The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  With her spare hand, Kate undid a bolt and prised the hatch open.

  ‘What—’

  She pushed me, headlong.

  I fell.

  Pain sliced at my arms, my knees. I coughed. Bitter sulphur upon my tongue, powder on my chest. The hatch creaked again. My world turned black as pitch.

  I couldn’t see. I could barely breathe. Panicked, I groped with my grazed hands, trying to find a way out.

  There was no escape, only hard, vaguely round shapes. This was where the chute in the garden led to, where the coal was kept. Dirty, sooty clumps of rock. And me.

  The roof was too low to stand. Instead I curled up on the damp floor. The darkness expanded to swallow me. I welcomed it. Maybe I’d suffocate down there, amongst the coal.

  20

  Dorothea

  ‘The master wishes to speak with you.’

  Oh dear.

  I blot my letter to Fanny and avail myself of the opportunity to arrange my face into a careless expression. ‘Does he, Tilda? I wonder he does not come to me in person.’

  Her florid countenance peeks around the door to my room, which stands ajar. She looks rather comical, half in and half out.

  ‘That’s none of my concern. I’m just fetching you, as I was told.’

  I sigh. ‘Very well. Where is he?’

  ‘In the library.’

  This is not auspicious. No doubt I am about to reap the consequences of my discussions with Sir Thomas Biggleswade. I would so prefer to face the argument in my own room, on my own ground. But Papa has summoned me: a sure sign of his displeasure.

  Packing away my writing implements, I whistle to Wilkie. He chirps back, lending some encouragement. Tilda is less of a comfort. She idles by the door, waiting to escort me herself, as if I cannot be trusted to go alone. It is not so very different from New Oakgate Prison!

  I stride downstairs with affected confidence, ignoring Tilda. My knuckles rap on the library door.

  ‘Enter,’ says Papa.

  The library is one of the masculine rooms in the house, furnished in dark mahogany and a deep, gloomy red. It gives me a chill to cross the threshold, for there is a stuffed vixen in a glass case immediately on the left, and a raven beneath a bell-jar, which distract from the handsome tooled morocco of the book spines. Taxidermists never contrive to arrange animals in pleasant positions – they must be always gasping or snarling.

  Papa sits in a leather chair behind the desk. Sunlight falls through the window and glints on his brass lamp. He holds a letter in his hand. ‘Dora. Come in. Sit down.’

  I take my chair, fully prepared for a scolding. Papa wastes not a moment in flourishing the paper at me.

  ‘Well, Dora, you have done it. I do not know what you said to Sir Thomas, but you have truly done it this time.’

  I open my dry mouth. What can I possibly say?

  An envelope rests on the desk, with a Penny Red stamp in the corner and our address scribed in a hand I do not recognise. The sight of it fills me with confusion. Can it be that Sir Thomas was so greatly offended by my behaviour that he has written to Papa?

  ‘You must have made quite an impression,’ Papa goes on, ‘for we have an invitation to dine at Heatherfield Manor!’

  My sweaty palm slips on the arm of my chair. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Yes!’ He beams. ‘Lady Morton rarely entertains, as you know. This is a great favour, Dora. Sir Thomas must have been prodigiously impressed with you.’

  ‘I . . . do not believe it.’

  ‘It is here, in his own hand!’

  Papa slaps the letter on the desk. Sir Thomas’s writing is scrawled and a little smudged, as I might have expected. Oh, what a fool I have been! Only now does it occur to me that a man with Sir Thomas’s head, careless of appearance and unimpressed by show, would prefer to be spoken to in a candid manner. He would like that I demonstrated my learning and refused to dissemble about my fortune. Why did I not think of it before?

  ‘Goodness,’ I say, using a bland word to fill the silence. ‘I . . . I shall have to think of something to wear.’

  Papa laughs. ‘Good girl. I am proud of you, Dorothea. This is well done.’ Somehow his praise makes me feel unclean. ‘I knew you should pull it off, in the end.’

  I return to my room, sick at heart. It would almost have been better to receive the scolding.

  Still, it is only dinner. Perhaps Sir Thomas means to use me as an amiable flirtation while he is marooned at his sister’s house. He is unlikely to have serious designs, after what I have confided in him. Admiring a woman and marrying her are two very different things. This only means that he likes me. Well, I do not dislike him.

  Besides, it will be interesting to set foot inside the famous Heatherfield Manor and see my mother’s friend Lady Morton, who I secretly believed had perished. Did Sir Thomas jest, or does she really suffer from hives? How curious, that Ruth should also mention a Lady Morton ordering from Metyard’s dress shop when I last saw her. Can they be one and the same?

  Now that I dwell upon it, I recall Ruth was worrying about Miriam and her punishment whilst embroidering the Morton gown. It could not be . . .

  What did Sir Thomas say? Great red belters like she’s been whacked with a stick.

  No, it is too ridiculous!

  Speaking of Ruth, I have completed further research into the tale she is spinning me. I scarcely see the other prisoners, I am so absorbed by this girl! At least with the dress shop, I have more material at my disposal (forgive the pun). Horrendous as it seems, I believe she is telling the truth for the main part.

  Naturally there is a wealth of information about Mrs Metyard, because of what happened. I recall the case myself, although I was not at that time involved in the prison to the same degree. We had yet to pull down the old colossus and rebuild it. I wish, now, that I had interested myself in the criminals earlier.

  Newspaper engravings show the exact face Ruth describes: square and formidable. It is hard to tell, in two dimensions, but I ascertain the lady had little top head, which is a sure sign of an immoral brute.

  For all her physical prowess, Mrs Metyard did not follow the drum as a military wife. She preferred to stay at home, overseeing an exclusive mantua-maker and milliner business.

  Captain Metyard’s demise occurred in the Battle of Nsamankow, 1824. Accounts suggest that the soldier was scarcely more agreeable than his spouse: stern and fond of excessive discipline. He must have possessed knowledge of Mrs Metyard’s deplorable employment practices – or even instigated them in the first place.

  He answered for it with his unfortunate end.

  I confess, I do not pay much attention to battles. I had no idea what happened at Nsamankow until I undertook to research it. Our men were attacked by the Ashanti unawares, and ran out of ammunition. It was a terrible defeat. Sir Charles MacCarthy, the governor at the time, decided to die rather than risk being taken prisoner. In retaliation, the Ashanti beheaded his corpse and ate his heart. Charming behaviour, upon my word!

  Both MacCarthy’s head and that of an ensign were kept as trophies by the enemy. I look up at the ceramic busts that decorate my shelves and find myself prey to an unwonted shudder. Flesh and blood are not so clean: there would be burst vessels, trailing veins. I dare not flatter myself that the Ashanti held an interest in phrenology.

  I have no information to tell me whether Captain Metyard retained his head and his heart, but I do know he left behind an infant daughter, along with his widow, and this must be Catherine, or ‘Miss Kate’. At first, I was disposed to pity the child: our parents both expiring in the same year, and her abandoned to such a mother! Yet it seems from Ruth’s narrative that Kate was an apple fallen near to the maternal tree. Indeed, with the mention of the poker, she sounds more frightening than Mrs Metyard herself – which paints events at the trial in a different, more
chilling light.

  No doubt all discrepancies will be laid to rest on my next visit to the prison. My craniometer is prepared, my books are ready. Heatherfield Manor be hanged – I have an engagement that promises far more excitement.

  Tomorrow, I will measure Ruth Butterham’s head.

  21

  Ruth

  Time passes strangely, in the dark. I couldn’t have been trapped in the hole for too long; they wouldn’t have been able to spare me from the workroom for whole days together. I know that. But it felt like an eternity. I swear I aged, down there.

  You believe in purgatory, don’t you, miss? I suppose it was like that. Dark as death but not dark enough, not the oblivion I longed for. Just enough consciousness remained to torment me.

  Was this how the world appeared to Ma? Impenetrably black and chill? It occurred to me, as I lay there in the soot, that maybe Ma wasn’t the blind one. She saw things as they truly were: cold and devoid of colour. The rest of us were fooled by chimeras.

  I couldn’t get it straight in my head why Ivy and Daisy would play this trick on me. At least Rosalind Oldacre had reasons. She despised my poverty, envied my sewing skills. And hurting me in front of the other girls made her look strong. But this . . . I’d done nothing to either of the twins. They were parentless and destitute, just like me. Why couldn’t we be friends?

  I’d hoped to find some friends, at long last, in Mim and Nell. Something to make me feel less alone in the world, less isolated by my curse. But they’d stood there and said nothing while Kate dragged me away. It would have only taken one breath, three words to save me. ‘It was Ivy.’ They couldn’t even spare me that.

  Left there much longer, I would have fallen into self-pity. I might have turned to coal myself. But just as I hugged my arms tight around my chest, feeling the reliable solidity of my corset, a glint shot past my eye. Against the felted darkness, it was bright as a shooting star. Another. Spots floated in my vision, the effect of sudden light on eyes grown accustomed to the gloom. Through the chinks in the trapdoor, I saw the gleam of an approaching lamp.

  Relief fought with fear. If this was Miss Kate come back, I might still be in for a beating. Yet it didn’t sound like Kate’s tread. It was too heavy, too slow.

  A bolt slid, painfully loud. The hatch creaked. I felt a gust of air and then – light.

  I squinted, covering my face with my hands, a wiggling creature unearthed. From above, a voice addressed me. It was kind, satin-soft.

  ‘Are you all right down there?’

  In my surprise, I lowered my hands. The light still hurt, but I needed to brave it and make sure I could believe my ears. The person who had spoken was a man.

  His features, articulated by the lamp, were not ones I recognised. Then I saw the eyes: shimmering, flickering blue.

  ‘Mr Rooker? Is that you?’

  He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now. Try and stand up. Slowly.’

  All my torpor had gone. Replacing it was a glow, achingly sweet. Someone cared for me. Someone had cared enough to come to my rescue.

  After hours cramped in one position, my body didn’t want to unfold; the joints made a creaking noise like the hatch when it opened. When I gained my feet my legs trembled, but the corset propped me up.

  ‘That’s it. Good girl.’ He placed the lamp on the kitchen floor. Shadows swam around us as he reached down. ‘Can you give me your hand?’

  I gripped his arm at the elbow. My skin appeared grimy beside his. I was too wretched to feel embarrassed about that, or the soot clogged in my hair and smeared over my face.

  Billy heaved and I scrabbled up. I flopped on to my hands and knees on the kitchen floor and coughed. It was still the same kitchen, damp and dreary, but compared to the coal hole its air seemed pure, forcing the soot from my lungs.

  ‘Thank you,’ I spluttered. Billy thumped me on the back. I coughed until my eyes watered.

  ‘Look at the state of you.’ He said it with indulgence, like a fondly scolding parent. Producing a handkerchief from his pocket, he spat on it and began to scrub my cheek.

  It reminded me of Ma. Now I was glad the cough had made my eyes stream; it meant he couldn’t see me cry.

  Gradually, I got my bearings. There was no light except the honeyed pool at the base of his lamp. It must be late.

  ‘Well, at least I can see your face now.’

  He dropped the handkerchief beside the lamp. Long, black streaks tarnished the cotton. ‘I’ve ruined your handkerchief,’ I lamented.

  ‘You can owe me a new one.’ Billy winked. He knew, as well as I, that I could never afford such a thing.

  ‘How do you come to be here, Mr Rooker?’

  ‘Call me Billy, please. The Metyards invited me to dinner. I’m on my way home just now.’

  ‘But . . . how did you find me?’

  He leant against the sink and pulled himself up. ‘Miriam told me you’d run afoul of Kate. The poor girl was worried. She didn’t know where you were.’

  So Mim had fretted about me. She must have been in this very room, cooking for the Metyards, and neither of us had heard the other. That was an unsettling thought. Like knowing someone had walked over my grave.

  ‘I reckoned you’d be here,’ Billy went on. ‘I’ve rescued Nelly from the coal hole a few times before.’

  The way he spoke took me aback. As if this was an everyday occurrence, not to be remarked upon.

  ‘She put Nell down there, too?’

  ‘Aye, sometimes.’

  The specks of soot seemed to form into Kate’s shadow; a shade hovering between us. Billy appeared kind, heroic even, rescuing trapped apprentices. It didn’t make the least bit of sense that he’d engage himself to someone like her. Could men overlook such glaring moral faults for a pretty face?

  ‘Won’t she be furious?’ I whispered. ‘Miss Metyard, I mean. When she finds out you’ve freed me . . .’

  He extended his hand again, helped me to my feet. ‘Not to worry. You leave Kate to me. Her bark is worse than her bite.’

  The scars on Mim’s back told a different story.

  Billy didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he tugged me gently towards the kitchen door. Nell was waiting on the other side with a bucket of water and a linen towel.

  ‘I thought you’d need to get washed up,’ she explained. ‘The mistresses are reading upstairs. Kate won’t come to fetch us from the sewing room for about an hour yet. Shall I put this bucket by your bed? Then you can sneak straight under the covers and she’ll not see you.’

  God knew it was a feeble offering, but I’d never felt more grateful to a living soul. Mim, Nell and Billy – the three of them, considering my comfort. Almost like friends.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. It sounded inadequate.

  Billy released my hand. ‘Nelly will look after you. She’s a good girl,’ he added with a smile. It was not returned by Nell. ‘Now I’d better be getting home. I’ve a mother who’ll worry about me.’

  I couldn’t help the small sob that escaped my lips. Nell glared daggers at him.

  Billy winced. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re from the Foundling, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. My mother used to work for Mrs Metyard. She . . . she had to sell me to her.’

  A sigh. ‘Poor lamb. I wager you miss her something fierce.’

  All I could manage was a nod.

  I was glad he didn’t say anything else; didn’t try to cheer me with platitudes. With a respectful incline of the head and a pat on Nell’s shoulder he walked away, towards the showroom and the door that led to freedom.

  Nell and I watched him go.

  ‘He’s a lucky bastard,’ she said. There was no malice in her words. All the same, I could tell it cost her pain to see his liberty, the way he could waltz in and out of our nightmare as he chose.


  ‘He saved me. Right now he’s my favourite person alive.’

  Nell gave a tight smile. ‘You silly noodle. Come on, let’s get this bucket to the cellar before they catch us. Otherwise we’ll both end up in the hole.’

  * * *

  Nell left me alone in the cellar to wash and change as best I could, by the feeble light sneaking in from the street above. I was as filthy as a chimney-sweep. Again and again I passed a sponge over my arms, revealing what looked like brand-new skin beneath. Rinsing the sponge, I saw soot ribbons twisting into the water, turning it the colour of smoke.

  I picked up the linen towel, rubbed it over my chest.

  And then a strange thing happened.

  The hooks of my corset gave way. For the first time in months, the casing slipped from my body and fell to the floor.

  I stood there, naked, staring at it. At myself.

  Lines marked my torso where the cording had pressed into the skin. I ought to have been relieved, but I wasn’t. My stomach felt odd without its familiar pressure. Exposed. It wasn’t a release to be out of the corset’s clutches. It was lonely.

  Hastily, I stuffed my nightgown over my head and picked up the corset, my dear companion. There were no stains. Soot lightly peppered the laces, but that was all. I folded it, tucked it under my pillow.

  What could it mean?

  I lay down.

  There’s nothing like hardship to make you appreciate the good things in your life. The pallet, which I’d loathed, was now a comfort. Better than the coal hole floor by far. But still I didn’t fall asleep.

  Most nights I spent awake, dwelling upon those I’d lost. My nightmares showed me visions of Naomi’s throttled face, Pa’s splattered brains; all the evil I’d done and couldn’t escape. Tonight I saw a different image: blue eyes, sparkling by lamplight.