by Sarah Rayne
The phone rang again, and Nell said, ‘Sorry it took so long, but it’s all fixed. I got Jack’s wife – he’s had to go out to an emergency job, but she rang the house where he’d gone and explained, and he’ll be here as soon as he can with the keys.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that.’
‘She was very apologetic and so was he, apparently. He’s usually very careful about checking the house before they lock up, but he got this call about somebody’s leaking water tank, so he went off in a bit of a scramble.’
‘And to be fair, he didn’t realize I was here,’ said Michael.
‘No. He’s still at the emergency though, so he’ll be at least forty minutes. He’ll have to go back home to actually get the keys first. Will you be all right?’
Michael, closing his mind to the thuds and the drifting shadow, said he would be fine.
‘But,’ said Nell, ‘I’ll bet Jack Hurst’s forty minutes is more likely to be nearer an hour.’ She named a village on the other side of Oxford.
‘At least an hour,’ said Michael, trying not to sound dismayed.
‘Yes, so listen, I’ll drive out there now and see if there’s any way in from outside.’
‘There isn’t. Nell, there’s no need for you to drag yourself all the way out here.’
‘No, but I’d be company. I can wave through a window to you, or sit on the front step and make rude gestures,’ said Nell.
The thought of having Nell on the other side of the door was almost irresistible, but Michael did not want her coming out here. He said, ‘What about Beth? You can’t leave her on her own, and I don’t think you should bring her. It’s not a very good place for a child.’
He did not say it was probably not a very good place for Nell either, but Nell said, ‘Beth can spend an hour with Godfrey Purbles. He’s got some Victorian children’s games in, which he’s just found, and he wants her to see them. Beth’s keen to see them, as well, so they’ll both be pleased. Stay put, Michael darling, and I’ll be with you before you know it.’
It felt abruptly lonely after Nell rang off. Michael looked at his watch, and tried to think that she would be here before it reached half-past seven, and that Jack Hurst would probably be here with the keys before it was showing quarter to eight. Once home, he and Nell might have supper at Quire Court – they could pick up some food – and he would show her Maria’s journal.
The journal was still in his pocket. Would it be better or worse to finish reading it while he waited? It might prove so interesting he would not notice the time or hear any strange sounds. On the other hand, it might kick-start his imagination into conjuring up a whole new raft of macabre visions.
Instead he opened his own notebook with the idea of scribbling down a few ideas for the Wilberforce Histories. Having dealt with the Elizabethan Wilberforce, it might be as well to skip over the complex and often gruesome religious brangles of the next few decades, and move on to the Civil War, although Michael thought he would leapfrog over Charles I’s beheading. But there was no reason why the seventeenth-century Wilberforce could not don a dashing Royalist outfit, and even partake in one or two roistering adventures with the exiled Charles II. Michael wrote this down, then sketched out a scene in which Wilberforce rode into London with the restored King and had a popular song written, detailing his brave exploits. He considered this last possibility, then crossed it out, because his energetic editor would probably leap on the idea and demand the song itself, complete with the music, and might even harry the publicity department into putting out a CD. Michael did not think he was equal to writing a semi-pop, semi-Restoration jingle, so instead he drafted a later scene depicting the Fire of London, which Wilberforce was instrumental in helping to subdue. ‘And Master Wilberforce organized chains of men with buckets of water from the River Thames itself.’
Having dealt with this, Wilberforce next assisted Samuel Pepys to disinter the cheeses Pepys had buried in his garden to preserve them from the fire’s ravagings, after which the two of them went on to eat oranges with Nell Gwynne. Re-reading this, Michael deleted Nell Gwynne, whose robust way of life might be thought a bit too colourful for seven- and eight-year-olds.
He closed the notebook. It was just on seven. Would it hurt to glance at Maria’s journal again? It might even provide one or two answers to the Hall’s strangeness, and those answers might be reassuring. He would scan a few more pages, and if anything started to be eerie – if Maria Porringer showed signs of developing a taste for lacing her narrative with the macabre – he would close the book and return to Wilberforce.
The journal resumed its tale two days after the macabre attempts to execute Esther, and the first pages had been written in Porringer’s shop.
Friday 18th
11.00. a.m.
This has been a difficult time for everyone, and I think it will continue to be.
I had intended this to be a record of the execution of Esther Breadspear, and of my own part in the event. (Also, of course, of Mr Porringer.)
However, in light of the bizarre and macabre happenings in the condemned cell, I now feel it would be prudent to set down a proper account of the aftermath. People gossip, tongues wag, and although I do not intend this report to be made known in any general way, I think it prudent to have an honest record of everything, against any future accusations.
Mr Porringer and I returned to our own house yesterday. As he said, business was business, and we had our customers to consider. As I write this, he is in the shop, weighing out pills and potions. He is not bustling around quite as briskly as usual, and his nose has the strawberry hue which is always an indication that his digestion is severely upset. Not that it can be wondered. He has eaten nothing save a little bread and milk for the last twenty-four hours.
I am in the parlour, awaiting a visit from Mr Augustus Breadspear, who has requested a private interview.
3.30 p.m.
I do not know what I had expected from Mr Breadspear’s visit, but it was certainly not the proposal he outlined to me.
He admitted that his plan would not have been possible if the prison were not being transferred to a larger, more modern building on the other side of the county.
‘And I don’t object to telling you, Mrs Porringer, that I have made substantial contributions to the Prison Reform Society,’ he said, linking his fat fingers together and regarding me. He has a pudgy face and small, rather mean eyes, but he is a well-respected businessman, and his company at Salamander House thought most prosperous. ‘As a consequence of which, the prison authorities – including the good Mr Glaister – are inclined to look favourably on any request I make.’
In short, it seems that Mr Breadspear is to purchase Deadlight Hall. I suppose a very large sum of money must be involved, but Esther Breadspear’s fortune will now be completely in his control. Everyone knows that Esther’s father, a shrewd gentleman, tied up his daughter’s money in some kind of Trust, with a great many restrictions written into it. I imagine none of those apply any longer.
Mr Breadspear intends to turn Deadlight Hall into a small orphanage, which I dare say is a very praiseworthy thing, and in addition will create what he calls an Apprentice House – a place where young people learning their trade can live. This, too, is worthy and will be useful, for Mr Breadspear himself takes a good many young apprentices into Salamander House, and there are other manufactories and organizations in this area that do the same.
He has asked me if I will take on the post of housekeeper and general manager at Deadlight Hall. He feels I would be reliable and efficient.
‘And discreet,’ he said, looking at me very intently.
Not betraying my surprise, I said, ‘I believe I could be interested. If circumstances were favourable.’
‘I should make them favourable,’ said Mr Breadspear. ‘You would not be the loser, Mrs Porringer. But there is one extremely important condition, and it would be a private – a very private – arrangement between us.’
‘Well?’
‘Within the household of Deadlight Hall I want a locked room – a completely private place of security set as far apart from the household as possible. No one must know of its existence. That means that whoever undertakes the post of manager and housekeeper will be responsible for overseeing the creation of such a room.’
‘And who would it be intended for, this room?’ I asked.
He took a moment to answer, and I had the impression that he was choosing his words very carefully. He is not what I would call an educated man, but he has learned most of the trappings of gentlemanly behaviour and speech along the way.
He said, ‘An order has been made for my wife to be deported. The colonies – Australia, I think. But I’m not prepared to let that happen.’
Now, in most men those words would have indicated a protectiveness – a determination to shield a loved one from a dreadful future. In Augustus Breadspear they indicated something very different indeed. His whole expression shifted and altered, so that it was as if someone else looked out through his eyes. Someone who was cruel and vindictive and bent on a very particular kind of revenge.
‘But surely you can’t do anything to stop it,’ I said.
‘Oh, can’t I indeed?’ He made the gesture of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Wheels can be oiled,’ he said. ‘People in certain positions can be persuaded to bend rules.’
I stared at him. ‘You are saying you could – you would – pay people to ensure that instead of Mrs Breadspear being deported, she is released into your care.’
Even as I said it I could hear how incredible it sounded, but he instantly said, ‘Yes, exactly that. She will not be put on board that convict ship. As for where she goes when she is placed in my hands – well, I can’t keep her in my own house, of course. For one thing the arrangement of the rooms makes it impossible to provide the necessary accommodation for her. She would be seen – and heard. For another thing – to be frank with you, I can’t bear the prospect of having her under my own roof.’ He made a gesture of repulsion. ‘She is the woman who brutally killed her two children and mine. But her wits are in shreds, as we both know. And,’ he said, assuming an air of piety, ‘she is my wife, and I feel an obligation.’
‘And so you want to put her in Deadlight Hall?’ I said, bluntly. ‘As a hidden prisoner?’
‘I do.’ His eyes gleamed and he said, ‘I prefer to have her under my own control.’ His lips twisted in an unpleasant smile, and again that other person showed. ‘A hidden prisoner,’ he said, half to himself.
‘But you referred to young people being at Deadlight Hall. Children with no parents – or parents who did not want them. Young apprentices from the various manufactories.’
‘Yes?’
‘Wouldn’t there be danger?’ I said, in a lowered voice. ‘From – from your wife?’
‘Not if she were kept properly secured.’ Again I heard and sensed the ‘otherness’ behind the words. In that moment I believe I understood him, and I saw that he actually wanted his wife to be within tantalizing reach of children – not because he wanted the children hurt in any way, but because he believed it would add another layer of cruelty and punishment to his wife’s captivity.
Then, in an ordinary voice, he said, ‘Such an arrangement would have to be reliant on certain things. As I said, I need to employ some suitable person as a keeper – ideally someone with a little medical knowledge—’
‘It would be a residential post, I take it?’ I asked.
‘It would have to be,’ he said. ‘And I appreciate that as a married lady that might pose a difficulty. But for the right person, I am prepared to pay very handsomely.’
We looked at one another. Then I said, ‘I think something might be arranged.’
But this is a situation that requires careful thought. I will certainly accept that Mr Breadspear can, as he calls it, oil the wheels and that he has – or will – persuade certain people to let his wife go. I suppose there will be some sort of plan by which it will appear she has been put on to a convict ship. In reality, though, she will never go aboard. She will remain here.
It is Breadspear’s own behaviour and manner that disturbs me. In particular, that moment when he said, ‘I prefer to have her under my control.’
I am convinced that Augustus Breadspear wants to witness as much as possible of his wife’s captivity and her suffering. What is worse, I believe he will enjoy witnessing it.
But in his own words he is prepared to pay handsomely.
Michael leaned his head back against the latticed window, his mind tumbling with images. So they had brought Esther to Deadlight Hall, and they had imprisoned her in the attics. It had been a twisted punishment on Breadspear’s part, and on Maria’s …
On Maria’s part, what? Greed, most likely.
He glanced back at some of the entries, and it occurred to him that Thaddeus Porringer had died rather conveniently. Had Maria been behind that? She had certainly recorded buying half a grain of arsenic in the Poison Book.
He flipped over to the next page. Here, indeed, was a note of Thaddeus Porringer’s death, with Maria writing that in view of the sad demise of her beloved husband and the looming loss of the shop that had been his life’s work – which she feared was inevitable and imminent – she was accepting Mr Breadspear’s offer of work, and glad to do so. There were cousins who might take on the business, she wrote, but it was no longer her concern what happened to the place.
Most of her entries were undated, other than an occasional reference to it being Thursday 12th, or Monday 16th, or sometimes the time of day, but a brief time appeared to have elapsed before her next entry.
This was a list of work done by various tradesmen in Deadlight Hall, along with the costs, and dates the accounts were paid. Had that all been for rooms in the attics for Esther? Yes, of course.
A later page had details of the children placed in the Hall – the majority seemed to have been bastards of the local gentry, which Michael had already picked up from the material in the Archives Offices. He hoped the journal was not going to degenerate into a dry account book. He did not much like what he knew of Maria Porringer, but it could not be denied that she had an energetic way of setting down her exploits, and she sounded very organized and efficient.
He was glad to see she seemed to have thought it prudent to set down some of the daily routines she had instigated at the Hall. For, as she wrote:
People are not always to be trusted, and at some time in the future I may find it valuable to have a record of my work.
So, for that reason, I will detail how I take the prisoner’s meals to her myself – collecting a tray from the kitchen, and carrying it up to the attic floor. Breakfast, midday dinner, and a light supper. It is plain fare we have here – such children as are being housed do not, I consider, require anything more. The prisoner has the same.
Twice a day I collect the tray and each morning I leave a jug of warm water and a towel for washing purposes. I am firm about this last, cleanliness being next to Godliness, but despite that a sickly, stale smell is starting to pervade the room.
Each morning I also deal with the commode. It is menial work, even degrading, but Mr Breadspear is paying, as he promised, handsomely, and I make no doubt that I shall find other ways to increase the sums he pays.
I often write in this journal in the small room adjoining the prisoner’s. I leave her door slightly open at these times. Mr Breadspear had wanted chains at the onset, but I had stood firm against that, not wanting to chain up any human creature as if a wild animal. But twice now the prisoner has somehow managed to break out, and has roamed the upper rooms, calling for the children to come to her. That was not something that could be allowed or risked, so I agreed to Mr Breadspear’s demand – although I suggested an extra payment for all the trouble and inconvenience. I did so perfectly politely, since it is not necessary to bludgeon people with demands. He paid, albeit grudgingly.
However, he was
right to suggest chains, for the prisoner is now clearly completely insane. There are times when a wild look comes into her eyes, and when she glares at me and tries to claw at me. I am very glad of the chains at those times – they are of carefully judged length, and she cannot reach me. If she starts howling I simply close the door and go down to my own room on the second floor. If it were not for my sleeping mixture I should be kept awake for hours by her mewlings on those nights.
The children are not permitted past the first floor, and they know that severe punishments will be meted out to those who disobey. So I have no real worries that they will venture up to the attics, or that anyone will hear anything.
Other than the occasional bout of frenzy, the prisoner sits with her hands folded in her lap – sometimes she stands in one corner of the attic room, in that dreadful hunched-over position caused by the bungled execution. I have taken up a few old books for her – simple ones, even children’s books, which she might be able to understand – but she is uninterested in them. She stares at nothing, or at her own hands. If I am in the adjoining room, she watches me. It is unnerving, that unblinking stare. At other times she calls for her children, wanting to find them, telling them she will do so in the end.
At those times I close my journal, put it in the pocket of my gown, and lock the attic rooms and go downstairs.
Michael was just thinking Nell would be here any minute – it was half-past seven – when his phone rang again.
‘I’m not far away,’ said Nell. ‘But there’s a bit of a hold-up just outside Oxford – some idiot’s run into the back of another car, and it’s created a bottleneck. We’ve been crawling along at five miles an hour, and now the traffic’s stopped altogether. Are you all right?’
