The Poisoned House

by Michael Ford

Though Samuel didn’t leave the library, the doctors came again and declared him on the road to good health. They suggested at least a week before he used his crutches. My duties resumed as they’d always been – a daily toil between six in the morning and nine at night.

  It was a Wednesday when I saw Adam again. Cook had been called upon to prepare a celebratory banquet and had fallen into a fluster. With her checking all the supplies as they were carried through the door, I feared I wouldn’t get a chance to speak to him alone. Then he handed Cook a sack of potatoes and as she struggled through the door, he pulled an envelope from his pocket.

  ‘There you are, me darlin’,’ he said.

  On the envelope, in the finest copperplate writing, was the name Miss A. Tamper. I slipped it into my dress pouch, gave him a wink, and hurried back inside.

  Later, when I was brushing the carpets on the stairs, I reached for the envelope, all the time alert for the faintest sound of footsteps.

  My fingers were shaking as I opened it. Inside was a single sheet, folded once.

  .

  Dear Miss Abigail,

  I read your note with interest, and sincerely believe that my skills might be of service to you. I understand, of course, the need for discretion in such delicate matters, and would therefore suggest that we meet for a private consultation. Please either provide your return address, or come by at my rooms. I am at home on Sundays from four o’clock, and Thursdays from six.

  Your faithful servant,

  Dr M. Reinhardt

  I read and reread the letter until its details were fixed in my memory, then burned it in the kitchen fire when Cook wasn’t looking. If my mother could – or would – not speak to me directly, here was a man who had the ability to help.

  There was no way I could invite the doctor to Greave Hall. I had to go and see him. If Mrs Cotton discovered me again, it would mean a beating at the very least. But there was a difference now: Samuel was home, and he held more sway than the housekeeper.

  And this time I wasn’t running away. This time I would be coming back.

  .

  Chapter 19

  I struggled to sleep that night. I wound the watch and lay on my back, looking at the ceiling, and my high hopes sank like a soggy pudding. The following day was a Thursday, a day the doctor had said he would be at home, but the more I dwelled on it, the more unfeasible it seemed. How could I possibly get away? There’d be more chance of escaping from Millbank Jail.

  As it was, an unexpected chance came my way.

  A sound of retching woke me before dawn. My first thought was that Samuel had been taken ill again in the night, but the noise was closer than that. It came from across the hall. I crept out of bed and knocked on Elizabeth’s door.

  ‘Lizzy?’

  ‘Abi?’

  I went in and found her kneeling on the floor, with one hand resting on the bedpost and another steadying her pot. Her skin was pale and sweating.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  My answer was another heave of her stomach. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Please, leave me be.’

  Her words were harsh, but I could see they stemmed from embarrassment rather than anger, and so I left. Still, her condition gave me cause for unease. I had known Lizzy for three years, and never once had she fallen ill. We all shared the same meals below stairs, and although I was tired, my stomach was fine. Cook looked rosy too, though she always had a fine flush in her cheeks.

  I took care of the fires and went about my other morning duties. The dining room was given special attention as we were receiving guests that evening – the Ambroses from across the Park. No more was said of Lizzy’s illness and by noon, when we set about the task of preparation together, she seemed to have recovered. She busied herself with the silver and china while I polished the furniture. We brought out the best candlesticks and made sure the lamps were filled and the wicks trimmed, and took great care over setting the table to Mrs Cotton’s satisfaction.

  We were told that there would be three guests – Lord Greave’s old friends Malcolm and Esme Ambrose and their son Alexander, a chum of Samuel’s. I’d come to know Alex well when I was younger and permitted to take part in some of their games, but it had been almost two years since I had seen him. I saw that Lizzy looked up anxiously when his name was mentioned. She, of course, was thinking of the footman Henry.

  It came as a surprise, though, that with three guests, we were asked to set only five places at the great mahogany table. Cook said that Mrs Cotton was dining out that evening at a friend’s house, and so wouldn’t be joining the others in the dining room at Greave Hall. It was Rob who said what we were all thinking.

  ‘Strange night to be abandoning the rest of the family, isn’t it? Big do like this?’

  Cook, who was busy rolling pastry on the flour-dusted table, looked up.

  ‘Well, it’s not our business to pry now, is it?’

  That shut Rob up, and he muttered about tidying up the yard, then left.

  What he’d said was right though. By all accounts that night’s feasting was to be a celebration of Samuel’s convalescence, and Mrs Cotton choosing not to join in struck me as rather odd too. However, it gave me an unexpected opportunity – I had more chance of getting out of the house and away to Dr Reinhardt. But there were plenty of other obstacles: for a start, I was sure to be called upon to help at supper.

  After lunch, the housekeeper left us all with strict instructions and retired to her room to prepare for her evening out. The guests were due to arrive at five o’clock, and there was still much to be done. I was walking past the library when I heard a muffled bang and curse within.

  I opened the door without knocking. Samuel was leaning against a bookshelf, steadying himself. On the ground beside him lay his crutch. To my surprise he was already dressed for dinner, with a crisp white shirt and tie. He had shaved, but wore no jacket.

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ he said. ‘Good. Help me, will you?’

  I hurried forward and picked up the crutch, holding it for him while he adjusted his position and managed to manoeuvre it back beneath his armpit.

  ‘Should you be up?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps we should wait for Rob to help.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, breathing heavily. He was obviously in some pain. ‘I thought I’d take a little turn about the garden.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he grimaced, ‘but perhaps you could join me if Mrs Cotton can spare you.’

  I found Mr Lock, who had a key to the French windows. He said he didn’t think it was a good idea for the young master to be going out, but Samuel insisted. And so, in lurches and painful steps, with me hovering in case of an accident, we shambled outside.

  As children, we had played together in the garden many times. One of my earliest memories was climbing into the branches of the plum tree at the far end and looking back towards the house. My mother had been in the nursery, standing at the window and looking on with her arms folded and a proud smile.

  Now, with winter, all the colours were muted. Tears sprang up before I could prevent them.

  ‘I shall be all right, you know,’ said Samuel.

  I realised that he had got the wrong impression. He thought I was crying for him.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that,’ I said. ‘I was thinking of my mother.’

  His skin coloured with embarrassment.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How silly of me. You miss her badly?’

  I missed her like an ache deep in my gut. Sadness climbed through my body like the tide sliding up a shallow beach, threatening to drown me.

  ‘I do,’ I said simply.

  Samuel put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. ‘I do too. She was like a mother to me. Certainly more so than my aunt.’

  Rules governed everything we did, everything we said. But Samuel could puncture it all in a second. It didn’t matter that he was the master and I the servant. As we reached the end of the path and stood under the spindly bou
ghs of the plum tree, I worked up courage to ask a question.

  ‘Samuel,’ I said, ‘why is it, do you suppose, that Mrs Cotton is not dining with you tonight?’

  He smiled – first a puzzled twitch of his lip, then a broader grin that showed his teeth. ‘Why do you ask, Abi?’

  It was my turn to blush. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  Silence descended over our little meeting, and a breeze shook the branches of the tree and made me shiver.

  ‘I asked that she absent herself,’ he said finally. His tone was so frank, so open.

  ‘Why?’

  He ran his hands over the tree bark. ‘Do you remember when we used to climb this tree, Abi?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘My mother always told me not to go too high, or else the branch would break and I would hurt myself.’

  ‘You didn’t listen though.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘and it never broke.’

  I couldn’t help thinking that our conversation meant something more than either of us said. That he was trying to say something to me that he dare not speak outright.

  ‘It is my belief that my aunt takes liberties that she should not,’ he said quickly.

  He looked as if he was about to go on, so I didn’t say anything, but my heart was racing. I longed to speak more, to tell him about the strange and terrifying events of late. For here he was, opening a door to me, giving me an opportunity to share my doubts with him about Mrs Cotton.

  ‘Sammy . . .’ I said.

  A sudden shiver passed over my skin. No breeze had caused it, for the branches were still and the air was silent. I turned back towards the house, certain in that moment that I would see something there in the nursery window – see my mother, watching as she had watched while she was alive.

  But there was nobody there.

  ‘Come,’ Sammy said. ‘You’re cold. Let’s go back inside.’

  .

  Chapter 20

  I saw Samuel back to the library, where he said he would take a nap before dinner, then went about my duties. I was still convinced that it would take some unlikely stroke of luck to allow me to leave the house that evening, and had largely put the idea from my mind.

  With the dusting done and the coal scuttles refilled in every room, I went upstairs to change into my serving clothes. It was as I entered my own room that I heard a noise from Lizzy’s. My first thought was that she was taken ill again, so I knocked.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ I said, peering round the door.

  The room was empty.

  I paused with a foot on the threshold. I had tried to forget the events in the garden, but now the image of that handprint came afresh to my mind. I crouched to look under her bed.

  Only floorboards covered in dust.

  Against the near wall in Lizzy’s room stood an old wardrobe, worm-eaten and scratched. I steeled myself and strode into the room to look round the side.

  ‘Found you!’ I said.

  There was no one there.

  A soft knocking came from within the wardrobe itself, as though something were butting up against the door.

  My mouth was dry, my hands clammy with sweat.

  ‘Lizzy?’ I whispered.

  The gentle thudding stopped.

  Even though I knew there must be a logical explanation – that either Rob or Lizzy must be inside – I still felt reluctant to look. My racing heart told me to leave the room at once, but my mind told me that I could not. I placed my hands on the worn doorknob and pulled.

  Lizzy’s clothes hung neatly within. Her shoes were lined up along the bottom, her undergarments stacked in a pile. Nothing moved. My breath burst forth in a rush.

  But there, lying on top of Lizzy’s folded polishing smock, was her scarf – the gift from Henry. It took me a moment to realise that something was wrong with the frayed edge. It had been torn in half.

  I picked up the two pieces in bewilderment. Had something happened to cause Lizzy to do such a thing? They must have fallen out. Poor girl! No wonder she had been acting so strangely.

  ‘Abi?’

  Lizzy’s voice made me turn round. She was standing in the doorway, staring at me. Her eyes dropped to the scarf, and the blood seemed to drain from her face. She gave a tiny shake of her head then stepped forward. I saw her hand flash up and her palm whipcracked against my cheek. I staggered and steadied myself against the wardrobe door. My face felt as if it was being stabbed with a hundred tiny needle points. ‘How could you!’ she shouted. ‘You heartless –’

  ‘I – It wasn’t me,’ I said. I shielded my face as she came closer. ‘I found it like that, I swear. I heard –’

  ‘Get out!’ said Lizzy, the tears already forming in her eyes. She snatched the scraps of material from my hand. ‘Get out,’ she sobbed.

  I tried to explain further, but she was pushing me from the room. I fell out into the tiny corridor and heard her throw her weight against the other side of the door. After a few moments came the sound of quiet sobbing.

  I went back to my room and as the mark of her palm faded on my cheek I wondered what was happening in the house. How could she think I would do such a terrible thing?

  For an awful moment, I thought perhaps I was responsible. Perhaps I had somehow washed the memory away, or replaced it with another. But no – I was in my right mind, I was sure of it.

  A spirit must find its rest.

  Dr Reinhardt’s words seemed to resonate now even more than they had done in the sitting room that day. But could an angry ghost tear a scarf in two? What had my mother’s spirit got against poor Lizzy?

  The afternoon that had begun with such an unpleasant scene grew steadily worse. Not an hour after the altercation with Lizzy, there followed an uncomfortable reminder that even with Samuel home, things were not as they should be in Greave Hall.

  I washed and changed into my serving clothes, making sure I was spick and span. I was used to serving at table, but rarely for guests. Whenever Mrs Cotton entertained her ladies, it was Lizzy who was called upon rather than me. And tonight was special: I wanted to make a good impression for Samuel.

  As I reached the top of the servants’ stairs, there was a cry – Lord Greave’s voice, raised in a high-pitched wail. I went down to the landing and saw a shoe bounce down the main stairs from his rooms, landing at my feet. I bent down to pick it up, and a second spun through the air and almost hit me.

  ‘I told you,’ shouted Lord Greave, ‘I won’t!’

  ‘Come, sir,’ said Mr Lock patiently. ‘Your guests will be here soon.’

  I fetched the second shoe from outside Mrs Cotton’s door. Both were polished to such a high shine that I could see my face in the toes.

  ‘Damn my guests!’ shouted His Lordship.

  He appeared at the top of the steps, pushing Mr Lock aside. He was wearing only an undershirt and a pair of socks, and his white knees were sticking out. I looked away at once.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. ‘I was only –’

  I was bustled away by Mr Lock, his face flushed.

  ‘Is His Lordship all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said in an exasperated tone. ‘Please, go about your business.’

  He returned upstairs as quickly as his creaking body would allow. I heard Lord Greave’s laughter, not happy or content but manic. ‘Did you see her face, my boy? A picture! A picture!’

  He was clearly a long way from fine.

  Shortly after, Mr Lock marshalled us in the hallway to receive our guests. Lord Greave, I was pleased to see, was now fully dressed and stationed himself beside Samuel in the front sitting room. His son looked every inch the gentleman in his clean dragoon’s uniform. The clock was still chiming the five strokes of the hour as the doorbell rang.

  Lizzy and I straightened up beside each other as Mr Lock made his way ponderously to the door. She hadn’t spoken to me once since the incident with the scarf.

  The door opened to a draught of cold
air.

  Lord and Lady Ambrose stood there stiffly, their son Alexander a step behind them.

  ‘Greetings, Lock,’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ said Mr Lock, bowing low and standing aside to let them enter. I saw their carriage in the road beyond, and wondered why they had bothered to use it – they only lived across the Park. Perched on the front seat was a footman wearing a woollen hat pulled low. Lizzy’s eyes were turned that way too. The magnificent Henry, I guessed. Rob went out to guide the horses round into the yard.

  ‘Best get that door closed, Lock,’ said Alexander, ‘before Jack Frost decides to make himself at home.’

  He was a tall young man – the whole family were, heavyset with very black hair. His father was much the same, though slightly stooped and with bulk turned to a great roll of fat that strained at his middle. Esme Ambrose was perhaps an inch shorter than her husband and wore a green dress with a scarf of dark red around her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to look straight through me, but that was often the way with visitors. It was improper to notice the staff.

  Lizzy and I took our guests’ outer garments – Lady Ambrose’s a fine fur coat – and I took their hats too.

  ‘Show us to the invalid then!’ said the son.

  Mr Lock gave a thin smile. I wondered how much Alex knew of Samuel’s convalescence. The butler led them through to the sitting room and I heard the muffled sounds of warm greetings. Lizzy and I went to the closet beneath the stairs, where we hung the coats and hats.

  ‘I swear to you that I didn’t damage your scarf,’ I said.

  She turned her back on me without a word.

  Lizzy’s spirits were shortly to be lifted by an unexpected visitor.

  Mr Lock remained upstairs to serve drinks in the sitting room, while the rest of us bustled around the kitchen. I was warming plates over the range and Lizzy was helping Cook put the finishing touches to the fish course – a huge poached salmon with caviar jelly.

  The back door opened and in walked Rob alongside the Ambroses’ footman, Henry, who quickly pulled the hat from his head and held it shyly in front of him. On his hands were fingerless gloves.