by Alex Bell
As an assistant mistress, I sensed it wasn’t quite my place to be in the kitchen, but I was desperate for a cup of tea and, at this time of the day, the kitchen was the only room in the entire school that would be halfway warm. Besides, I knew that Henry often spent time in there and if it was all right for the drawing master to do so then surely it would be all right for me, too. Indeed, when I walked in Henry was already there, lounging in one of the chairs by the fire, Murphy at his feet. Cassie was perched on the arm of his chair in what she clearly felt was a fetching manner. She was giggling in an over-thetop way at something Henry had said and I realized at once that she was sweet on him.
I felt a powerful flash of jealousy that took me by surprise. But what had I expected? Henry was wonderful. Of course other girls would be interested in him. I could not expect him to sit around pining for me forever. Still, he could do so much better than a giggling fool like Cassie.
After the frank conversation we’d had in my bedroom the night before, I was a little nervous about seeing Henry again but, as soon as he saw me, he grinned and beckoned me over, pushing out the other chair. Cassie narrowed her eyes as I sat down in it.
“The cottage was freezing last night,” Henry said, referring to the single-storey dwelling on the grounds that he occupied. “I thought I’d come in to warm up.”
Mrs String and Hannah both ignored me but Cassie got up and made a great show of fetching me a cup of tea. I would’ve liked to have thrown it straight back in her face. She was clearly only trying to seem kind in order to impress Henry. I’d known other girls like this in my time and the two-facedness was the thing that always vexed me the most.
“Miss Black, have you seen Whiskers?” Cassie asked, simpering a little as she pressed the teacup into my hands.
“Please,” I said in my sweetest voice, forcing a smile, “do call me Jemima.” Two could play at that game, after all.
“Jemima, then,” Cassie said. “He’s usually here first thing in the morning yowling for his milk, you see, but I haven’t seen him today. And I’m ever so fond of him.”
Fond enough to kick him outside the kitchen the other day? I longed to say.
“He’s probably out hunting,” Henry told her.
“Not in this weather,” Cassie replied. “Whiskers absolutely hates the snow.” She put on a worried face. “Oh dear, I wonder where he could be?”
She glanced at Henry and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. This show of concern was obviously more for his benefit than for the cat’s.
“Estella mentioned seeing him in the toy room yesterday,” I said. “Perhaps he got shut in there. I’ll take a look after breakfast. The girls were in and out of there looking at the dolls’ house all evening.”
“Dolls’ house?” Henry repeated.
“The one the solicitor sent,” I said. “It was no use to me so I thought the girls may as well have it.”
“That was jolly decent of you, Mim,” Henry exclaimed. “It looked terribly expensive. Still, it explains all the activity last night.”
“Activity?” I looked at him.
“Yes, I noticed it from the cottage. Several times I saw the lights turning on and off in the toy room after bedtime.”
I frowned, unsure. Had the girls been sneaking in there to play? They would have had to pass my room first and I was certain I would have heard them. There was no more time to wonder about it just then, though, because the school was waking up.
I snatched a piece of toast from a plate and ate it as I walked out. It was meanly scraped with the merest hint of butter and felt too dry in my mouth – I found myself having to force it down. I followed the girls into the hall, noticing as I did so that Estella looked unusually tired, as if she’d hardly slept at all. Perhaps she hadn’t stayed in her bed after I’d sent her there, but had gone to the toy room later on?
Before I could ponder it any further, there was the sudden smash of breaking crockery. I looked over to see Felicity pick up a plate and then, very deliberately, throw it straight on the floor, where it shattered alongside the first one.
Miss Grayson was by her side in an instant, demanding an explanation. Everyone had gone quiet and I distinctly heard Felicity say that the Frozen Charlottes had told her to do it.
The schoolmistress reacted with predictable anger and Felicity received a whipped palm for her lie.
Using the commotion as an excuse to slip away, I went back upstairs and walked down the corridor. When I opened the toy-room door, I half expected Whiskers to come shooting out between my legs, meowing in loud, indignant protest, but the room was silent. I pushed the door open all the way but couldn’t properly make out the interior – the sun wouldn’t rise for at least another half hour. My hand found the gaslight on the wall and I heard the hiss of air as it ignited.
I saw the scissors first, the blades red and glistening on the floor at my feet. Suddenly the room was too quiet. I felt like there were a hundred pairs of eyes staring at me, willing me to look up, waiting for my reaction.
Slowly I raised my head. When I’d left the room the previous day, the dolls had been tucked away in the toy chest but now every single one of them was out. The broken ones lay in neat lines by the chest, but the complete dolls were standing with their little china feet balanced on the wooden floorboards, hands stretched out in front of them. Every one of them faced towards the door, as if they’d been waiting for someone to walk in.
But that wasn’t all. The contents of the sewing kits had been emptied out across the floor. I saw a second pair of bloody scissors by the windowsill and a third by the toy chest. And the blood was not only on the scissors. It was smeared across the floorboards, too. It was on the walls. It was on the frozen windowpanes.
So one of the girls had been in here, playing with the dolls. There were doll-sized footprints in the blood on the floor, and tiny handprints in the blood on the walls and on the windows. When I looked more closely at the Frozen Charlottes I saw that many of them had dried blood staining their white fingers or peeling in rust-coloured flakes from their feet. I swallowed, my heart beating too hard against my ribs. Where had all that blood come from?
My eye fell on the toy chest and I noticed that the lid was closed. Being careful not to step in the blood, I walked over and opened it.
I had never been at all squeamish and the sight of blood didn’t normally bother me in the least, but I couldn’t help gasping.
I had found what was left of Whiskers.
For a long moment as I stared down at the dead cat I simply didn’t know what to do. Should I inform Miss Grayson? Or quietly dispose of the body and clean up the blood before anyone could find out what had happened?
Children could be cruel sometimes but this was the most shocking violence. My main thought was that the girls mustn’t see Whiskers. The cat was not merely dead, it had been butchered. It was the work of a deranged mind. Surely none of the girls could be capable of something like this?
“Let’s play a game…”
I whirled round, expecting to see one of the girls, but the room was empty. When I hurried over to the door, however, I found Estella out in the corridor. She looked up at me, her face pale in the early morning light.
“The cat’s dead, isn’t it?” she said.
Slowly I nodded. “Did you come back up here after I sent you to bed last night?” I asked.
The little girl held my gaze. “I wanted to see what the dolls were doing,” she said.
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Estella, this is extremely serious. Did you … did you hurt Whiskers?”
“It wasn’t me,” Estella said, staring straight at me. “It was the dolls.”
Chapter Eleven
Whiteladies – Six months earlier
I moved into Whiteladies the same day Mother and Mr Redwing were due back from their honeymoon in France.
As soon as I heard the crunch of motorcar wheels, I ran out to the drive. I was so looking forward to seeing my mother again. These last
two weeks were the longest we’d ever been apart and I’d missed her dreadfully. I couldn’t wait to hear all about her trip and fully expected her to recount every detail in her characteristic happy, excitable, chattering way. I was quite sure that I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways for at least the first hour or so.
I opened the front door just as Redwing was helping my mother out of the motorcar and, the moment I saw her, my smile froze. Redwing looked his trim, handsome self but Mother was like a completely different person. She had lost weight for one thing – her familiar, comfortable plumpness had been replaced by a pale gauntness. There were dark hollows under her eyes and a strained look around her mouth that suggested she hadn’t slept in days. But worse than all that was the dull, lifeless look in her eyes. I’d never seen my mother like this before, ever.
“Mother, what has happened?” I asked, hurrying to her side at once.
“Your mother fell ill in Paris,” Redwing replied for her.
“Ill? But what—?”
“It’s nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” Redwing said. “Just a passing fever, I expect.”
I was deeply distressed by Mother’s lack of response but tried to hide my worry as I said, “I’ve had the servants prepare tea in the drawing room—”
“I think it best that your mother rests in her room for a while before dinner.” Redwing cut me off firmly. “We don’t want her overtiring herself.”
And, with that, he walked her to the entrance, supporting her up the front steps like she was an invalid.
I’d never once known my mother to be properly unwell. Even on the odd occasion when she’d had a cold, she didn’t lose her cheerfulness and typically bounced back within days. As she walked past me with hardly a glance, I felt the cold touch of fear deep in my gut.
I followed them inside, hoping to accompany Mother to her room so I could speak to her on her own.
“Perhaps you might go down to the kitchen and give instruction for a pot of tea to be sent to your mother’s room?” Redwing said to me smoothly at the foot of the staircase.
“Oh. But I thought I might go up and help her unpack and get changed into—”
“The maids will see to all that,” Redwing replied. “I told you that you would be well taken care of at Whiteladies.”
I glanced at Mother but she was looking at the floor rather than at us. I could not bear it. Why did she not speak up for herself? Why did she not tell Redwing to stop fussing, and that she did not want to rest, and that she and I had so much to catch up on, and we must sit and gossip together in front of the fire? She was right there, and yet she felt miles and miles away from me.
“But I would like to—” I began.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Redwing said, lowering his voice. “It’s been a long journey, Jemima, and your mother needs a little peace and quiet.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then Redwing smiled and the words died in my throat before I could utter them. It was a ghastly smile that lacked all human sympathy. His grey eyes were like ice and I noticed that his long fingers gripped my mother tightly by the wrist. Standing so close to him, the overpowering smell of Macassar oil was almost unbearable. This moment felt like a test of sorts, a benchmark for how things were to be, and it was a test I failed abysmally.
“Very well.” I forced the words out through trembling lips. “I’ll … I’ll go and speak to the cook.”
“Good girl,” Redwing replied.
As I watched them disappear up the stairs together my feeling of dread grew stronger and stronger. I did not see Mother for the rest of that afternoon. The master bedroom she was to share with Redwing was down the corridor from my own room and the door remained locked.
I was determined to see her, however, so when Redwing announced that Mother was going to take a light supper in her bedroom, I lingered on the stairs, watching out for the maid. Redwing had said he was going to have dinner in his study so I hoped he’d be out of the way for long enough.
Shortly after, the maid appeared with Mother’s tray and I spoke to her with an air of authority, telling her I would take it myself. She seemed a little unsure but I didn’t leave her much choice and she went back down the stairs without argument.
I walked over to the master bedroom and knocked firmly on the door. This time, Mother answered it.
“Oh, Jemima,” she said, the first words she’d actually spoken to me directly since she’d arrived home. She glanced up and down the corridor. “I was expecting the maid.”
“I thought I’d bring this myself,” I said, making my best attempt to sound cheerful. “I’ve hardly seen you since you got back.”
I bustled in with the tray before she could stop me. Mother’s bedroom at home had been full of frills and doilies and pink lace. This room, by contrast, was all polished wood and silver edges, with an imposing four-poster bed and heavy red drapes.
A fire burned in the grate and I put the tray down on a table in front of it before settling myself in one of the two wing-backed chairs. For a moment Mother looked unsure about what to do, but then she closed the door and walked slowly over to take the other chair.
“Are you feeling any better?” I asked.
She blinked at me. “I’m quite well, thank you. Simply a little overtired from the journey.”
These were almost the exact words Redwing had used earlier and I was certain that he had told her to say this.
“You look dreadful,” I said, for she looked no better than she had earlier. “Is it Redwing? Has he—?”
“Mr Redwing is a devoted husband,” Mother replied in that same dull tone. “I am very happy.”
“Mother, you’re frightening me! Won’t you please tell me what’s wrong? Whatever it is, there must be something I can do to help.”
“Please don’t be silly, Jemima, I don’t need your help.” As she spoke, she reached towards the tray for one of the teacups, causing her sleeve to pull back and expose her wrist. There were dark, angry bruises there, and when I grabbed her hand and yanked her sleeve up to her elbow, I saw that they extended all the way along her forearm.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“I slipped getting on to the boat at Calais,” Mother said, shaking me off and pulling her sleeve back down. “Mr Redwing saved me from falling.”
I recalled the sight of his fingers tightly gripping her wrist downstairs and was struck by the dawning realization that perhaps things were even worse than I had feared.
“You should go back to your own room, Jemima,” Mother said. “Mr Redwing won’t like it if he finds you here.”
“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?” I said.
“Don’t be silly. I am quite content. And you will be, too, once you get used to things.”
I left her. I was too upset to think properly, too shocked at the burden that had suddenly dropped upon my shoulders. Mother had always been the cheerful, happy one. I’d never had to worry about her before and now I honestly did not know what to do. I’d never felt so alone in my life.
As the weeks passed, things only got worse. Our days followed the same pattern. Redwing kept Mother awake in his study half the night in his various attempts to make contact with Vanessa. He would not allow me to participate in these sessions as he said my presence would be too distracting. He and Mother would disappear in there, the door would close and lock, and I wouldn’t see them again for hours. Often they finished so late that I wouldn’t even hear them come upstairs. Whether through misery, sheer exhaustion, or a combination of the two, Mother had taken to staying in bed for much of the day. She seemed a shell of her former self.
Then one day, as she reached for her water glass at dinner time, I saw a small burn mark on her wrist. It was coming up in angry-looking blisters and was perfectly round in shape. I knew at once that it was a cigarette burn. Redwing smoked profusely and carried with him a silver cigarette case with the Redwing coat of arms engraved upon it. I’d since learned that the red-eyed hawk w
as the Redwing family emblem and the fierce bird appeared frequently throughout Whiteladies. I had to make a great effort to keep my expression neutral so that she wouldn’t realize I’d noticed.
Personally I found the scent of Redwing’s slim little cigarettes unpleasant and overpowering. To my surprise, he always asked if we minded before lighting one but, of course, Mother and I always said we did not. It seemed the most absurd lunacy to maintain gentlemanly etiquette over his smoking habits when he treated Mother monstrously behind closed doors.
The evening I saw the cigarette burn on Mother’s wrist, she excused herself early, saying she didn’t feel well. I followed her upstairs soon afterwards. When I paused outside her door I could hear her crying quietly in her bedroom. I raised my hand to knock, then lowered it again. She would only insist that everything was fine. So I returned to my own room, where I sat and went over it all until my head ached with the strain of trying to find a way out.
Downstairs I heard the grandfather clock strike the hours for midnight. As the last chime faded away, I stood up and crossed the room to the door. I went out into the corridor and slowly walked to the top of the stairs. Gripping the banister, I peered over into the shadows. From here I could hear the low tick of the grandfather clock but nothing else. The house was silent, as if everybody was asleep, although I hadn’t heard Redwing come to bed.
I hesitated at the top of the stairs for a moment. Part of me wanted to return to the safety of my room, pretend none of this was happening. But then I recalled the sight of that cigarette burn and anger flared up inside me once again. I could not stand by and do nothing. I simply had to confront Edward Redwing about his atrocious treatment of my mother.
I put my hand firmly on the banister and stepped on to the first stair.
Chapter Twelve
Isle of Skye – January 1910
I scolded Estella for making up stories about the Frozen Charlottes, then told her to go and find Henry and ask him to come to the toy room, before going on to the classroom. Fortunately he arrived straight away and I told him what had happened. He took in the bloodied state of the room and visibly paled when he saw Whiskers.
