Spider Light (34 page)

He lay down again. It had been Mrs Plumtree after all, because he could hear the creak of the second set of stairs. She must be going back up to her room. George listened, and caught a muffled thud, and then the sound of bedsprings creaking a bit. It seemed that all was well. He rearranged himself for sleep, and this time it was a proper deep sleep. It was so deep that
he did not hear the creaking of the stairs again, or the soft footfall outside his room. Nor did he wake when his bedroom door was pushed slowly open, and a figure peered round the door.

Maud had waited until the hour when her father would be in bed, then gone quietly in using the back-door key George had given her before she went to stay with Thomasina. The key had been in her bag which they had not taken away from her in Latchkill, although they had searched it and she thought the hateful Higgins had taken some money.

The familiar scents of Toft House closed round her as she went in through the scullery. She waited long enough to be sure no one was about, then went softly up the main stairs. There was a moment when the floorboards outside her father’s room creaked loudly–she had forgotten those particular creaking boards–and she froze, her heart pounding. There was a faint sound from his bedroom, but nothing happened and she went up the second flight of stairs.

Mrs Plumtree’s bedroom was at the back of the house; Maud slipped inside, carrying the pillow she had taken from the airing cupboard, and stole across to the bed. She was quite sad about having to kill Mrs Plumtree, but it was a necessary part of the plan and it had better be done as quickly as possible. She pushed the pillow down onto Mrs Plumtree’s face; the woman gave a muffled gasp and struggled. Maud had to use quite a bit of force to keep the pillow in place. It was not really difficult, although the struggles went on for longer than she had expected. She watched the little clock on the bedside cabinet ticking the minutes away, because it would be helpful to know the length of time it took to smother someone. After ten minutes it seemed to be over, and Maud removed the pillow. Yes, it was all right. Goodbye, Mabel Plumtree. Now for the next part.

She had no qualms about killing her father, who was the one person who might spoil her escape and ruin her plan. He had
betrayed her by taking her to Latchkill, and Maud was not going to feel in the least conscience-stricken about this. But it was important his death remained undiscovered for as long as possible, which was why Mrs Plumtree had had to die as well–she would certainly have raised the alarm if she had found her employer dead in the morning. With both of them dead it would be at least two days–maybe three or four–before anyone realized what had happened, and by then Maud would be miles away. Safe. Free.

Her father slept in the big front bedroom on the first floor. Maud, the pillow held firmly in her hands, eased the door slowly open. Careful now, he mustn’t wake up. But it was all right: she could hear him snoring. It was a horrid ugly noise. He was sound asleep, lying on his back with his mouth open. Maud was grateful to him for sleeping on his back because it would make her task much easier. She crept over to the bed, every muscle tensed in case he woke up.

He did not wake; he went on snoring. When Maud put the pillow over his face, he spluttered and gurgled, and fought the air with his hands, trying to beat her off. But Maud was ready for that–she had known he would fight harder than Plumtree–and she knelt on the bed and brought all her weight down on the pillow. The clock said fifteen minutes to midnight, and she watched the hands tick round. Three minutes–five. He was still struggling, but not quite so frenziedly. Seven minutes. Surely he was almost dead. It had only taken Plumtree ten. But he was still twitching a bit, and his limbs were still jerking and really, you would have thought he would be dead by this time. Twelve minutes–thirteen…Ah, he had stopped struggling. Better not to take any chances, though. Maud remained kneeling on the bed, her hands pressed flat down on the pillow. Two more minutes? Yes, better be sure.

In the end, it was seventeen minutes before she dared lift the pillow, and her wrists were starting to ache quite badly with the pressure. But it was all right. He was definitely dead: his lips were swollen, and blue-looking, and his eyes were wide and
staring. Maud steeled herself to feel for a heartbeat just to be sure, but there was nothing.

She left the pillow on the bed, went along to her old bedroom and put several things into a small valise. Night things, a change of linen. Hairbrush, toothbrush, soap. Carrying the valise, she went back down the stairs. Her father had always kept a reasonable amount of money in his desk, and Maud needed money for what lay ahead. She had a little jewellery, some of it her mother’s, but most of it was at Quire House and she did not dare go back there.

There was almost £200 in the desk, which was very gratifying. Maud tucked it into her pocket, and went out through the back door.

Maud knew she needed a good deal of resolve for what now lay ahead. She would have to do several things she had not done before, but she thought she could manage it. The main thing to remember was the address she had found that day in Thomasina’s desk–the address that had been tucked into a drawer, rather than being in Thomasina’s proper address book. Number 17, Paradise Yard, Seven Dials, London. And a name: Catherine Kendal.

Maud could see now that Thomasina meant Catherine Kendal to be kept secret, partly because the address was not in her proper address book, but also because of what Higgins had said in the bath-house at Latchkill about Thomasina: ‘One of her pretty little sluts from Seven Dials.’ Maud had instantly remembered Catherine Kendal and the Seven Dials address, and what Thomasina had said that day: ‘There’s a girl who lives in a poor part of London. She’s had to do some dreadful things to avoid starving, and she has a sick sister. She’d do anything in the world for that sister…’

Maud set off along the lanes. It was a quarter past midnight–a lonely time to be out, but she was unlikely to meet anyone. She needed to get to Chester where she could get a train to London.
If she could walk as far as one of the small market towns–Barrow or Tarporley–there were little country trains. Milk trains usually ran around four a.m. and Maud did not mind travelling into Chester on a milk train.

It would be a very long walk to Barrow but she did not mind that either. She knew the way because she had quite often been there for shopping, and there were signposts and milestones. She would have little rests on the grass at the side of the road as she went.

If she had to, she was going to say she was a parlourmaid, dismissed because the son of the house had forced his way into her bedroom. Or was that a bit too much like a penny novelette? Perhaps she could say she was going to see her mother who had been taken ill. Yes, that would be better; it would get people’s sympathy. And if she had to give her name to anyone on her journey, she was going to say it was Catherine Kendal and that she lived in London.

Catherine Kendal, with that Seven Dials address. Catherine Kendal was one of Thomasina’s pretty little sluts, who would do anything to avoid starving. And who, Thomasina had said, was exactly Maud’s own age,
exactly Maud’s own age
…

It was easier than she had dared hope. There was indeed a milk train from Barrow, and the incurious train driver had said, Oh, yes, he was going to Chester all right, so hop in miss, and help yourself to a drink of milk from that churn while you’re about it. And she had hopped in and once at Chester had managed to get on a train bound for London.

It was a long journey, and as the train bumped and jolted along, Maud slipped in and out of sleep. Sometimes the tapping of the train wheels got mixed up with Thomasina and Simon relentlessly tapping on the walls of Twygrist–those sounds were fainter by this time, but Maud could still hear them. But sometimes the wheels sounded like the running feet of the man who had chased her and mamma through that long-ago autumn morning. Heavy menacing footsteps they had been, and when
Maud looked fearfully back over her shoulder, she saw the man clearly. She had seen his face, which had been huge and misshapen, and she had seen that he was grinning with delight because he had been sure he would catch them.

Maud still did not entirely understand about that last morning with mamma. ‘We’re going to the place where your father lives,’ mamma had said, and the place they had gone to had been Latchkill. Had the man who followed them really been Maud’s father? Maud thought she had forgotten about him, but drowsing in the stuffy train, with the rhythmic hum of the wheels going on and on in her ears, she found she remembered him very clearly indeed. She could hear him pounding after them through the misty half-light, and she could feel the heaviness of his tread. Exactly like a giant running after a poor little human. Was that why she had thought of Thomasina as a giant on the night she had hidden in Charity Cottage when Thomasina had come striding across the park to catch her?

London, when she reached it in the early afternoon, was bewildering. Maud had been there twice, but once had been a school trip when they had all been taken to the Tower of London, and the other had been with the cousins she had stayed with after her mother died. One of the older cousins had been getting married and they had all gone to Debenham & Freebody to buy bridesmaids’ clothes. Still, it meant she knew about the ladies’ room at the station, where she had a wash and brush-up, and about the buffet, where she had hot coffee and fresh rolls. She knew, as well, about hailing a cab when she got out of the station.

‘Seven Dials, miss? You sure?’

‘Quite sure.’ Maud wondered whether to proffer the story of her sick mother again, or switch to the one about the housemaid ravished by the son of the house, but she remembered in time that people in London are too busy to be much interested, so she said nothing, and the cabman, clicking his horse, said, ‘Least it’s the daytime. You wouldn’t want to go there at night, miss.’

When finally they reached Seven Dials, Maud thought she
would rather not have come here in the day either. She paid the cabman, who doffed his cap, and by way of friendly departure pointed out Paradise Yard.

‘Would you wait for me, please?’

‘Here? No bloomin’ fear, miss.’

‘Then,’ said Maud, ‘would you return for me? In–in half an hour’s time?’ She fished out a half-sovereign. Was it enough? Too much? She had no idea of the value of money in this situation, but it was several times’ the amount of the fare from the railway station. ‘I’ll pay you this if you return and take me–and a friend–back to the railway station.’

It seemed the half-sovereign was more than enough. ‘Half an hour,’ said the cabbie, doffing his cap. ‘I’ll be here.’

The cab clattered away over the cobblestones. Maud did not entirely trust him to return and she did not know if half an hour would be long enough for what she had to do, but she had done her best.

The noise, smells and sights of Seven Dials were like a series of violent blows. All round her was a jumble of streets and a seething mass of people. Some were scurrying along with anxious faces, some were propped against doorposts, staring at the world with despairing eyes, some were calling their wares from horrid mean little shops. Children ran along the streets, ragged and thin, with sharp, wise, little faces. The smaller ones played tip-cat and battledore and shuttlecock, but the older ones had an air of purpose.

Once the houses in some of these streets had been quite prosperous, lived in by merchants and city men, rather like George Lincoln. But by whatever curious alchemy governs such things, the houses and the streets had ceased to be prosperous and well cared for. They had slid grubbily down into extreme poverty, and the once imposing houses had been divided and sub-divided. Basements that had been intended for sculleries and servants’ quarters had turned into old clothes’ shops and shoe-menders and wig-makers. Despite the poverty, alehouses and gin shops of
all kinds were everywhere. Maud thought it must be the most appalling place in the world.

Paradise Yard was an enclosed area just off one of the streets, and Number 17 was in one corner. Maud hesitated, looking up at it. It was as mean and as neglected as all the others, although tattered curtains hung at one or two windows as if someone had tried to make it slightly comfortable.

Stepping around the piles of squalid rubbish that strewed the cobblestones, Maud went towards the door of Number 17. She was nervous, but not actually frightened, and although she had no idea if this part of her plan was going to work, she knew what she was going to say.

She had thought she would knock on the door, which was what people in her world did, but this door was already open. Beyond it was a dank hallway, with doors opening off it. Were the rooms behind them all occupied by different people? If so, how would she find Catherine Kendal? Would she recognize her?

But Maud thought she would recognize her; firmly in her mind was that odd little conversation with Thomasina.

‘A girl who lives in a poor part of London,’ Thomasina had said. ‘She’s exactly your age, Maud.’ She had added, ‘There’s a sick sister–I think she’d do anything in the world for that sister.’

A girl who was exactly Maud’s age. A girl who had accepted Thomasina’s charity. And there was a sister who was sick, and for whom Catherine Kendal was prepared to do all kinds of things…

She had no idea which door to try first, but as she was trying to decide, there were sounds from overhead, a door slammed and quick light footsteps came along the landing and down the wide, once-beautiful staircase. The girl stopped halfway down and stared at Maud from suspicious, wide-apart eyes.

‘Catherine Kendal?’ Maud knew it was. (‘She resembles you a bit,’ Thomasina had said, that day. ‘If it wasn’t for the chance of birth, you might be in her shoes and she might be in yours.’)

And although this girl was not exactly a mirror image of Maud,
she was very similar. She resembles you…She might be in your shoes…And if only the sister looked the same…

Maud scarcely waited for the girl’s nod of wary assent to her question. She said, in a firm voice, that she came from Miss Forrester, and that Miss Forrester wanted to offer medical help for Miss Kendal’s sister. No, she herself did not know the exact details, said Maud. Her tone suggested she was an employee of Thomasina’s: perhaps a companion or amanuensis, and that the medical details were not her concern. The thing was, the girl would have to come up to Amberwood. Well, yes, right away. She believed it was a matter of a specialist being in the area for a few days, and it was thought he might be able to help. Naturally Miss Forrester would pay for all the travelling and so on.

The girl listened to all this, not speaking. She put her head on one side, as if considering Maud in a way Maud did not much like. When Maud finished speaking, she said, ‘How do I know it ain’t a con?’ It was the accent of this dreadful world: this place of street urchins and poverty and evil smells.

Maud said, ‘A con…? Oh, I see. It’s perfectly genuine, I assure you. Your sister will be at Quire House with Miss Forrester.’

‘Not me as well?’

Maud had been ready for this. She said, ‘Miss Forrester only seemed prepared to pay for one. Of course, if you wanted to buy your own train ticket, you could come. Or you could follow in a few days’ time.’

‘Have to think about that,’ said Catherine Kendal. ‘Leaving London an’ all. I got my ladies to consider.’

‘Are you a sempstress?’ said Maud, and Catherine Kendal laughed.

‘You been working for Thomasina and you think that! Bit of an innocent, aincha? No, it ain’t sewing I do for my ladies. Nor for the gentlemen who come here, neither.’ She went on studying Maud, and Maud began to feel uncomfortable. She did not dare risk looking at her watch to see if the half hour was up yet, but she thought it could not be far off, and she had not yet seen the
sister. Supposing the sister did not exist–that it had simply been a–what had she called it? A con. Supposing it had been a con to get money out of Thomasina.

Then Catherine said slowly, ‘She’d be at Quire House,’ as if the name was a charm that might open doors.

‘Yes.’

‘A proper doctor who might help her?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Wait here,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll see what she thinks.’

She was only gone a few minutes, but to Maud, who was in an agony of suspense, it felt like several hours. At last Catherine reappeared.

‘She’ll come.’

‘I’m so glad,’ said Maud, managing to sound as if it was a matter of complete disinterest to her. ‘Can she be ready at once? I’ve arranged for a cab to collect us in about ten minutes.’

‘Hardly time to pack winter furs, is there?’ There was a sudden grin, oddly reminiscent of a cat’s purring smile, and then Cat Kendal whisked back up the stairs and into the room overhead. In less than the ten minutes she was back, carrying a pitifully small bundle of things, a thin girl with translucent skin and tow-coloured hair at her side.

‘Nell,’ she said, by way of introduction. ‘Ellen if you want to be posh about it.’

Maud stared at the girl. It’s all right, she thought. The resemblance is strong enough. It’s going to work. But there’s one more thing, and I have to be sure.

Catherine said, ‘She don’t speak,’ and Maud, who had not until now trusted Thomasina’s other words that day, knew it was going to be all right. She knew that the last and most crucial piece of her plan had dropped silkily into place. (‘A sick sister,’ Thomasina had said, that day. ‘A mute. Fair-haired–pretty little thing. Great tragedy, though–she’s quite unable to speak.’)

‘She understands everything you say,’ Catherine was saying. ‘But she don’t never speak. She can’t.’

In a brisk voice, Maud said, ‘Oh, I see. Well now, Ellen–Nell–we’re going to take the train to Chester, and from there we’ll hire a conveyance of some kind to take us to Amberwood–that’s quite a short journey.’

It all came out as casually and as confidently as if she was accustomed to travelling up and down the countryside every day, ordering cabs and making complicated journeys. It had to be complicated, of course, this journey: the nearer they got to Amberwood, the more unobtrusive they would have to be.

So Maud made sure they got an afternoon train, which would mean they would not reach Chester until after dark, and not reach Amberwood until late in the evening. She bought lunch in the station buffet, relieved to see that although Nell Kendal ate hungrily, her table manners were acceptable. She wondered briefly about the two girls’ parentage, but since it was clearly impossible to question the girl, she concentrated on getting her back to Toft House.

As the train jolted its way out of London, she tried not to stare too greedily at this girl who might have changed places with her, and who could not speak…