by Michael Ford
I was washing the dining-room windows when Lord Greave’s carriage rattled up outside. Mr Lock helped him down and they came to the front door, side by side. Mr Lock walked as he always did, bent over with his hands behind his back, nodding his head like a tired old crow. Rob caught sight of me watching from the window, and looked away. Whatever news there was, it seemed grave. He twitched Lancelot’s reins with a snap of his gloved hands and continued, turning the carriage towards the stable yard.
Having finished the family rooms, I took some clean water upstairs to the attic, and was in my bedroom at the top of the house giving the glass a final rinse when Lizzy came in. Her face was ruddy with the cold outside, and she threw off her bonnet, rubbing her hands briskly together.
‘Perishing out there,’ she said.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘Well what?’ Lizzy asked, a smile growing on her face.
‘Don’t tease me,’ I said. ‘Was Henry there?’
Lizzy sat on the bed and pulled out a length of material from the pouch in her dress. It was the most lovely blue scarf. The room seemed to light up in its presence.
‘Looks expensive!’ I said.
‘Pure silk,’ said Lizzy, wrapping it round my neck.
It felt like soft warm hands enfolding my skin, and I stroked the fabric against my cheek. Lizzy was beaming.
But this was beyond the wages of a footman.
‘Where did he get it?’ I said.
‘His master gave it to him,’ said Lizzy. ‘It was a gift for a lady, but there was a falling-out. Mr Ambrose didn’t want it in the house.’
I handed it back, as gently as if it were a living thing.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.
She played with the scarf in her lap and I could see she wanted to say something more.
‘Just spit it out,’ I said. ‘I need to take this water back down before Mrs Cotton misses me.’
‘I kissed him,’ she said, not meeting my eyes.
‘You didn’t!’
She nodded. ‘I couldn’t stop myself. On the cheek only!’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lizzy. ‘We were hidden by his master’s carriage. It was very quick.’
‘Nevertheless . . .’
She screwed up her hands and brought her fists down on to the mattress. ‘I know – you don’t have to tell me.’
I obviously did. I couldn’t have my only friend going the same way as Anne.
‘Lizzy,’ I said, ‘you must break it off.’
She looked at me with shock. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘You must. He will expect the same again next time. Maybe more.’
‘Henry isn’t like that,’ she said. ‘It was as much my fault as his.’
‘Well, even more reason to be cautious,’ I said.
Lizzy stood up and folded the scarf angrily.
‘If I didn’t know you better, Abi, I’d say you didn’t want me to be happy.’
‘Don’t be foolish!’ I said. ‘And keep your voice down.’
‘Oh, I am a fool, now, am I?’ she said. ‘Just because you’re so miserable, it doesn’t mean we all have to share your wretchedness.’
She stormed out of the room, and I listened to her footsteps rattle along the corridor to her room.
I sighed. You’re wrong, Lizzy, I thought. I wasn’t jealous – at least not of Henry. How could I be? I’d never even laid eyes on him.
I picked up the pail and threw the cloth in, sloshing water over the sides.
But as I walked down the back stairs, I wondered if maybe she wasn’t right, at least a little. We both wanted to be away from Greave Hall and Mrs Cotton. Perhaps Henry was a good sort after all. And perhaps he was her ticket away from here.
There was one more set of windows to wash by four o’clock – Mrs Cotton’s. She kept her room locked at all times, and I found her in the drawing room, drinking tea from one of His Lordship’s finest Worcester cups.
‘I thought that I heard raised voices,’ she said, sipping delicately.
I replied that I didn’t know what she could mean, but perhaps it was noise from the street. She didn’t respond to that, but gave me the key to her bedroom.
‘I shall expect it back shortly.’
As I climbed the stairs with clean water, a plan formed in my mind. If I were to go through with it, I would have to be quick. If I was caught, my punishment would be unspeakable.
Mrs Cotton’s bedroom was immaculate. The bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in, so neat were the sheets. I placed the bucket on the floor beside the window, and began to rub down the glass. It looked out over the road beyond and into the Park. Somewhere out there lived Dr Reinhardt and, unless I was mistaken, somewhere in this room was the key to contacting him. I wiped while casting my eyes around. Apart from the bed, there was a wardrobe built into a recess beside the fireplace, a dressing table and a shelf above the bed which held a single book – her Bible. There was also a bureau.
No, Abi, I said to myself. Don’t do this.
But it was my only chance.
I wrung out the cloth and pricked my ears for the slightest sound. If Mrs Cotton were to come up the stairs, I told myself, I would hear her.
I crossed the room quickly and turned the small key that had been left in the lock of the writing-desk drawer. It opened. Inside was a pad of writing paper, some blotting pads and a collection of spare pen nibs. There was also a book bound in moleskin. I took it out.
It was an address book, the corners of the pages marked with the letters of the alphabet. My mouth was dry and my heart seemed to be thumping somewhere high in my throat as I skipped to R.
There were three entries on the page:
Rathbone, Frederick. 92 Silk Road
Reinhardt, Dr M. 11b Argyle Terrace
Roberts, T. (chimneys and flues). 18 Kent Terrace
11b Argyle Terrace. It didn’t sound like much, certainly not a grand place like Greave Hall. Probably a basement apartment by the sound of it.
My ears caught the faint sound of rattling china. My fingers fumbled as I put the book back and closed the drawer.
The key wouldn’t turn!
I tried again. No. It was jammed.
There were rapid footsteps on the stairs. Steps that could only be Mrs Cotton’s.
I pulled open the drawer and saw that the blotting pad was pushed up against the locking mechanism, so I moved it further inside and closed the drawer again. This time it locked. I scurried quickly back to the window and snatched up the drying cloth. Behind me the door opened.
‘Almost done, I hope,’ said Mrs Cotton.
I didn’t look round for fear she would read my guilt in my face.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Nearly there.’
I felt her watch me for a while, and then, quiet as a fox, she was gone.
My heart took a long time to slow. Outside, the sun was already dipping to the west above the trees. Buckingham Palace was visible just beyond. The sky was awash with streaks of navy and orange. As I wiped back and forth, making sure no streaks remained, I chanted the address, making sure it was indelibly imprinted on my mind.
‘11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace.’
I didn’t know yet what I would do, but I knew one thing for certain: the basement apartment in Argyle Terrace held some answers.
.
Chapter 13
I went downstairs to empty the pail, and found that Cook had left – to find a tavern for the rest of the night, no doubt, as she often did on a Sunday. I needed paper, and it would be easiest to use the pad that Cook and Mr Lock used to write out her lists, but the store beside his room was kept locked. Mrs Cotton had a key, of course, as did Mr Lock. I decided to go to him.
Rob came in from outside, carrying an armful of logs.
‘Looks like Rowena’s time’s come,’ he said. ‘She’s out there now in the stables, looking a sight sorry for herself.’
‘I daren’t go near her,’ said Rob, grinning. ‘She gave me a snarl like a Bengal tiger.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘Do you know where Mr Lock is?’
He put the logs down beside the small woodburner in the kitchen. ‘With His Lordship, I think.’
I thanked him, and took Rowena’s bowl of water outside. The stable block was at the back of the yard. I clucked quietly as I entered, trying not to scare her.
There she was, lying at the back, on a tarpaulin. She lifted her head, then let it sink back when she saw it was only me.
‘I bet you wanted to be away from all the fuss, didn’t you?’ I said, placing the bowl next to her head. She lapped gratefully at the water as I stroked her behind the ears. ‘Not long now, eh?’
She purred softly and gave a slow blink. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘this is what will happen if you get yourself a follower.’
I left her, but I’d come back to check as often as possible. I didn’t know what would happen to the kittens though. Perhaps Adam could take them to a good home. I had a feeling one cat was enough for Mrs Cotton.
Back inside, I went in search of Mr Lock. Rob was right – he was upstairs with His Lordship. But I could hardly go barging in, so I lurked impatiently near the bottom of the stairs, half-heartedly wiping the skirting with a cloth. I couldn’t help hearing snatches of conversation, and realised they were speaking of Samuel.
‘. . . house isn’t suitable for an invalid, Mr Lock,’ said Lord Greave in a gruff voice.
I was shocked at how normal he sounded. So often now he spoke in gibberish or not at all. I felt a glimmer of hope.
‘We have made the best of it, sir,’ said Mr Lock. ‘The staff know their duties.’
‘Still, perhaps he would be better in a hospital,’ said His Lordship. ‘In some recuperative ward, where professionals can attend to him.’
‘Dr Ingle will be here,’ said Mr Lock. ‘And you heard what the staff sergeant said: Samuel wishes to return to his home.’
I couldn’t hear what His Lordship said next, and the butler emerged on to the stairs with His Lordship behind him. Though he was dressed smartly, his general demeanour was still wretched. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids heavy. I wondered if he had been weeping, but dismissed the notion. The idea of a man crying was ridiculous.
Mr Lock seemed surprised to see me on the landing, and he looked at me with a little suspicion. He knew Mrs Cotton’s rotas as well as she knew his. I shouldn’t really have been there.
‘Miss Tamper, can I help you?’
I asked if I could trouble him for the key to the storeroom, as I needed more blacking for the grates.
‘Couldn’t this have waited?’ Mr Lock asked irritably.
‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but Mrs Cotton –’
‘It’s quite all right, Mr Lock,’ interrupted His Lordship. ‘I am aware that my sister-in-law runs a tight ship. Better see to the young girl’s problems. I believe our conversation was concluded.’
Mr Lock bowed shallowly and I followed him down the stairs, thinking about what they’d been discussing. After seeing my mother pass away under this roof, the idea of watching Samuel do the same wrenched at my heart. I made a promise then that I would do everything in my power to make him comfortable and help him recover.
In the kitchen, Mr Lock opened the storeroom and stepped aside.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Fetch what you need.’
I thought for a moment that he might watch me, but he stepped back from the narrow doorway. The storeroom had shelves on either side, filled with spare napkins and cloths, brushes and pans.
At the far end were the cleaning products: the powders and liquids for making the various polishes, ointments and cleaning fluids that were needed in the house. Such things could be bought ready-made, but we used to joke that Mrs Cotton preferred to spend the housekeeping money on herself. One of Lizzy’s most hated jobs was the mixing of ingredients – something I was happy not to be trusted with.
It struck me that there were things in here that could poison a person: antimony for furniture polish, lead coating for the pipes, sealed flypaper which smelled rancid when left out – what was that covered with? Some sort of toxic chemical, surely. There were other sealed pots with names I couldn’t pronounce. There were bottle of acids too, with dust-covered labels.
But I couldn’t linger. On top of a small chest was a pile of writing pads. I took a single sheet and a new pencil, tucking them into my apron pouch. Then I bent down to fetch the blacking.
I must have been blushing as I came out, but Mr Lock didn’t notice. He was sitting at the bottom of the main stairs, his hands resting on his knees. His skin had taken on a curious grey colour, and when he looked up at me, his watery blue eyes were unfocussed.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ I asked.
He nodded briskly, then rose stiffly, locked the door to the store and walked slowly away. At the foot of the stairs he paused, and put up a hand to steady himself against the frame.
‘It’s been a year since your mother went, hasn’t it, Abi?’
Odd, I thought, because he never used my Christian name.
‘It has, sir,’ I replied.
Mr Lock’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. ‘Time passes quickly, does it not?’
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I said it did.
He took the stairs slowly, as though carrying a great burden.
I could hear Lizzy in her room, but she didn’t come through to mine. I was grateful, both on account of our falling-out and because I needed peace to write the letter to Dr Reinhardt. I sat over the blank page, wondering how to begin. What could he actually tell me?
My worst fear was that he’d dismiss me immediately without a thought, so I took care to make my letters neat, and to sound as much like a grown-up as possible.
.
Dear Dr Reinhardt,
I would very much like to engage your services on a delicate matter. My mother died some twelve months ago. It is my sincere belief that her spirit has not properly been laid to rest. Perhaps you could advise in a reply how we might seek to rectify this situation.
You will understand that I wish to keep this matter private.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Abigail Tamper
I read it back, asking myself what he’d make of such a strange note. There seemed no other option. Either my mother’s ghost was roaming the rooms of Greave Hall or I was losing my mind.
I folded the paper, and using a lighted candle, dripped wax over the fold. It pooled and hardened, sealing the letter. I wrote Dr Reinhardt’s name and address on the front, but gave no return address.
I had other plans.
.
Chapter 14
The kitchen was still warm from the range as we ate our dinner, which on a Sunday was always better than other days: skins from the potatoes roasted in leftover fat, cuts of meat from Lord Greave and Mrs Cotton’s joint, cabbage and sprouts stewed with cloves. The table was silent as we gorged. Every so often the bell would ring and Mr Lock would go up to tend to the diners’ needs.
Lizzy had not spoken more than a few words to me since our argument, but below stairs such animosity couldn’t survive for long. Resentments couldn’t be brushed beneath the carpet – they must either be addressed or allowed to fizzle out.
I asked her how her sister was, for that was where she had been until the evening.
‘She’s well,’ said Lizzy. ‘The baby’s good as gold.’
There was a rustle in the wall.
‘Bloody mice,’ said Cook. ‘The sooner Rowena’s up and running, the better.’
‘Them’s not mice,’ said Rob. ‘I saw a rat the other day. Big as my foot, he was.’
‘Well then,’ said Cook. ‘Get some poison down, lad. There’s some in the cellar, I think.’
Greave Hall had been erected over the remains of another building,
so my mother said, and there was another room below the kitchen and the scullery. It was enclosed within the foundations and lined by timber beams, with sagging walls. It was just a box, really, with no lights, and barely five feet high. The wine was kept down there, together with ice if we had any – and, as I now discovered, rat poison. I hadn’t known about that till now.
Rob stood up from the table and went over to the hatch. It was opened by an old iron ring that was set into the floor. He looped a finger into the ring and gave a sharp tug. The hatch opened, bringing up a blast of damp air.
‘Pass me a light, will you, Abi?’
I lit a candle with a spill from the fire in the range and carried it over.
I didn’t like to go down in the cellar at all, and thankfully there was seldom need to. When I was just seven, I’d hidden beneath the hatch in a game of hide-and-seek with Samuel, and had somehow become trapped. It took him over an hour to find me, and all that time I was in the pitch darkness, feeling the cobwebs tickle my face.
From above I saw Rob searching. I made out a pile of rope, some broken furniture and some old pans. There were a couple of lengths of piping too, though they looked rusted in the orange light and good for nothing.
After some rummaging, Rob came up with a tin. He handed it to me together with the candle while he climbed back up the stepladder. Then he closed the hatch again, dusted himself down and returned to the table, placing the tin beside him.
‘Mind you don’t get that mixed up with the suet, Miss McMahon,’ he said.
Cook’s eyes flashed. ‘And what would you be meaning by that?’ she said.
Rob, who had been laughing, stopped. ‘Nothing, ma’am, of course. It was just a little jest, is all.’
‘Well, kindly keep such humour to yourself,’ she said.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table, with the only sounds the scraping of cutlery and Mr Lock’s toothless slurping on his soup.
My mother had barely eaten anything after she fell ill, and what she had consumed seemed to pass straight through her racked body or be vomited up again. But Cook had prepared it all and, of course, everything she had eaten before her illness.
