by Sarah Rayne
‘A quarter past,’ I said.
‘Dear God, she’s slowly strangling to death. We’ll have to cut her down. Get a knife, someone.’
I turned to the children, who would certainly be faster than I would. ‘A good stout knife from the kitchens,’ I said. ‘A large bread knife – quick as you can.’
‘Take one of the oil lamps,’ said Hurst. ‘You’ll see your way better.’
One of the girls grabbed the nearer of the two lamps and scurried away.
With the loss of one of the lamps, the candle flames threw even more grotesque shapes across the attics. As they flickered, Esther gave a last convulsive jerk, knocking over one of the candles. A thin line of flame ran across the floor, and licked at the window. The wisp of curtain I had hung there to give the room a less cell-like appearance, flared up, lighting the attic to vivid life, but before I could get to it, Rosie Mabbley snatched the cloth from Esther’s small table, and smothered the fire with it. One of the other girls stamped the tiny flames out on the floor. There was a smell of burnt cloth, and there were scorch marks across the floor, but nothing more.
It was then that Hurst said, ‘I think it’s too late,’ and as he spoke, a wet bubbling sound came from Esther Breadspear’s throat.
‘Death rattle,’ said Hurst, half to himself. ‘But we’ll keep trying.’
The girl who had run downstairs returned then, proffering two knives, both with sharp edges.
But again valuable minutes ticked away as John Hurst sawed at the thick tough rope constricting her neck. The strands parted reluctantly, but Esther was limp and still by that time.
‘She’s gone,’ said Hurst, briefly. ‘God have mercy on her soul.’
He caught her as she fell from the cut rope, and laid her on the ground, covering her with his own coat. Only then did he turn to the children.
Most of the mutinous anger had drained away, but when Hurst said, ‘Between you, you have just committed murder. And I think at least two of you might be judged old enough to hang for it,’ a spark of rebellion flared in one or two faces.
‘We executed a murderer,’ said Douglas Wilger, and again I had to fight not to speak out. ‘And we shan’t hang,’ he said, thrusting out his lower lip stubbornly.
‘The Silent Minute won’t protect you, stupid boy!’ said Hurst. ‘It’s nothing but a superstition, fit for credulous old women!’
‘Not that. We shan’t hang because you’ll never tell anyone what happened here tonight.’
For a bad moment I thought the children were about to launch an attack on Hurst – and perhaps then turn on me – but they remained where they were.
‘You had better explain that,’ said Hurst. ‘And you can do it here, within a few feet of that woman’s body. I have no intention of shielding you from the ugliness – the brutality – of what you’ve done.’
‘Yes, you will shield us,’ said Douglas.
‘Mind your manners,’ I said at once, but Wilger was still looking at John Hurst.
‘Of course you’ll shield us,’ he said, softly.
And in that moment, seeing them both staring at one another, I saw what I should have seen at the start. Douglas Wilger was John Hurst’s son. The likeness was remarkable. Even the name was a clue – Wilger, or perhaps wilge, an old country word for willow – originally foreign, I believe. Mr Porringer had liked to know the old words for herbs and plants and suchlike, and I had learned some of them from him.
Hurst clearly knew who Douglas was. He had probably known all along, and that was behind his frequent visits to the Hall – and his help with the children’s schooling. I remembered, as well, how vehement he had been against Mr Breadspear when Douglas was burned.
But clearly Hurst had not been aware that Douglas himself knew, and equally clearly the discovery disconcerted him. Then he made the gesture of squaring his shoulders as if to bear a sudden and very heavy weight.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We both know who – and what – we are. But the immediate problem is with us in this room. Had you a plan in mind? For after the deed?’
‘We had.’
‘Also,’ I put in, for I had no mind to be kept out of any of this, ‘I should like to know about the presence of Rosie and Daisy Mabbley.’
‘It’s because of Rosie and Daisy that we did this,’ said Douglas.
‘Explain that,’ said Hurst.
‘She was after us,’ said Rosie, with a glance towards Esther’s body. ‘She wanted to kill us like she killed her own children.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ I said, sharply.
‘We looked like them, you see,’ put in Daisy. ‘We had the same kind of hair as her little girls.’
‘We used to lie in our beds and hear her,’ said Rosie.
‘You can’t have done.’ But I remembered how Esther would call incessantly for her murdered children.
‘We all heard her,’ put in another of the girls, and Douglas nodded.
‘Children, where are you? That’s what she used to whisper,’ said Rosie. ‘Children, I’ll find you in the end … So we ran away before she could catch us.’
‘In stories, children always run away from the wicked old witch who wants to eat them up,’ said the small Daisy.
‘Or the giant who wants to kill them,’ said another girl, and I sent an angry look to John Hurst, because this was what came of filling up children’s heads with fairy tales and nonsense.
‘Where did you go?’ asked Hurst.
‘To our mother’s cottage,’ said Rosie. ‘She let us hide there. She didn’t know why we ran away – we said it was because of her.’ This time the gesture was towards me. ‘We said she was unkind and she made us work hard all day. Our mother said she could believe it,’ said Rosie. ‘And she thought we were hiding until we could go to London to make our fortune.’
‘Where,’ murmured John Hurst, ‘the streets are, of course, paved with gold. Earth has not anything to show more fair.’
‘That’s what you told us,’ nodded Daisy. ‘That’s why we thought we’d go. Our mother’s going to come with us. We’re going to make our fortunes.’
‘May God pity me for what I said,’ remarked Hurst.
‘When you came looking for us, we hid in the loft of the cottage,’ said Daisy, looking at me again. ‘You never guessed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘None of us guessed anything,’ said Hurst, getting to his feet. ‘But now we have to deal with what’s happened tonight.’
Wilger said, with almost eagerness, ‘You’ll help us?’
Hurst looked at the boy who was his son for what seemed to be a very long time. Then he said, ‘You give me no alternative.’
‘And her?’ Wilger sent me another of the spiky looks. ‘We can’t risk her telling.’
John Hurst spoke slowly, as if he was considering each word. ‘I believe Mrs Porringer will not wish for a scandal,’ he said. ‘It could, after all, ruin her future. No one would employ her, of course. She might even face prison. Well, Mrs Porringer?’
I said, ‘I shall keep your secrets.’ I thought: may God forgive me for the secret about Esther I already have to keep.
It was Hurst who carried Esther Breadspear’s body down the stairs, down to the hall. The children followed, Douglas Wilger being carried, as usual. They were all silent – not exactly cowed, for any group containing young Wilger would never be that, but certainly prepared to do whatever they were told. I have to say here that John Hurst was mainly responsible for that. I do not approve of the man, but there is no denying he has an authority.
They laid Esther on the ground, near the window, still covered with Hurst’s jacket, then he and two of the boys went down the steps to those grim underground rooms – the rooms that once were cells, used for housing condemned prisoners, including Esther herself.
St Bertelin’s was chiming one o’clock when at last we heard the dull roar of the furnace.
TWENTY-THREE
The sweep of car headlights outside the house pulled Mic
hael out of Maria Porringer’s grim, candlelit midnight, and into the present.
He knelt on the window seat and waved, and the headlights flashed, then Nell parked the car so that the lights shone on to the window. She got out, then went back into the car to switch to sidelights, and came up to the window.
‘Can you hear me through all that glass and bits of lead?’
‘Loud and clear,’ said Michael. ‘And I’m selfishly glad to see you.’
‘So this is the nightmare mansion,’ said Nell. ‘It’s a grim old place, isn’t it? I feel like something out of one of those old horror films. The face at the window. Tod Slaughter?’
‘Yes. It’s a good film, but I could wish you hadn’t reminded me of it at this minute. Thanks for tracking down Jack Hurst,’ said Michael.
‘He should be here with the keys soon. But,’ observed Nell, stepping back to look up at the Hall’s facade, ‘this house looks as if it needs more than just keys to open its doors. Are you sure we don’t need to chant a dark spell or read runic symbols? Or even dance round the bonfire reciting from Dr Dee’s occult language?’
‘What on earth …?’
‘Elizabethan occultist,’ said Nell, grinning. ‘One of Elizabeth Tudor’s favourites.’
‘I know who he is, I just didn’t know he had an occult language.’
‘According to his journal he talked with angels. Although I believe that the original angelic language was lost when Adam was booted out of Paradise.’
Michael said, ‘You know, you are still a constant source of surprise to me.’
‘Oh good,’ said Nell. She was still staring up at the house. ‘Whatever language you use, it’s still the nightmare mansion or the ogre’s castle, isn’t it? As if it might have been made from the ground-up blood and bones of an Englishman.’
‘If so, we’d better forget Dee’s angelic language, and recite one of those ancient High German things instead. “Bone to bone, marrow to marrow, flesh to flesh …”’
‘Never mind ancient High German, I’m going to stand in the shelter of the main doors, because it’s starting to rain,’ said Nell. ‘So—’
‘What?’ said Michael, as she broke off.
‘I’m not sure, but … Michael, I can see a light right at the top of the house.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Michael, but he felt suddenly icy cold. They lit candles that night, he thought. The flames flickered on the walls as Esther Breadspear strangled to death – she kicked one over, and it burned part of the attic. But he said firmly, ‘There can’t be any lights. There’s no electricity on – I’ve tried the switches. And there’s no one else in the house.’
‘Did you go up to the top floor?’ said Nell.
‘Yes, because I wanted to find a book I remembered seeing. It’s quite a find as well – Maria Porringer’s journal, and you’ll be—’
‘Did you light anything while you were there?’ Nell interrupted. ‘A lamp or candles?’
‘There was nothing to light,’ said Michael. ‘And if there had been, there wouldn’t have been anything to light it with. Why – what are you seeing?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes and looking up. ‘But it looks like candlelight.’ Her voice wavered suddenly. ‘And Michael, it’s getting stronger.’
‘Stronger how?’
Nell said, ‘As if something’s caught fire.’
The next moments were blurred. Both Michael and Nell snatched their phones to tap out 999.
‘The fire engine’s on its way,’ said Michael, who had got the call in first. ‘Only—’
‘Only it’s got to come through the road block that held me up,’ said Nell.
‘Yes. And if there really is a fire—’
‘Michael, don’t go up there to investigate,’ she said at once.
‘That’s the last thing I’m going to do. What I am going to do,’ said Michael, ‘is find something to smash a window and get out.’
He paused, as Nell’s phone rang. She waved to him to wait, spoke for a moment, then said, ‘It’s Jack Hurst. His wife gave him my mobile number, and he’s ringing to say he’s about fifteen minutes away. I’ve told him we think there might be a bit of a fire.’
‘What did he say?’ Michael was watching the stair, praying not to see any wisps of smoke.
‘He said, “Sodding duff electricals,” and something about dismembering Darren on Monday morning. But I’ve given him your number and he’s going to phone you and see if he can guide you through the basement to where you might be able to smash open a kitchen window or something.’
Michael’s phone rang almost at once, and Jack Hurst’s voice, horrified and slightly panic-stricken, fired questions. Was Dr Flint sure he was safe? That there was no smoke reaching the ground floor? No crackle of flames or smell of burning?’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It might be nothing at all, but—’
‘But we can’t take the chance,’ said Hurst.
‘The fire brigade’s on its way, but—’
‘That bloody roadblock. Yes, I know. I’m stuck in it at the moment – they’re letting single-file traffic through, but I’m in the big van so I might have trouble getting round. But the fire engine will find a way through, be sure of that.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, who was not sure at all.
‘And we can get you out. What I’ll do, I’ll guide you down to the basement – there’s a garden door down there. It’ll be locked – in fact we’ve never opened it because we’ve never needed to and we haven’t got keys to it. But the top half is plain glass and if you can break that you should be able to climb through. Can you find a hammer or something? Those boys are sure to have left stuff lying around. I tell them time after time – “Tidy up as you go,” I tell them, but do they take any notice? Do they buggery, excuse my swearing, Dr Flint.’
‘Swear away,’ said Michael. ‘Hold on, I’ll see if there’s something I can use on the window. There’s a bit more light now – Nell’s parked so that her headlights are shining in.’ He walked into the main downstairs rooms. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘Paint brushes – they wouldn’t be heavy enough … Oh, wait, there’s a big old broom here. The handle should do it.’
‘Good enough. Back to the hall, and there’s a door set a bit back, near the stairs.’
‘I tried that a while ago,’ said Michael, ‘but it was as dark as the devil’s forehead, so I didn’t dare investigate. But if Nell can move the car a bit more … Wait a minute, I’ll tell her what we want.’
Nell was still at the window, and Michael explained, pointing towards the door.
‘That sounds fine,’ said Nell. ‘Once I’ve got the car’s lights lined up, I’ll try to make my way round to the back so I can help you climb out.’
‘Nell, it’ll be pitch dark!’
‘Michael, my love, did you think I’d drive out to a dark old house without a torch in the car?’ She brandished a large torch.
‘Well, all right. I’ll go down the steps,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know if it’s straight down the rabbit hole, though, or whether it’s more a case of “Down, down, to hell, and say I sent thee thither”.’
‘No one but you would find an apt quotation at a moment like this.’
‘I don’t know about quotations, but I’m going to feel utterly ridiculous descending to hell clutching a broom.’
‘They’d probably let you sweep it out,’ said Nell. ‘Michael …’
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful.’
Before he could respond, she had gone back to the car. The engine fired, and Nell reversed and then drove the car back towards the house. Michael waved and indicated to her to move slightly to the left. This time the lights fell directly across the door.
He waved again, and sent a thumbs-up sign. ‘We’re all set,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’m about to plumb the depths.’
The door opened again, with only a small protesting creak, and a smell of damp and decay breathed out.
‘There’s a flight of stone steps inside,’ said Jack. ‘And at the bottom are several small rooms, with the furnace room at the far end.’
The furnace room, thought Michael. They fired the furnace that night to burn Esther Breadspear’s body.
He said, ‘Yes, I can see the steps.’
‘Go past the furnace room – you’ll recognize it because it’s got strips of iron over it and a round window. Then you should see the garden door. It leads to a small courtyard on the left of the house.’
The car headlights were doing a reasonable job of lighting the stone steps, and Michael, still clutching the broom, reached the foot without mishap.
‘So far so good,’ he said to Hurst. ‘Are you still hearing me?’
‘Yes, but you’re a bit crackly. Listen, if the signal goes – and you’re underground remember – all you’ve got to do is go along the passage as far as you can.’
‘All right.’
A thick smell of damp and decay hung everywhere, but Michael would rather grope his way through this bad-smelling darkness than remain trapped in the hall with the threat of fire.
At the foot of the stairs was a narrow passageway with brackets along the wall where gaslights might once have been. It was a dismal place; the stones were leprous-looking, and there were puddles of oily condensation on the ground. Thick cobwebs trailed from the ceiling; Michael tried to avoid them, but several times they brushed his face, and he shuddered and swiped them away.
‘Can you see the row of doors yet?’ asked Hurst.
‘Not yet … Oh, yes, I can now,’ said Michael after a moment.
‘Six rooms,’ said Hurst. ‘The furnace room’s the seventh.’
Michael said, half to himself, ‘It would be the seventh chamber. of course. The one containing Bluebeard’s butchered wives.’
‘Sorry? You’re breaking up—’
‘I think the signal’s going,’ said Michael, snapping back to reality. ‘But I should be almost there now. Is there any sign of the fire engine yet?’
‘No, but—’ Hurst’s friendly voice cut off and a thin whine emitted from the phone.
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Michael, and the enclosed space picked up his last words and spun them eerily around him. He cursed under his breath, thrust the phone into his pocket, and went cautiously along the stone passage.
