Spider Light (36 page)

She finally managed to stop shaking, and when the clouds of dust began to settle, in the uncertain light, she could see it was the skeleton of a man. Her anatomy was rusty, but the human frame, once taught and understood, stayed with you. Yes, it had been a man, of quite large build, as well. Even in this light she could see that the femur bones were long, and the jawbone was unusually pronounced. Fragments of clothing adhered to the bones–the remains of leather shoes or boots were around the metatarsi, and there were wisps of hair on the skull.

Whoever you were, I hope to God you were dead when somebody crammed you in there, thought Antonia. Or were you trying to escape? Whatever you were doing, I don’t like that split-second
image I had of you pressed up against the oven door, as if you had hammered against it to get out…

Summoning all her resolve, she sat on the edge of the open oven, and swung both her legs into it. Easy enough. Like levering yourself onto a low window ledge. The light was definitely coming from above. Antonia crawled deeper in, hating the grittiness under her hands, like little piles of instant coffee granules. But they were only the dried-out cinders of decades.

She stood up, very cautiously. The chimney shaft was deeper than it had looked, although it seemed to narrow quite a lot as it went up. But cool air was brushing her face, and if she could get up to where the light was, she could yell for help. It looked as if it was daytime–although which day it might be, Antonia had no idea. But with reasonable luck there would be people within earshot.

Now for the real test. Was there any way of climbing up towards that light. Rungs embedded in the wall? Surely the chimney must have needed cleaning from time to time, in the way of all chimneys? What about those poor little Victorian chimney-sweep boys? She began to examine the surrounding wall, inch by painstaking inch, scraping at the encrusted soot and dirt, trying to dodge the worst of the clouds of soot she dislodged.

After what felt like a very long time, but was most likely only about half an hour, she forced herself to accept the fact that there was no means of getting up the chimney shaft.

Donna had not been able to resist that last jibe at Antonia Weston with the music. She crept onto the old ceramic floor over the kiln-room ovens, and played the
Caprice
suite on the battery-operated CD-player. The floor was covered with a thick layer of concrete but there was a reasonable chance that Weston would hear. If so, she would do so through a nightmare of uncertainty and fear.

It had been quite difficult to drag the inert body down into Twygrist’s bowels, but Donna found a discarded trolley, rather
like a wheelbarrow, and managed to tip Antonia into it. She was wearing gloves and a tracksuit and the same balaclava she had worn in Antonia’s car, with the hood of her anorak tightly pulled over it. When Weston’s body was eventually found–as, of course, it would be–these tunnels would be combed for DNA evidence. And among the fragments from tramps and winos, somebody might just match up a single stray hair, or a thread of skin, and see that it was from the daughter of Jim and Maria Robards, both killed here, and the sister of Don Robards, murdered by Antonia.

So she was very careful indeed, and only when she had got Antonia into the kiln room, and shone her torch around to make sure there was no way of escape, did she begin to relax.

It was almost over. She had achieved what she had set herself to do all those years ago, and perhaps now there would be some peace.

She went back to Antonia’s car, which she had parked well off the road, and drove it away from Twygrist. Her own car was just a mile further along. She was simply going to leave Antonia’s car parked on the roadside, and drive her own car away. Antonia’s car would be found, of course, but there would be nothing to link it to Twygrist.

After today there would be nothing to link Donna with Twygrist, either. She had got away with it.

Maud had been worried about the actual arrival at Toft House because there was a sign on the gateposts proclaiming the name, and Nell Kendal was expecting to be brought to Quire House. But her most pressing concern was that the bodies of George and Mrs Plumtree might have been found. It was barely twenty-four hours since she had gone into their bedrooms and smothered them, and discovery was not very likely, but Maud was keeping the possibility in mind.

It was a relief, therefore, when the pony trap she hired at Chester railway station jolted its way up the lane, and she saw that Toft House was completely in darkness. And the gatepost sign was easy: she simply drew attention away from it by pointing to the house, and saying that Miss Forrester was at the infirmary, making the arrangements for Nell’s treatment. She had hoped Miss Forrester would be back by now, said Maud, but clearly she was not.

Once inside, it was clear Nell did not like the house. Her eyes were huge and scared, and she kept glancing over her shoulder every few minutes.

Maud said, briskly, that Nell could wash and tidy herself in the bathroom, and there was a bedroom at the back of the house
where she would sleep. The bathroom was at the far end of the upstairs passage, beyond George’s bedroom, and as they went past it, Nell Kendal seemed to shiver. This was ridiculous: she could not possibly know what lay beyond that door, but Maud had a sudden disturbing vision of George (whom she no longer thought of as ‘father’), twisted and contorted on the bed, his eyes staring sightlessly upwards. Didn’t people’s bodies stiffen like wooden boards when they were dead?

She pushed this from her mind, and sat down to wait in the deep window at the half-turn of the stairs. Once it had been the place where flower-like girls sat out dances in the days when Toft House had hummed with life, but Maud could only remember it being used for the cleaning women to put their polishing rags and beeswax when they cleaned the stairs. Tonight it would be where she would put one of the oil lamps, because it looked out over the high road, and a light up here would be seen for miles, and Maud wanted people to see lights here tonight. Some time during the next few hours, her escape from Latchkill would be discovered, and as soon as that happened, they would come out to Toft House to talk to George Lincoln. That they had not done so yet was apparent from its dark silence. Even so, she had better work swiftly.

She took Nell back downstairs, saying it would soon be time to set off. A carriage would come, she said. It felt quite strange to be talking into the silence like this, and receiving no response. But Catherine–Cat–had said her sister could hear and understand, even though she could not speak. Even so, it was disconcerting to be with someone who knew what you were saying but never replied.

She brought Nell a glass of milk and a plate of biscuits. The pills, squirrelled away in her handkerchief while she was in Latchkill, went into the glass–Maud was pleased to see that they dissolved almost at once. Within ten minutes of drinking the milk, Nell was dazed and sleepy, and submitted to being led back to the drawing room, and to the window seat. She could wait
there, said Maud. She would be able to see the carriage when it came.

By this time Nell was too dazed to argue; her eyelids were already closing, and within minutes she was asleep. There was no time to be lost. Her sewing basket was in the desk where it always was, and Maud took the pinking shears from it. Working quickly, she sheared off the long light-coloured hair so that it resembled her own ragged crop. She was careful to sweep up the hair and put it all in the kitchen range. What else? Ought she to dress the girl in one of her own gowns? Yes, of course she ought. She did so, disliking the flaccid feel of the thin body, but doggedly pulling Nell Kendal’s own worn garments off, and putting them in the kitchen range along with the sheared hair. There should be time later to light the range and burn everything.

Everything was working exactly to plan. The only thing she had not been able to plan for was whether the people who came for her would be people who knew her. Apart from Matron, she had only ever seen two nurses while she was in Latchkill–Higgins and the hatchet-faced one whose name she had never heard. Matron was unlikely to come and Higgins would probably be nursing her sore head after Maud had knocked her out. But hatchet-face might come, and Byrony Sullivan might come. Even Dr Glass. If that happened, the plan would fail.

But it was a very small risk, and every risk she had taken so far had worked. This would work now. When people came to Toft House–as they certainly would–they would be expecting to find Maud Lincoln, and they would find a creature they would assume was Maud–a creature who was bewildered to the point of being beyond speech.

They would find other things in Toft House, as well. Two dead bodies. They would assume Maud had killed them and they would know she was helplessly mad. By the time the truth was discovered, the real Maud would have slipped out of Amberwood and be miles away. Safe and free.

Bryony had not expected to be summoned to the Prout’s office halfway through her ordinary spell of night duty on Latchkill’s main ward, but Dora Scullion had breathlessly delivered the message shortly after ten o’clock. Please to report to Matron’s office at once, Scullion had said.

It was unusual to be summoned to Prout’s sanctum at any time of the day, and it was usually to receive a reprimand for some trifling misdemeanour. But ten o’clock at night was not generally one of Prout’s times for dealing with miscreants, nor was it customary for Dr Glass to be present on those occasions. But he was there, standing by the window. He gave Bryony a quick smile and then looked impatiently at Prout.

‘Well, Matron? What’s this all about?’

‘There has been,’ said Freda firmly, ‘an unfortunate incident.’

‘Incident?’ said Dr Glass sharply.

‘A patient has–somehow managed to get out,’ said Freda, and Bryony saw Daniel’s black brows snap down in a frown.

‘Someone from Reaper Wing?’ he said.

‘No, it is not someone from Reaper Wing,’ said Freda. She spoke sharply, but her eyes shifted. ‘It’s a patient from one of the private rooms. We have her listed as Miss Smith.’

Chancery lunatic, thought Bryony, remembering what her father had once said. Or at the very least, something a bit underhand.

Daniel Glass appeared to be thinking on the same lines, because he said, ‘Ah. An anonymous lady. From the sound of things, another of the poor creatures who get shuffled into an asylum under cover of darkness, surrounded by so much secrecy you’d think it was a crowned head. Not that the royal families of Europe are strangers to the odd whiff of madness. Well, Matron? Who and what is Miss Smith?’

Prout hesitated for longer this time, but just as Bryony thought she had decided not to reply, she said, ‘It’s Maud Lincoln.’

Bryony and Daniel both stared at her. Bryony said, ‘But–what was Maud Lincoln doing in Latchkill?’

‘And,’ said Daniel, ‘more to the point, when did she escape, and where is she likely to be now?’

‘What she was doing here is not a matter for your concern, Nurse Sullivan. But I can say that Miss Lincoln had become a little disturbed of late, and so her father thought…a private room, of course, and I promised that the child’s identity would remain secret.’

Daniel did not say anything, but Bryony saw that he was thinking the promise would have involved money changing hands. The Prout was as venal as a Shakespearean money-lender. Bryony thought the private room was more likely to have been one of the bleak cell-like places on the second floor.

Maud Lincoln, said Freda, resolutely, had apparently lain in wait for Nurse Higgins the previous evening, and had thrown a plateful of stew into Higgins’ face the instant the woman went into the room. After that, she had hit her smartly over the head, and bound and gagged her so that Higgins could not raise the alarm when she came round. After which, Maud had made off into the night, wearing Nurse Mordant’s cloak which had been hanging in a broom cupboard.

‘When did this happen?’ said Daniel.

‘Last night. Supper time.’

‘But that’s an entire day! Did no one go into the girl’s room today?’

‘My nurses have a great deal to do,’ said Freda. ‘They looked into the room of course, but thought Miss Lincoln to be asleep.’ This was said with studied casualness, and Bryony guessed that whoever had been on duty had simply glanced into the room, decided the patient was sulking, and taken the food away again.

Dr Glass had clearly come to the same conclusion, but he said impatiently, ‘Has the child gone back to Toft House?’

‘I don’t know. But it is a strong possibility,’ said Freda. ‘I must, of course, go along there now to search the house and talk to George Lincoln.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘I should like you both to come with me.’

‘Why?’ said Daniel. ‘I mean why us?’

‘Maud was violent last night and she may be violent when we bring her back to Latchkill. For that reason I need to have someone with me. But I am trying to preserve the secrecy George Lincoln requested. Anyone coming with me to Toft House will instantly guess who Miss Smith is. But you both know Maud already.’

She paused again and Daniel said, ‘And that being so, you think you might as well trust us with the whole thing.’

‘Exactly.’

Toft House, when they got to it, was lit only by a single lamp in one of the downstairs windows. The curtains of the window were not drawn, and Bryony found this oddly sinister, although she could not think why. For all she knew, George Lincoln left his windows uncurtained every night of the year.

Daniel said, ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ and Bryony was relieved that she had not been alone in finding the uncurtained window disturbing.

It was Prout who said, ‘I see nothing odd, Dr Glass,’ and Daniel said, ‘Yes, look.’

‘What? Where?’

‘There’s someone sitting in the window.’

‘I don’t see that that’s particularly odd—’

‘I do. Whoever it is, is either asleep or…’ He did not bother to finish the sentence. He ran the rest of the way along the path, and hammered on the door.

Bryony went with him, beyond reason or logic, but knowing instinctively that there was something dreadfully wrong.

They had to get into the house through a door at the back; Bryony thought that if she had been on her own she might have simply given up, but Daniel Glass had taken one look at the figure slumped in the lamplit window, and had gone doggedly around the outside until he had found what seemed to be a scullery door with a lock flimsy enough to snap under pressure.

There was only the thin soft light coming from the room at the front. Bryony, who had never been in Toft House before, looked uneasily about her. It was a big old place; there was a large hall at its centre, and narrow stairs winding upwards to the bedrooms. Everywhere was silent, which surely was strange, because they had made a good deal of noise getting in, and they were making even more noise now. Daniel bounded across the hall to the front of the house, and his footsteps rang out loudly on the polished oak floor. Bryony glanced rather nervously at the darkened stair, and then went after him.

He was bending over the figure seated in the window when she caught him up, and he was feeling for a heartbeat when Freda arrived, out of breath and flushed from the exertion.

‘Oh, thank goodness she’s here. Dr Glass—’

‘She isn’t here,’ said Daniel shortly, not bothering to look round. ‘This isn’t Maud Lincoln. Bryony, would you help me, please? Whoever this girl is, she’s been heavily drugged.’

‘There’ll probably be mustard and salt in the kitchen,’ said Bryony. ‘I can make an emetic.’

‘No need, I’ve got apomorphine in my bag,’ said Daniel. ‘I dislike using it, but she’s clearly taken some kind of opiate–her pupils are massively dilated–and apomorphine will be quicker than mustard. I’ll inject it, but I’ll need to do it in the scullery or the bathroom, because she’ll start vomiting almost at once.’

‘The kitchen will be easier,’ said Bryony. ‘Nearer.’

‘So it will. Good girl. Can you give me a hand?’

‘Nurse Sullivan is better placed for that,’ said Freda at once. ‘I cannot undertake to lift any patient—’

‘Then perhaps you’d help by lighting the kitchen range,’ said Daniel, ‘and setting a kettle to boil and a hot brick or a stone water bottle to heat up.’

He did not bother to see if these orders were carried out, and in fact Bryony never discovered if they were. She and Daniel carried the unknown girl into the kitchen, and propped her against the big square sink. The injection had been given, and they had
been working on her for an unpleasant quarter of an hour, when Daniel suddenly said, ‘This house is far too quiet. Where on earth is George Lincoln?’

‘I’ll go upstairs and take a look round,’ offered Bryony.

‘Would you? This one’s on the way back to us, I think. Matron, is that kettle boiling yet? We’ll see if we can get some hot tea into her now.’

Bryony took the lamp from the big drawing room, and went cautiously up the stairs.

It was ridiculous to feel so uncomfortable about this; there would be some perfectly ordinary explanation for George Lincoln’s apparent absence and for the drugged girl downstairs. But the stillness of Toft House was starting to rasp against her nerves. As she reached the head of the stairs, and looked along the passageway with its narrow strip of carpet along the centre, she was aware of her heart starting to race, and she was very thankful indeed to know that Daniel was within calling distance.

This must be the main bedroom, just off to the right. It would look out over the front–there must be quite a nice view of the lanes and fields. Would this be George Lincoln’s room? Bryony thought it would, and when she cautiously turned the handle and pushed the door open, a faint scent of bay rum met her.

The bed was behind the door–a massive rather old-fashioned bed, with a mahogany bedhead and posts. A washstand stood against one wall, and there was a big deep wardrobe in the corner. Bryony glanced at it, and then shone the lamp onto the bed.