The Taxidermist's Daughter

by Kate Mosse

  Do I hear something above the noise of the storm? In the thundering of the tides? The sound of boots on the path? The drumming of fists on the door? Or is it not yet time?

  Chapter 46

  Apuldram Lane

  Fishbourne

  The top of Apuldram Lane was completely flooded, Connie could see the swirling brown water covering the road and surging round the foundations of the houses. The small homespun shrine to the family killed in the March floods when their trap overturned was completely submerged. Bedraggled flowers clung to the memorial, their petals ripped off by the strength of the current.

  The cabman pulled up and twisted round on his seat.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he shouted over the wind, ‘I can’t get any further. I can’t risk my horse. Even if it’s not too deep, there’s no guarantee I’ll get back.’

  Holding her hat on with one hand, and fumbling in her purse, Connie pulled out a coin and pressed it into the driver’s hand. He touched his cap.

  ‘Good luck, miss.’

  She watched him turn the carriage, then snap his whip and set his horse back towards Chichester.

  Overhead, a clap of thunder. Closer this time.

  Connie quickly took stock. A lake had formed at the bottom of Clay Lane, and as the driver had said, it was impossible to know how deep the water was ahead. She walked fast, to the path that ran down the side of Clayton Cottage into the water meadows. Those fields had never completely recovered from the devastating spring floods, but at least they were designed to flood. On the road, there was nowhere for the water to go and she feared Mill Lane might be impassable.

  Heading down against the wind, she pressed forward, desperate for a first sight of Blackthorn House on the far side of the creek. She had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Fear for her father; worrying about why Harry had not kept their appointment.

  However many times she tried not to read something dark into his absence, it made no difference.

  She ploughed on. Her face was soaking and the brim of her hat, lifted by the wind, flapped around her head like a huge bird. After a moment, she took it off and put it in her bag, then struggled on.

  Vera, Dr Woolston, her father, Cassie.

  Then, some way ahead, Connie noticed she wasn’t the only person foolhardy enough to be out of doors. About half a mile away, closer to the water, someone else was battling the storm and the tides. She saw him fall, then heave himself up and keep going, stumbling along the vanishing shoreline towards Apuldram, regardless of the obstacles in his way.

  The man fell again, got up again.

  Now, something about the motion and the way he staggered through the mud triggered a recognition. A spark of relief followed quickly by fear and panic. What was he doing?

  ‘Father!’ she shouted, but her voice was carried away by the wind. ‘Gifford!’

  Abandoning all thoughts of her own safety, Connie struck out across the marshes after her father.

  *

  Davey sat up and spat the straw from his mouth. He had no idea what had happened.

  Last thing he remembered, he was in the trap. Sitting huddled on the floor, to keep out of the wind, and seeing something beneath the bench. A large floppy black hat, with feathers pinned all over it. Wondering how Vera Barker’s hat came to be in there.

  Then, nothing.

  He put his hand to the back of his head, wincing at the touch of a lump the size of an egg. He rolled his shoulders, then stood up. He was in some kind of stable or animal pen. There were old rags on the ground, bird dropping everywhere, and a stack of wooden birdcages. On an upturned packing crate, a single candle in a plain brass holder.

  Where was he? How had he ended up here?

  *

  ‘Father!’ Connie shouted.

  She was astonished at how quickly her father was covering the ground. Despite his fragile condition, if anything he seemed to be drawing away from her. He clearly had a fixed destination in his mind.

  Connie’s heavy skirts were clinging to her legs, her saturated coat weighing her down. She could barely feel her feet, and with each heavy step, she seemed to be sinking lower into the mud as the seawater rose higher and higher over the ground.

  Then, to her relief, she saw Apuldram Woods ahead. She hoped that Gifford would take shelter there.

  ‘Father!’

  There was no answer. Connie ran into the cluster of trees. The trees were plunging forwards and back, like untamed horses, but the canopy of leaves provided some protection from the rain. She exhaled, letting the ringing in her ears die away. She still couldn’t see Gifford.

  She traced her way through the trunks of the ash trees and the oaks. She had lost all track of time, but she could see the tide was terribly high. She kept going until she saw the outline of a small, single-storey cottage in the distance through the trees. The grass at the end of the garden had been reclaimed by the estuary, but the path was passable still.

  She made a dash into the open, on to the path and up to the front door. The sign read: THEMIS COTTAGE. Connie frowned, another memory of Cassie coming back to her. The handwritten label. Themis, the goddess of justice.

  She rapped on the door. ‘Hello? Let me in. Please.’

  Another gust of wind at her back slammed into her, all but knocked her off her feet. She hammered harder.

  ‘Is there anyone here? Father?’

  When no one answered. Connie tried the latch and found the door was unlocked.

  She stepped inside.

  Chapter 47

  Themis Cottage

  Apuldram

  Davey heard the sound of someone rattling the latch. He was about to shout for help when it occurred to him that it might be whoever had thumped him, coming back to finish him off.

  Gregory Joseph? Davey shook his head; he’d been too far away up Mill Lane. Had the trap gone over? Had he been thrown out, bashing his head in the process? If that was the case, how had he ended up locked in here? Where was Mr Crowther? Was he hurt too?

  Davey had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, but when had that ever made any difference? He stood his ground. In his short life, he’d learnt how to be knocked down and get back on his feet again. He’d also discovered that sometimes it was better to keep out of the way. Live to fight another day.

  This was one of those days.

  He looked around for a place to hide. The only possibility was to climb up into the rafters and hope they didn’t look up. Whoever ‘they’ might be. When the door opened, he’d have a chance to jump down and run. He reckoned he could outrun most people.

  There was a metal manger on the wall. Davey hauled himself up on to it, regained his balance, and reached up to the lowest beam. His hands slipped. He tried again, this time gaining purchase and swinging himself upright. There was just enough height. Panting with exertion, he pressed himself back against the wall and tried not to breathe too loudly.

  Apuldram Lane

  Fishbourne

  Harry stared at the narrow waterlogged track that led from Apuldram Lane towards the sea. He flinched at another clap of thunder overhead, pulled his hat down over his ears, and set off.

  Immediately, he went down into deep mud. Black estuary water flooded over the top of his boots. Was he going in the right direction for Themis Cottage? The Dunnaways man said he’d taken a fare out to Apuldram the previous night.

  Harry ploughed on. He couldn’t understand why the hell there was no sign of Pennicott. No sign of police activity at all. The sergeant had said he needed more evidence, but surely that wouldn’t prevent him coming to Apuldram to make enquiries. Both White and Brook had a connection to the cottage, Pennicott already knew that.

  A fork of lightning split the sky, followed a few seconds later by another roar of thunder. Harry glanced up, wondering if he was safer under the trees or if he’d be better off out in the open.

  When he’d left Pennicott and returned home to North Street, he’d discovered Connie had left having wa
ited for over an hour. Then he’d seen the note she’d left him on the salver in the hall, asking him to come to Blackthorn House as soon as possible. That she had things to tell him. At the bottom of the scribbled letter, a postscript that, even in the midst of such darkness, had made him smile.

  ‘It is beautiful. No doubt, you are an artist.’ Then, beneath, the words ‘Thank you. CG.’

  He’d set off intending to do what she’d asked, but when he got to the outskirts of Fishbourne, he realised it made more sense to go to Themis Cottage first. He desperately wanted to see Connie, but Themis Cottage was the only lead they had, and if Pennicott wasn’t going to act, then Harry would. Harry couldn’t abandon the old man now.

  He knew Connie would understand. She loved her father too.

  To his surprise, he saw a trap with no driver ploughing up the track towards him. Crowther’s trap? He could see the whites of the horse’s eyes, crazed by the thunder and the sound of the wind, and tried to grab for the reins. The horse reared, but Harry kept hold and fumbled with the harness until he’d got the animal free of the carriage. How the devil had the horse got all the way here without harming itself? Harry was no good with animals, so he didn’t know if it would be better to tether the horse until he could find someone to deal with it, or set it free. There was another clap of thunder, directly overhead, and the decision was taken out of his hands. The horse reared up again, ripping the reins from his hands. He couldn’t stop it. All he could hope was that it would find its own way back to Fishbourne.

  Harry slipped in the mud and almost went over. He continued to battle his way down the track, his boots sinking deeper with each step. Finally, to his relief, he saw a small building ahead at the end of the track, set in a large plot of land. To the right, an area of woodland; directly ahead was the sea. He supposed this must be Themis Cottage, though it seemed a peculiarly ornate name for so modest a house.

  He had convinced himself his father was inside. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do for the best. If the old man was here and being held against his will – despite Pennicott’s unspoken insinuations, it was the only explanation Harry was prepared to accept – the last thing he should do was rush in and run the risk of messing things up. He realised it was possible that Pennicott, though he’d not seen any sign of him, was here already.

  A strong gust of wind nearly lifted him off his feet. His clothes were soaking, heavy against his legs and arms. He didn’t think he could stay outside for much longer. He looked around for a place from which to watch the house. He pulled his collar up, then crouched low and ran to what looked like a coal cellar at the back of the cottage. That would do for the time being.

  As he took shelter, he thought again of Connie. He hoped that, whatever revelations did emerge about her father, she would be strong enough to cope. Whatever the situation was, Harry was determined to stick by her.

  Mill Lane

  Fishbourne

  The mill pond had burst its banks. Water was flooding across the road, up and over the steps to the low-lying properties, streaming through the gaps between the doors and the stone thresholds of Pendrills and Salt Mill House.

  Pennicott’s cape flapped in the wind as he raised his hand and rapped again on the door to Slay Lodge.

  ‘Sir?’ he shouted. ‘Open the door, please. This is the police.’

  The house seemed to stare back at him. Every window was tight shut; there was no sign of life. Pennicott was cursing the time it had taken to get the evidence he needed. You couldn’t make mistakes with these kinds of men, whose wealth and standing in society protected them, so Pennicott had done it by the book. He glanced at his watch. His colleagues should have arrived at Themis Cottage by now, so long as Apuldram Lane was passable.

  ‘Sir?’ he shouted again.

  This time, when there was still no answer, Pennicott stood back. He summoned the young officer waiting behind him.

  ‘We’re going to have to break it down,’ he said. ‘On my count.’

  He and the lad jammed their shoulders against the door.

  ‘And again,’ Pennicott ordered. ‘Again.’

  Little by little, the hinges started to splinter and crack. Finally, after one last attempt, the door came away from the frame and they were in.

  Pennicott rushed inside and found himself staring at a huge preserved swan standing in the hallway.

  He knew, immediately, that his man had gone. The house felt empty.

  ‘Check upstairs,’ he ordered.

  Pennicott himself went through the study and the drawing room, noticing that all the drawers of the desk were open. He hoped the others would have better luck at Themis Cottage.

  ‘Found anything?’ he asked, as the boy reappeared.

  ‘Only this,’ the boy said, holding out a coil of taxidermist’s wire.

  Chapter 48

  Themis Cottage

  Apuldram

  Connie staggered into the entrance hall, out of the storm, then struggled to close the door in the teeth of the wind.

  Her first sensation was relief. Her skin was thick with salt water carried off the sea. The cottage was utterly and completely quiet.

  ‘Father?’

  There was an odd concoction of perfumes. Candles, with incense and something unpleasantly sweet underneath. An old and familiar scent that she knew well from the workshop.

  Blood.

  ‘Gifford?’

  Had he taken shelter here? Where else could he have gone?

  Two doors led off the hall, with a third directly ahead at the end of the corridor. They were all closed. Connie tried the right-hand room first. A small parlour; it was empty, although there were signs of recent occupation. A plate and a knife, a stack of newspapers and a couple of books on a low side table. She was on the point of going back into the hall when she noticed the title of the book on the top of the pile. She picked it up.

  ‘Taxidermy: or, the art of collecting, preparing, and mounting objects of natural history,’ she read. ‘Mrs R. Lee.’

  The same Longman edition, by the looks of it, as her father owned. Then she remembered how, when she and Harry were in the workshop, she hadn’t been able to lay her hands on it. She opened the flyleaf and saw her father’s bookplate on the inside cover: MR CROWLEY GIFFORD, STUFFER OF BIRDS.

  Had her father brought the book here? Lent it to someone?

  She looked down at the volume beneath Mrs Lee’s manual. Not another book, but her journal. The current one, missing since Wednesday afternoon. Could her father have taken that too? Brought it here too? She didn’t think so. He had been in a dreadful condition that day, almost unconscious with drink.

  She flicked through the leaves, not sure what she was looking for, pages and pages of her own familiar handwriting. A sheaf of loose paper fell out; then, in the journal, she saw the colour of the ink change. Black ink, not blue.

  Distinctive handwriting, but not hers.

  Connie shook her head. It wasn’t possible. Cassie was dead. She could not have written these entries.

  She thought again of her father’s distress. He was confused and his thoughts had gone round in circles, but he had admitted that Cassie was dead. When Connie had talked of the Corvidae Club, trying to get him to confess that he knew they had murdered Cassie ten years ago, he hadn’t corrected her.

  The same chink of doubt.

  Connie thought of the woman she’d seen watching Blackthorn House, about the man Davey had seen in the same spot. Ever such a small chap, Davey had said, something not quite right about him. The same thing Harry had said about the man he’d heard quarrelling with his father. She thought of the letter Mrs Christie had given her – hand-delivered to the house, that script familiar – and the strength of Gifford’s grief. A fresh, raw emotion, not something a decade old.

  ‘Cassie?’ she heard herself say.

  Still no one answered. No one came.

  Her heart thumping, Connie took the journal and walked across the hall to the room oppo
site. It was empty apart for a heap of black drapes, like curtains from a theatre, and a selection of butcher’s tools on the ground. There were brown stains on the teeth of the saw.

  Blood, skin, bone.

  There was only one room left. Still holding her journal in front of her like a shield, she walked slowly down the corridor to the end.

  Was her father here? Was Cassie? Someone pretending to be Cassie?

  Every muscle in her body told her not to go on, but she had come too far to turn back. For a decade she’d lived with secrets poisoning everything. It was better to face the truth, whatever it was and however difficult it turned out to be. It was better to know than to spend the rest of her life, like the past ten years, wondering.

  Connie put down the journal on the hall table, then walked forward towards the closed door at the end of the corridor.

  *

  Davey dropped down from the beam on to the straw, landing behind the figure standing in the doorway. He tried to make a run for it, but Joseph lunged for him, grabbing his jacket, threw the boy back on to the straw, and blocked the door with his body.

  Davey flew at him. Joseph put his arms around the boy and lifted him off the ground.

  ‘Shut this row. He’ll hear us,’ he hissed.

  ‘Where’s Mr Gifford? What have you done with him? If you’ve harmed him . . .’

  ‘Gifford?’

  The surprise in Joseph’s voice was so obvious that Davey stopped fighting.

  ‘Look, I’ll put you down, but I swear, if you start that racket up again, I’ll swing for you. Clear?’

  Davey nodded. Joseph dropped him.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No. Ma Christie sent me after Mr Gifford. He was heading this way, but I . . . To be honest, I’m not sure.’

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Why’s Gifford here? What’s he playing at?’