottom, leading to the dark upstairs. Two wooden latched doors to left and right, both closed. Straight ahead there was another heavy black drape, the sort of thing you’d find backstage at a theatre, partially covering another door.

  Then, from somewhere, Brook heard the sound of a woman’s voice. He caught his breath. His heart seemed to be keeping time with the ticking of the long-case clock. Though he couldn’t see anyone, now he felt sure there were other people close by. He smiled, wondering where White was hiding himself, though he didn’t call out. He didn’t want to spoil things. He had hoped there might be a game to begin proceedings – perhaps a series of tasks, or questions to answer, before he was admitted – and this met all his expectations.

  He liked to earn his reward.

  Standing in the bedazzling hall, Brook identified other smells beneath the incense. The heady, familiar scent of perfume and desire, women’s potions and powders. A Parisian boudoir, as he imagined one might look, created in the woodlands of Apuldram.

  As his eyes adapted to the shifting light, he noticed that there was a silver tray set on a wooden table near the foot of the stairs. He removed his hat and, after a moment’s hesitation, his mud-caked boots and jacket, and loosened his collar. He was con
strained by his outdoor clothes and he didn’t expect to be leaving for some time.

  He stepped forward. On the tray was a single sherry glass, filled to the top with a rich, dark liquid. He picked it up and sniffed it, took a sip. It wasn’t unpleasant, a concoction of something akin to port mixed with blackcurrant, not like a cocktail, more the consistency of a tincture or fortified wine. He assumed it was intended for him. There was also, beside the tray, an eye mask. Black velvet with a twist of feathers for the strap. He rubbed the material between his forefinger and thumb as he read the instructions on the accompanying card telling him what he was to do next. He remembered wearing a mask much like this once before.

  Expectation building, Brook drained the last of his aperitif and felt the heat of the liquid hit his stomach. Then, with the mask in his hand, he walked towards the door at the end of the corridor and through into the room beyond.

  Chapter 36

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  ‘Shall I take it?’ Connie said, as they stood at the door of the ice house.

  Davey was insisting on holding the lantern and going in first, but from the jerking of the flame, Connie realised he was terrified.

  ‘It’s not heavy, miss. I can manage.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, not wanting to embarrass the boy. ‘But since I’m the taller of the two of us, it makes more sense for me to hold it. We’ll be able to see more that way.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  They swapped positions.

  ‘Ready?’ she said in a firm voice, despite the fact that she was equally nervous about what they were going to find down there in the dark.

  ‘As I’ll ever be, miss.’

  Holding the light high above her head, Connie slowly started to walk down the narrow brick steps, with Davey following behind.

  A smell of blood and damp straw wafted up to meet her, the musty odour of underground air rarely disturbed. She hung the lantern on the iron hook set in the roof at the bottom of the stairs. The pale yellow light sent distorted shadows scattering through the long, narrow space. She tried to remember when she had last come to the storeroom.