‘The bastard who did this ought to be shot! All right, Annabel, keep still!’ He stood up and pulled off his coat. ‘Get this round her.’
I laid the coat over her. She seemed hardly aware of us and continued to scream at intervals. I wondered how long she had been lying there in agony, terrified that no one would find her. I held her head and murmured every consoling thing I could think of. Dirk lay down beside her and licked her face. Annabel turned towards him and put her hand on his great damp head.
Rupert was examining the trap. He was calm after the first outburst of anger. When he failed to get a purchase on the thing with his hands, he stood up and stamped hard with his heel. Annabel stopped screaming. She had fainted, but the trap was open.
‘We need to stop the bleeding. Haven’t you got a petticoat or something?’
Never having owned such a garment, I took off my skirt. Rupert bound Annabel’s ankle and held the improvised bandage in place with my belt. Then he wrapped her in his coat and picked her up.
‘You go ahead and telephone for an ambulance.’
I ran, stumbling over hidden rocks and twisting my ankles in holes. I saw the outline of my father still sitting alone on the top of his particular hill. I waved as I ran but he did not see me. Maggie came down to meet me as, barely able to speak, I came panting up the drive. I sat wheezing on a chair in the hall while she rang the hospital. Sir Oswald lumbered in and patted me kindly on the shoulder while I puffed out an explanation. He drew up another chair so he could sit beside me and hold my hand. I reminded myself that he was the father of the injured girl and allowed him to fondle my palm. I think he genuinely wanted to be comforting.
When Rupert arrived, he was in similar state of speechlessness. He was tall but not particularly muscular, and Annabel must have weighed five or six stones. He laid her on the extempore bed Maggie had made up on the floor and motioned to me to get off my chair so he could sit on it. He repulsed Sir Oswald’s attempt to hold his hand, leaned his head back and took great gasping breaths.
‘Maggie!’ Annabel opened her eyes. ‘I want Maggie.’
‘I’m here.’ Maggie was on her knees beside her in a trice. ‘Eh, my duck, but you gave us a fright. If anything had happened –’ she caught her breath. ‘There now, my lamb, you’ll be all right …’
‘It hurts like stink,’ Annabel wailed.
‘You’re a brave girl. I’m that proud of you.’
‘It was me, Maggie,’ said Annabel, between groans. ‘I found the trap. In the stables. When I went to see if I’d caught anything I couldn’t find it. It was covered with snow – and then I trod on it.’
‘Whatever did you want to go and do that for?’
‘I wanted to make you all scared.’
‘You did that, right enough. I’ve been that worried. What was it you was going to ketch in the nasty thing?’
‘I wanted something to put in the cupboard behind the Aga to make a horrible smell. I put in the meat I found in the paddock so everybody would think it was Fanny Cost’s ghost.’
‘Meat, dear? What meat’s that?’
‘It must be the chicken and cutlets I found in the fridge,’ I said. ‘And there was a rib of beef as well.’
Maggie looked at me, puzzled. ‘You, dear?’
‘You must have ordered it before you became ill. After Archie took over the cooking we didn’t eat any meat. It was starting to smell so I chucked it into the field behind the stables for the foxes.’
‘Eh, but, my lamb,’ Maggie had turned back to Annabel, ‘why did you want to scare us?’
‘To show everyone, that’s all. I was going to let you get really frightened and then I’d tell you it was me and laugh at the – the clots you’d made of yourselves. And I put the painting of Old Gally in the closet too.’
Maggie patted her tear-soaked cheek. ‘I don’t know what painting you mean, dear. No one’s said anything about it to me. Perhaps you were dreaming.’
The little minx! I thought. Not only had she very nearly divorced me permanently from my wits but she had driven me panic-stricken and defenceless into the arms of – well, I could hardly blame Annabel for what had happened with Max. And, what was almost worse, it was another good story for ‘Spook Hall’ spoiled. Yet again, I should have to resort to imagination.
‘I know what she means,’ I said. ‘But it isn’t important. It was a jolly good joke, Annabel.’ I smiled hypocritically, though, if it weren’t for the wounded leg, I would willingly have put her over my knee and spanked her.
‘But why did you do these nasty things, my precious?’ asked Maggie. ‘I can’t understand why you wanted to frighten us.’
‘You all think Cordelia’s prettier and nicer than me.’ Annabel let out a sob – whether of pain or jealousy I could not tell. ‘But I’m cleverer than she is. Much!’
‘My poppet, there’s no gainsaying Cordelia’s got very taking manners but no one thinks she’s nicer nor prettier than you,’ began Maggie.
‘Daddy does!’ cried Annabel. ‘He loves her! And he doesn’t care a bit about me.’
Sir Oswald drew in his breath and screwed up his eyes as though to reject the imputation. He stretched out a hand towards his daughter and patted the top of her head awkwardly. Annabel jerked her head away. The movement must have hurt her leg for she let out a shriek.
‘Now, my dear,’ Maggie stroked Annabel’s forehead and brushed back wisps of wet hair. ‘Be brave a bit longer. They’re sending a helicopter special to take you to the hospital.’
Annabel let out another wail. ‘And Rupert loves her too!’
‘I – most – certainly – do – not!’ These were the first words Rupert had spoken.
‘Eh, of course he don’t!’ Maggie was firm, almost indignant. ‘Not in the way you mean. I’m sure he’s downright fond of both of you but Rupert’s a sensible, grown man and he isn’t going to be in love with any little girl, no matter how fetching her ways.’ Maggie paused, perhaps reflecting that the same could not be said of Sir Oswald. ‘You’ve let it all grow big in your mind and it just ain’t true,’ she went on. ‘Now think what you’ll be able to tell the girls at school about riding all the way to Sheffield in a helicopter.’
Annabel clutched Maggie’s hand. ‘Please – come to the hospital.’
‘I’ll come, don’t you fret. Old Maggie won’t leave you.’ She bent to kiss the child’s forehead. ‘My pet, my pet.’ I felt my chest tighten to hear the sound of love in Maggie’s voice, at last allowed free rein.
Archie opened the drawing-room door, saw Annabel’s leg trussed in my bloody skirt, shuddered and withdrew his head. Cordelia came running down the stairs.
‘Crikey!’ cried Cordelia. ‘I’ve never seen so much blood before. Does it hurt like mad?’ She bent over Annabel and examined her leg with morbid relish. ‘I hope you get a doctor that looks like Dirk Bogarde in Doctor in the House. Only more experienced. It’s all working out like in The Railway Children. They’ll have to put your leg in plaster like the hound in the red jersey. Or,’ her eyes grew bright with inspiration, ‘have you seen Reach for the Sky? It’s about Douglas Bader. He has a plane crash and they have to cut both his legs off.’
Annabel screamed long and loud, a sound that hurt my ears and made Sir Oswald sob. ‘Maggie, don’t let them cut my leg off! I won’t go to hospital! I won’t!’ She screamed again with terror.
I shook my head at Cordelia and frowned.
‘Annabel!’ said Rupert. ‘Stop that noise! I’ve examined your leg and I can assure you no one’s going to amputate it. You’ll be fine in a week or two. But if you scream once more I shall cut off your head myself.’
It was stern stuff but it worked. Annabel continued to whimper but she was calm.
‘Listen, the helicopter’s coming.’ Maggie gently released the child’s grip on her sleeve. ‘I’d better get a bag packed.’
‘Rupert!’ Annabel twisted her head until she could see him. ‘Hold my hand. Please.’
Rupert lea
ned forward and took her grubby fingers in his. She pressed it against her cheek. It looked very large and dark against her white face with the stormy eyes softened by pain and love. Cordelia waggled her eyebrows and sent me conspiratorial looks.
‘Maggie.’ Sir Oswald spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What about me?’
‘The child needs me, Oswald,’ said Maggie. ‘You must see that.’
‘Don’t worry, Lady Pye.’ Suke had come into the hall from the library. ‘You go with Annabel. I’ll take care of everything while you’re away. You needn’t worry about a thing.’
‘Bless you, lass!’
Sir Oswald’s beaky upper lip trembled as he caught Suke’s eye.
THIRTY-FOUR
As Maggie had gone to the hospital with Annabel, and Mrs Whale was still in Bunton pegging away at the jobs Father Terry was too spiritually exalted to do for himself, it fell to Suke and me to dismantle Annabel’s recreation of the ghost of Fanny Cost. The old chimney flue that ran from the kitchen up to the dining room and presumably to several bedrooms above, must have been bricked up when the Aga was installed some years ago but a low door had been put in, probably to allow the flue to be swept.
We found a torch in one of the kitchen drawers, soaked handkerchiefs with disinfectant, held them to our noses, and crawled in. It was a strange otherworldly place of shadows and soot-laden cobwebs but you could stand upright and walk about in quite a large area. Patches of newer stonework and brick walls showed how the arrangement of rooms had been altered over the years.
‘Look!’ Suke shone the torch upwards and I saw pinpricks of light where the wall joined the ceiling. ‘Airbricks. That’s how the smell got into the corridor.’ She swung the beam round. ‘And here’s the old fireplace still complete – ovens, grates, a spit and everything. They must have moved the entire kitchen some time this century.’ She swung the light over our heads. ‘Look at the maze of old flues leading off this one!’
Usually I am fascinated by lessons in social history but on this occasion the ghastly smell that was getting the better of the disinfectant made me less keen. It was easy to locate the shelf on which lay the rotting meat. The Aga on the other side of the wall kept it at a steady decomposing temperature. We had brought a bucket and a shovel with us and quickly we scooped up the putrefying flesh and poured water and disinfectant over the shelf.
‘Well,’ said Suke, as we walked through the freezing dusky air to the paddock to dispose of the bucket’s contents, ‘I bet that old bricked-up kitchen has seen a thing or two in its time. If only stones could speak.’
‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous to be able to go back in time for a few hours?’ I was delighted that for once Suke and I were on the same wavelength. ‘Think of all the conversations over cups of tea that have gone on round that wonderful old fireplace – confidences, jokes, quarrels, assignations, perhaps even lovers’ vows exchanged.’
‘There’d have been little time for all that while they were toiling every minute of the day to produce elaborate meals for their lords and masters. As for cups of tea – tea was hugely expensive and the mistress of the house kept it locked in a caddy for her own use. The servants would have drunk small beer.’
‘Of course you’re right. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘The work was hard and the hours were long.’ Suke resumed her lecturing tone as we started to walk back to the house. ‘Girls as young as twelve would stand in the freezing scullery, scouring pots with sand until their fingers were raw and they were weeping with tiredness. And boys the same age would be sent up the flues to clean them, scorching their hands and feet and scraping their elbows and knees until they bled. It was not unknown for children to get stuck in the chimneys and die.’
‘Oh dear. How depressing. Thank goodness things are better now.’
‘There’s no room for complacency. There are sweatshops and carpet factories all over the world that use child labour. And child pornography and prostitution are commonplace. Everywhere the rich exploit the poor, the strong seize power to benefit themselves and the weak go to the wall.’
‘Surely not in this country?’
The light from the back door, to which we had returned, gleamed on Suke’s shaved head as she shook it sorrowfully. ‘How little you know about how the other half live. Our inner cities are a disgrace – filthy slums crammed with illiterate paupers.’
‘Well,’ I resolutely put some cheerfulness into my voice, ‘at least we don’t use poor darling dogs and donkeys to turn spits any more.’
‘Poor darling dogs and donkeys?’ Suke looked at me with an expression of absolute contempt. ‘Really, Harriet! I sometimes wonder if you are capable of seriousness.’
‘What? But I was being …’ I was talking to empty air as Suke had walked off.
Luckily Annabel’s other amusing practical joke needed no deconstruction. The tremendous racket of the helicopter arriving to collect Annabel and Maggie had brought Jonno and Portia, a little tousled-looking, down from their bower of bliss. I had filled them in on the afternoon’s events and later that evening the three of us went to see how Annabel had worked the trick of making Old Gally appear in the cupboard in my bedroom. In the room that had been the bishop’s, next to mine, we discovered an identical cupboard backing on to ours.
‘Ha!’ Jonno lifted up a plain piece of wood that hung on the wall and turned it round. The other side was a mirror, our mirror. It had been covering a hole in the panelling. ‘It’s quite obvious how my bad little sister did it. This is a powder closet. In the days when people wore powder on their hair, they stuck their heads through this hole and their maids or valets dusted it – with a mixture of things like orris root and nutmeg – so it didn’t get on their clothes. Peculiar idea, wasn’t it? I suppose they wanted to keep the fleas at bay and conceal the stink of drains and BO.’
‘Maggie must have put the mirror over the hole to save the bishop from the temptation of letting his eyes wander over your tender young limbs,’ suggested Portia.
I could hardly believe I had been so easily taken in. ‘So Annabel replaced the mirror with the portrait of Old Gally and then scratched at the panelling to draw Cordelia’s attention to it. Pity she didn’t know that Cordelia sleeps like the kraken. But there was blood glistening on the neck.’
When we examined the portrait in the long gallery with the aid of a torch we found flakes of red paint clinging to the canvas in the region of the ruff.
‘You’ve got to hand it to Annabel,’ said Portia, ‘she’s an ingenious child and a credit to the family.’
‘It wouldn’t be hard to be a credit to this family,’ said Jonno. ‘A worse set of wastrels and ne’er-do-wells you’d have to go a long way to find. We’re in urgent need of reform.’ His expression became soupy. ‘Do you think, my darling Portia, you might find it in your heart to improve the stock a little?’
Finding myself suddenly surplus to requirement, I sidled off into my bedroom before they could discuss the subject further.
Despite Cordelia’s persistent nagging I had refused to read Max’s letter until after she had gone to bed. When I was certain she was asleep I made myself comfortable in the chair by our bedroom fire and tore open the envelope. ‘My darling Harriet,’ it began.
Just writing your name excites me and brings back the exquisite pleasure of making love to you. God, I miss you more than I can describe. When I think of that soft place behind your ear, so pale with fine dark tendrils of hair, I feel weak. I can see your face very clearly, the big dark eyes, the lower lids curving up so sweetly at the outer corners, your long dark brows, that serious expression you have when watching other people as though you want to get to the heart of them. Your perfect slender nose above that full sexy upper lip. I want to run my hands again over your soft little breasts, to kiss your infinitely precious
I never discovered what else he was going to run his hands over and kiss because at that point I put the letter in the fire and watched the paper blacken and
burn in seconds. Had he also written to Georgia, detailing her face and body and seducing her by post? I took the poker and prodded the flimsy ashes until they were atoms.
What added up to a few days of flirtation and an hour or so in bed was over. Max was my third lover in four years. But only with Dodge had there been anything that could be called a proper affair, a connection of minds as well as bodies. My mind slid away from thoughts of Hugo Dance. Apart from the fact that he had an unhappy wife, I knew nothing at all about Max. He had charmed me into acquiescence by flattery, both blatant and subtle, and such was my vanity that I had fallen for it. I did not seem very good at relationships with men. I wondered what was wrong with me.
The fire burned low and I came to no conclusion. I took up my sponge bag and towel. With any luck there would be no one in the bathroom. As I wandered the length of the Long Gallery, still cogitating on the mysteries of sexual attraction, I noticed almost subliminally that something was different. I turned back to look. On the chest lay the case, the chain curled beside it. Old Gally’s arm had gone.
‘Oh damn!’ I said loudly, to reassure myself. ‘Someone’s playing stupid tricks again.’
I stared up and down the Gallery. The lights seemed to waver and dim. Probably the generator was struggling to digest a speck of dirt. It was unusually quiet. Even the wind was no more than a playful whisper and above it I could hear the sound of the waterfall. I set off purposefully for the bathroom. It seemed a long way. Something shimmered to my left. I turned my head quickly but it was only the Gorgon tapestry moving slightly in a draught. I smiled to myself. I had no intention of playing into the hands of some malicious practical joker. The bathroom door was clearly in view now. I quickened my step.
Clouds among the Stars Page 52
