by Michael Ford
‘Not really,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he replied, then smiled. ‘No ghosts in the night?’
‘What?’ My tone was brisk.
It had been him! Of course it had! Somehow he had used the ladder again. He’d climbed the house outside in the dead of night, rubbed dirt into his hands. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
I looked at him coldly and his smile vanished.
‘I must look at getting Lancelot shod,’ he said quietly. ‘He threw one on Piccadilly yesterday, and Lord Greave said it wouldn’t do.’
He left the room and as soon as he was gone, I felt overcome by sadness. Mrs Cotton was our enemy, not Rob. Lizzy said we should stick together, not taunt each other. I burned the first slice of His Lordship’s toast and had to make another. Rowena was happy though. Even burnt toast was better than none.
The morning had passed without incident. It was laundry day – the worst of the week – when we took in all the sheets and linen and plunged them over and over in hot or cold water in the great laundry-room sinks. Any stains were scrubbed out with soaps, then sheets and tablecloths were passed through the mangle and smaller items wrung out. Hands went from numb with cold to scalding red. Wires were strung across the room for drying in winter, but Mrs Cotton told us to air the sheets outside while the light was good and the skies clear.
‘She seems a bit distracted, don’t you think?’ said Lizzy. ‘Why, she hasn’t even lashed me with her tongue once today!’
After His Lordship’s lunch, we found out why. We were enjoying the warmth from the range and eating cold cuts. Mr Lock had told Cook that there was no need to prepare dinner for Lord Greave that evening, as he was visiting his club for the first time in several months.
This itself was big enough news: he’d all but given up going out to see acquaintances after Samuel had shipped out, keeping more and more to his rooms. Cook continued as she returned a pan to its station, ‘Mrs Cotton has a visitor though, and will be entertaining him in the drawing room.’
We all looked up. The housekeeper having visitors was not especially surprising, but mostly these were other ladies. And this didn’t sound like a dinner party.
‘Him?’ I said.
‘Indeed,’ said Cook.
‘A single gentleman?’ said Lizzy.
‘So Mr Lock says,’ said Cook.
‘Well, who is he?’ said Rob.
Cook only shrugged.
We continued with our duties separately that afternoon, but I think we all must have been thinking the same thing. Who was this strange gentleman, and what was his business with our housekeeper? The thought that he might be a suitor of some sort seemed close to ridiculous. There was a rumour of Mrs Cotton once being in a relationship, an engagement called off. Surely no man could endure her!
The fact that this man was calling when Lord Greave was not at home added to our suspicions. I doubted the master of the house even knew of the visit, and said as much to Lizzy.
At about four o’clock, when I was ironing the dried napkins and handkerchiefs – a job that seemed never-ending – Rob came up to me. He asked me first if I wouldn’t mind cleaning his best set of boots, as Lizzy was busy upstairs. I said that I would get round to it, but then he lingered.
‘How would you like to find out who our visitor is tonight?’ he said.
‘I don’t think Mrs Cotton is going to say,’ I replied.
‘But if there was another way?’ There was a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked.
Rob outlined his plan to me, and my first impression was that it was plain madness. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. He wouldn’t drop it though, and as I polished his shoes to a shine he pressed on, meeting each of my very sensible objections with a clever answer. He and Elizabeth had thought of each eventuality, he said.
‘So Lizzy’s in on this too, is she?’
‘Even Cook’s agreed!’ he said. ‘But none of it will work without you.’
There was a part of me, too, that wanted to get Mrs Cotton back. And breaking the rules was the only way.
I nodded reluctantly.
‘Is that a yes?’ Rob asked.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said.
.
Chapter 8
I didn’t have time to dwell on my decision, for the rest of the day passed quickly. Lord Greave left at six, and I went up to clean his room. The curtains of the bed were drawn and the room smelled of age and decay. The sheets were changed once a week, normally, but he had insisted on keeping these for four times as long. Up here there were more pictures – hunting scenes and an oil of the naval battle at Trafalgar, where His Lordship’s father had fought and died – and a bureau, now little used if the gathering dust was anything to go by.
I swept away the ashes of his fire and made it ready to be lit the following morning. I brushed away a cobweb that had appeared in the corner of the slanted wall, then cleaned the carpets and the inside of the windows, and polished the dressing table and mirror. There were clothes to put away too, and I left them on the bed while I saw to His Lordship’s separate water closet. I cleaned the porcelain sink, making sure each surface sparkled.
I was scrubbing the water closet floor with a rough cloth when I was struck with the overwhelming impression that someone had entered the room at my back.
‘I’ll put away the clothes shortly,’ I said, thinking it could only be Mr Lock.
When no one answered, I stood up and went back into the bedroom. Someone had closed the curtains around the bed.
‘Mr Lock?’ I said.
No response.
‘Rob?’ I whispered.
The bedroom door, I noticed, was closed. I had left it open to let in some fresher air.
‘Robert Willmett,’ I said more loudly, ‘your notion of fun is not the same as mine.’
The curtains didn’t move, but I couldn’t help but feel there was someone lurking behind them.
I scolded myself for being foolish. I felt like dashing straight out of the door as fast as my feet could carry me, but instead I crept to the bed. Taking a deep breath, I yanked the curtain aside.
The bed was empty, neatly made up as I’d left it, but the clothes were gone.
I ran out on to the landing, expecting to see Rob or Lizzy laughing, or perhaps Mr Lock stiffly descending the stairs. My back had been turned for a minute at most, and in that time someone had been into the room, taken the clothes and pulled the bed curtains closed, all in absolute silence.
Someone was playing games with me. Not Mr Lock, certainly. He wasn’t the sort. Not Rob, who was out with His Lordship. Lizzy then? But that made no sense: why would she break our trust? I went into the dressing room, and sure enough, the shirts were hanging on a rail. A rug had been laid in here, but in the corner was a hatch in the floor. It opened into the nursery below, but as I knew it hadn’t been used for years.
I told myself I was being silly.
As we weren’t preparing a dinner for His Lordship, we managed half an hour to eat our own. Once Mr Lock had gone to his own bed for an early night, Rob said to me: ‘No second thoughts, then, Abi? Still game?’
I wasn’t, but I nodded. Truth be told, I was as curious as any of them as to who Mrs Cotton’s guest might be.
‘Good,’ Lizzy said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it, for sure.’
‘I’ll ring the bell when I see him come off the road,’ said Rob. ‘Lizzy, that’s your signal to distract Mrs Cotton, and yours Abi, to be ready.’
I occupied myself with needlework in my room, repairing a seat cushion, while Lizzy helped Cook clear up downstairs. What would my mother say if she knew about this eavesdropping? She wouldn’t approve, I was sure of it. But Rob was right – as long as I didn’t make any noise, there was little reason why I should get caught. And there was no denying that I felt excited. When your life’s governed so strictly by rules, breaking even the smallest one gives a thrill of satisfaction.
As the hours went by
I began to wonder if this guest would come at all, but at close to ten the little bell in my room rang. That was my signal that Rob had spotted the visitor coming off the road. I was on my feet and down the two flights of stairs as quickly as I could manage.
Lizzy winked at me as she emerged from the back stairs and went to the drawing room. Rapping twice, she said, ‘Ma’am, could Cook have a quick word downstairs?’
‘Can’t it wait?’ said Mrs Cotton irritably. ‘My visitor will be here shortly.’
‘She says it’s urgent, ma’am.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs Cotton.
I hung back as their footsteps went towards the scullery. Just then, the doorbell chimed.
I held my breath. If Mrs Cotton turned round now, the plan was ruined.
‘Rob,’ she called, ‘escort our guest into the sitting room, please.’
My heart was knocking under my ribs.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Rob. As the shadows of Mrs Cotton and Lizzy passed down into the scullery, I tiptoed out behind Rob. He was walking to the front door and gave me a wicked grin. I slipped into the sitting room.
The fire was banked high in the grate and all the lamps were lit, making the room warm and inviting. I moved quickly behind the painted screen on the other side of the room as a voice came from the hall.
‘Good evening. My name is Doctor Matthias Reinhardt.’ The man spoke with a strange accent. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Lillian Cotton.’
A doctor? Was Mrs Cotton ill? The thought gave me a little thrill, but it came with a flash of shame too. If she was suffering from a secret ailment, then I really shouldn’t be listening in.
‘Of course, sir,’ said Rob. ‘Let me take your coat, Doctor. If you’d like to follow me.’
I wondered how the plan was going downstairs. By now Cook would have been admonished, no doubt, for interrupting the housekeeper with trivialities about the fish delivery and Mrs Cotton would be huffing and puffing her way back upstairs.
With my eye up against the crack in the screen I saw a tall, grey-haired gentleman with a monocle enter the room behind Rob. He was dressed in a black suit with an odd little purple waistcoat and carried a satchel.
A moment later, Mrs Cotton bustled in behind him.
‘Good evening, Dr Reinhardt. My apologies for being indisposed. With a house such as this to run, one has to deal with all sorts of problems,’ here she grimaced at Rob, ‘not least of which are the staff.’
It was his cue to leave, and he withdrew with the faintest of glances towards the screen, closing the door behind him.
Now it’s just the three of us, I thought.
‘And a good evening to you also, Mrs Cotton,’ said the doctor. ‘May I say, from what I have seen, this is a most impressive house.’
‘It gives me no small pleasure to know that I can preserve it in the state that my late sister would admire,’ said Mrs Cotton, flushing a little.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘And it is she about whom you contacted me, is it not? Eleanor.’
Mrs Cotton gave a small twitch. ‘You must think me a fool, doctor. Eleanor has been dead for nineteen years –’
‘Please,’ said the doctor, raising his palms to interrupt her. ‘There is no folly in what you have told me. Just because the body dies, that does not mean the spirit ceases to exist. A spirit must find its rest.’
Mrs Cotton smiled and gestured to a seat. ‘Will you take a drink of anything, doctor? Some whisky, perhaps.’
Who was this man? Not a doctor like Dr Ingle, that much was certain.
‘Oh, no thank you,’ he said, resting his bag beside the chair. ‘I find that such things . . . how can I say? . . . disrupt the energies.’
I had no idea what he was talking about, of course. So this had something to do with His Lordship’s late wife, Eleanor.
Mrs Cotton poured herself a drink instead.
‘Shall we begin, then?’ asked the visitor.
Mrs Cotton took a small sip. ‘Very well.’
‘You did what I asked? Fetched one of her possessions?’
Mrs Cotton went to the handsome dresser and pulled open the drawer. She took something out and held it out before the doctor. I pressed closer still to see.
The rose-shaped brooch.
‘This was her favourite,’ she said.
I almost laughed. So this was about Rob’s little trick! I thought Mrs Cotton might go on to mention how it had mysteriously appeared on the dress, but she fell silent.
Oh, you stupid woman! I was already looking forward to telling the others. This was better than any of us could have imagined!
‘Most attractive!’ said the doctor. He laid the brooch carefully on the low table. The housekeeper sat opposite the doctor, with her hands clasped between her knees.
‘Can you tell me, Mrs Cotton,’ said Dr Reinhardt, ‘what your sister liked to be called? Was it Eleanor or something shorter? Elle, perhaps?’
‘I called her Ellie.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Ellie. That’s good. And can you tell me, madam, have you any notion why your sister might still be here? Why she might be . . . pestering you so?’
I had to clasp my hand over my mouth. Mrs Cotton seriously believed that Lady Greave’s spirit was haunting her!
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘It’s been so long, and we were always close.’
Dr Reinhardt nodded appreciatively and put two fingers on the brooch, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He held out his other hand to the housekeeper. ‘Please, madam, to commune with the dead we must form a link of flesh and blood.’
Hesitantly, Mrs Cotton reached out her hands and took the doctor’s. She too closed her eyes. I kept mine wide open. I didn’t want to miss a second. I imagined Rob and Lizzy rolling around on the floor laughing when I told them.
‘You too must touch the token,’ said the doctor. ‘Complete the bonds.’
Mrs Cotton did as he said. She looked so baffled and unsure, not at all her usual self.
The only sound now was the crackle of the fire.
Who was this ‘doctor’? Some sort of mountebank, surely, willing to take money from anyone gullible enough to be parted from it. I hated Mrs Cotton, but I’d never thought her a fool.
The doctor turned his head towards the screen and looked straight at me. ‘I know you’re here,’ he whispered.
I stepped back from the crack in the screen. Panic flooded my limbs.
‘Reveal yourself!’ commanded the doctor.
.
Chapter 9
All the laughter left me as fear took over.
I was sure that at any moment Mrs Cotton would step behind the screen and drag me out. I couldn’t imagine what punishment she would devise. And could I conceal the fact that Rob and Lizzie were part of the plan too? Mrs Cotton must surely see that my presence was orchestrated by several people.
‘I say again, troubled one, reveal yourself.’
His voice was softer this time, and still Mrs Cotton hadn’t said anything. With my heart thudding, I crept back to the screen and peered through.
They were seated just as before, their eyes still closed and hands clasped. Neither was even looking in my direction, but Dr Reinhardt’s face was tensed, his jaw muscles tight lines under the skin.
‘Ellie,’ whispered the doctor, ‘come forth. Explain yourself.’
Relief flooded over me, drowning my panic.
Then, from somewhere, there came a draught. One of the lamps flickered. Mrs Cotton’s eyes opened in alarm then closed again. I looked at the windows, but both were shut with the curtains three-quarters drawn.
‘Ellie,’ said the doctor calmly, ‘we are your friends.’
If he was playing a trick, he was quite an actor. There was nothing overly dramatic in his voice. He spoke as if to an old acquaintance, warm and faintly mocking.
Something in the room had changed, however. The darkness seemed to have deepened, as though someone had dimmed the lamps.
‘El
lie?’ asked Mrs Cotton, as the light played across her hard features.
‘No,’ said Dr Reinhardt anxiously. ‘Not her. Not Ellie.’
He had been sitting up straight before, but suddenly he tipped his head, lowering his chin to his chest. It was as though he was drifting into sleep.
Mrs Cotton opened her eyes. ‘Doctor? What do you mean, not Ellie?’
The doctor didn’t reply. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I thought that in the shadows his lips were moving.
‘Ow!’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘You’re hurting me, Doctor.’
She tried to pull her hand away, and I could see that the doctor’s fingers had hers in a tight grip. The rest of his body was motionless.
‘Doctor!’ she cried. ‘I must insist –’
He suddenly released her hand and she fell back in the chair, pale with shock. As she did so the fire in the grate went out, not with a slow fizzle but suddenly, as though the chimney had swallowed it. One moment it was blazing high, the next it was gone.
I gasped, and if Mrs Cotton had not done so in the same instant, I would have given myself away. The room was suddenly cold.
Only the oil lamps were now lit. Gooseflesh rose across my skin.
The doctor began to move again. Both hands seemed to slither back to his chair, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the armrests. His head lifted slowly, and even in the gloom I could see that his eyes had rolled back, showing the whites.
I thought he was having some sort of fit. His lips were drawn up over his teeth and his head turned to left and right in frantic jerks.
‘Doctor?’ said Mrs Cotton. She was shifting in her seat, casting glances into the corners of the room.
When the doctor spoke, the voice was not his own. It was an unearthly moan that seemed to rise from the pit of his stomach. He spoke a single word in a wail of desperation. The word was ‘Murder!’
Mrs Cotton’s face was a mask of horror. Her mouth moved as though she were trying to speak, but couldn’t. My attention was quickly drawn back to the chair. Dr Reinhardt had started to shake. I could hear his teeth rattling.
