Authors: Michael Ford

The Poisoned House (10 page)

I sat on the bed to gather my thoughts. Thank goodness Mrs Cotton hadn’t been at dinner! Her absence was a small blessing that gave this otherwise grey cloud a silver lining. But I’d let Samuel down most of all, and on his special night too. Since he’d arrived home I’d cared for him like a sister, but now that good work was at least partly undone. I could hardly tell him that my mother’s ghost was responsible!

I made a promise to myself to redouble my efforts the next day, and began to formulate a speech of apology to set us on the right track again.

Only then did I realise the unexpected result of the humiliation. Not only was Mrs Cotton safely out of the way for several hours, but I was no longer required downstairs. I suddenly felt light with excitement, and took my watch from the shelf above my bed.

Almost seven o’clock. Dr Reinhardt would be at home.

A cold sensation crept across my skin as the possibilities became clear. Could I risk it though? There were still a hundred other things that could trip me up. What if Cook called me down or Mr Lock wanted something else done? They’d find me gone and questions would be asked. Mrs Cotton would come to know about it and then . . .

I pushed the clamour of objections aside. I could spend all night dreaming up reasons not to go.

The decision was made.

I unfastened the ties of my serving dress and pulled it over my head. If I was going to 11b Argyle Terrace, I needed to change.

Chapter 21

I made my way downstairs, pausing every few steps to make sure that no one was coming. The tinkle of cutlery and glasses trickled up the stairs from the dining room, accompanied by muffled laughter. Clearly my disaster was forgotten.

I wore my plain blue dress, washed clean from the night of my failed escape. If anyone saw me now, my attire would seem odd but not inexplicable. Still, I didn’t want to risk being seen.

On the ground floor, I heard steps coming up from the scullery and pressed myself against the wall. From the sound I knew it was Lizzy, probably taking in the dessert – a great meringue flavoured with vanilla cream. I heard the dining-room door open and close again, which meant Mr Lock was still inside too. There was only Cook to contend with.

I crept down the back steps into the scullery and could hear her banging pans in the kitchen. The back door was ajar, and I passed silently through. It wasn’t as cold a night as we’d had recently, but I was glad of my long stockings. The Ambroses’ carriage stood unhitched in front of the stable barn and their horse was lodged in a stall beside Lancelot’s, covered with a thick blanket.

I was almost at the gate when I heard a voice behind me.

‘Bit late to be heading out, ain’t it?’

Henry was sitting on the back fender of the carriage, the red glow of a cheroot clamped between his lips.

‘Good evening,’ I said, trying to sound calm. ‘Where’s Rob?’

‘Gone to make sure his master’s fire is well-stoked,’ he said. ‘He’ll be back soon enough though, so I should go now if you have a mind to go at all.’

I paused, unsure. ‘You mean you won’t tell?’ I said.

He hoisted a foot and put out the cigarette on the sole of his boot. ‘I’ve no reason to, have I?’ he said.

He was smiling but it was a knowing grin, and then I understood. He knew that I knew about him and Elizabeth.

‘We shall keep each other’s secrets then,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘You have yourself a fine evening, little one.’

I heard Rob’s voice in the kitchen, and then Cook’s, saying that she’d have his guts for garters. Then his feet on the loose gravel. Too late. I darted past Henry and behind the carriage.

‘Look what I’ve found us,’ said Rob, laughing. ‘A leg of chicken each.’

Henry stood up. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back inside. My hands are blue.’

‘Then you can face Cook’s wrath first,’ said Rob.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered, even though he couldn’t hear.

Having unlatched the gates I was out on St Anne’s Lane. Of course I hadn’t a clue which way to go, but I planned to stop the nearest cabby and ask him the way. I went south, avoiding the park and threading through the smaller streets. The residences were less grand than Greave Hall, and lights shone from many windows. It was not yet late, and the pavements were filled with men and women well wrapped up for the night. They paid little attention to me. I suppose they thought I was an errand girl, a servant rushing from one house to another to deliver a message or fetch something. Carriages of all shapes and sizes rattled up and down the roads, the horses bobbing their heads and giving snorting breaths. No stars were out, and the moon shone through the clouds like a lamp blurred behind a muslin sheet. The air was thick with the smell of a thousand fires and their smoking chimneys. I passed a boy of my age pulling a cart. He was dressed in rags but smiling anyway, and calling out, ‘Lovely chestnuts! Warm your hearts and fill your bellies. Lovely chestnuts!’

Finally I saw what I was after: a hackney carriage, parked and empty, with its driver checking his harnesses.

‘Please, sir,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for Argyle Terrace. Could you direct me?’

He looked at me with a slight bewilderment. ‘Long way to be heading this time o’ night. Over the river.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘My sister has reached her term before we expected, and I have to fetch her mother. If you could just point the way.’

He continued to give me an odd look, and I thought he must have seen through my lie. But then he nodded to the cab.

‘Listen, lassie, I live not far from there myself. Jump in and I’ll take you there now.’

I wasn’t used to kindnesses of any sort, so my first thought was to refuse. He saw my hesitation.

‘You’ve barely got a stitch on. It’s a good mile, and not an easy route.’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

And so it was that, having never before moved anywhere but with the power of my own feet, I took a cab ride over Vauxhall Bridge. We passed Millbank prison to the left, lying squat and unlit by the river. The driver was kind enough not to probe me further on my pregnant sister, and busied himself steering his horses with clucks and whistles, and twitches on the reins.

The bridge was illuminated by lamps, which reflected in the snaking black river beneath. A mist thickened a few yards above the road, but the way was clear and I stared, open-mouthed, at the great city stretching to the east. I could see the majestic towers of Westminster and the dome of St Paul’s. The river itself was clogged with craft – barges and fishing boats, rowing boats and sailing ships.

Once we reached the other side, I forced myself to focus on the route we were taking. My temporary escape would be pointless if I couldn’t find my way home. We left the main road and made a series of turns, passing a steepled church and small park garden. After less than ten minutes I saw the sign: ‘Argyle Terrace’.

‘We’re here,’ I said over the clatter of the horses’ hoofs.

‘What number would you like?’ said the driver.

I told him, and he jockeyed the horses on a few more yards. The terraced houses here were nothing like Park Avenue, the road narrower and broken up at the edges.

I saw the number 11.

‘I’m sorry that I cannot pay you,’ I said.

‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I hope your sister keeps her good health and the baby is a bonnie one.’

I jumped down from the cab and walked to the door. If this was 11, where was 11b? The cab driver had still not pulled away, and seemed to be waiting for me to be safe inside. I took a guess and opened the small gate in the railings – a flight of stone steps led to another door below street level. Sure enough, the door was marked ‘11b’.

I knocked.

The driver had still not moved off, and I gave him a little wave. He nodded back.

The door opened, and there stood Dr Reinhardt.

He looked rather less dapper than the last time I’d seen him. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie, but instead a sleeveless jumper with his collar open. A pair of reading spectacles was balanced on his nose.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

I was glad to hear the carriage move off.

He obviously didn’t recognise me. Why should he? The last time he’d looked at me, he had been in some strange trance. And afterwards he had been so perturbed, I doubted he would remember any of the faces from Greave Hall apart from Mrs Cotton’s.

‘I’m Abigail Tamper,’ I said.

He frowned as though the name meant nothing to him, then his eyebrows lifted.

‘Of course! Miss Tamper. That odd little letter without an address! Ah – I expected –’

I smiled. ‘Someone older?’

He took off his glasses hurriedly, and swept an arm inside. ‘Please, do come in.’

Chapter 22

Dr Reinhardt’s home was humble in comparison to Greave Hall, but more cosy by far. He showed me along a narrow corridor, at the end of which I could see a dark kitchen, and into a front parlour little bigger than my own bedroom. A fire blazed in the hearth and after being outside, it was almost suffocatingly warm. He gestured to a pot on the table.

‘Would you like some tea? I’ve just made some.’

‘Yes, please,’ I said. He seemed a mile away from the formal gentleman who’d come to Greave Hall. While he fetched another cup from an ancient dresser, I had a chance to inspect the room. Paintings and framed maps covered the walls, almost all hanging slightly cockeyed, as if the room had suffered a minor earth tremor and not been straightened since. Apart from the chair I sat on, there was a couch, a small table containing an empty vase and a simple three-legged stool. Ornaments and other curiosities crowded the dresser and mantelpiece. I saw a stuffed bat, a book no larger than the palm of my hand and a wooden mask, elongated and severe, with dark slashes for eyes and what looked like real hair stitched into its upper rim.

Dr Reinhardt saw me staring and pulled it down.

‘A shaman’s tool,’ he said. ‘I found it on my travels to Africa.’

I knew of the place, for I’d seen it on a map, but asked what a shaman was.

‘It’s worn by a sort of witch doctor, and with it he claims to see to the other side.’ He spoke the words with the hint of a smile.

‘Have you . . .’ I began. ‘Can you see the other side with it?’

The doctor shook his head as he poured. ‘Not with that. We all have our different methods. Which I suppose,’ he paused to hand me the cup and saucer, ‘is why you’re here?’

His eyes were kind as he looked over his spectacles, and I tried to gather my thoughts. I’d dwelled so long on the impossibility of my ever getting here that I hadn’t thought through exactly what I would say when I did.

‘You cannot say anything that will surprise me,’ he said.

So I told him the truth. ‘I wish to talk to my mother.’

‘She has passed away?’ he asked.

‘A year ago.’

He leant back in his chair. ‘Miss Tamper, I understand your grief and I’m sorry for your loss. Many come to me wanting to reconnect with those who have left us. But have you stopped to think that perhaps your mother is content wherever she may now be?’

‘I don’t think she is content,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘You see, she’s been doing things.’

‘Things?’ asked the doctor, suddenly intrigued.

‘Moving objects, frightening me,’ I said. ‘She seems . . . angry.’

‘And do you know what might have angered her?’

Did I dare to speak the word that had escaped his own lips? The dreaded word ‘murder’?

‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought you might be able to help me find out.’

The doctor walked to the small window and stood with his back to me. The curtains were only half drawn, but little light could have entered those basement rooms even on the brightest day of summer. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the spirits themselves are confused. They want to join us, and to take part in the activities they enjoyed while alive, but they cannot. The boundaries between this world and the next are like oil and water. They cannot exist together, but pools can form, pockets where one exists
inside
the other. If they have left something unsaid or undone in life, it’s through these pockets that they come back to haunt us. What you see as your mother’s anger may simply be her confused spirit trying to find its way through.’

‘And you can ease her passage?’ I said.

He pulled the curtains tightly closed.

‘I can,’ he said. ‘Have you on your person some object that belonged to her?’

I hadn’t, and said so.

‘Then you must come again,’ he said, ‘and bring something.’

‘No,’ I said, without thinking. ‘I can’t come again. It must be tonight.’

A look of impatience flashed across the doctor’s face. He had no idea how difficult tonight had been, how only through a year’s worth of luck had I been able to leave the house at all.

‘I have stipulated the conditions,’ he said. ‘I’m not a conjuror who can magic your mother’s ghost into this room.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m desperate. It won’t be possible for me to leave the house a second time.’

He looked at me oddly then, and I knew his kindness was evaporating into suspicion.

‘I recognise your face, I think,’ he said. ‘You are a servant, are you not? At that big house by the Park.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. Too quickly.

‘As well as being a medium,’ said the doctor, ‘I’m also an expert in the signals of lying.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, I remember you more clearly now. I had a strange turn there, in that room. You were beside me as I woke. Your employer has sent you, has she?’

The game was up, and I knew I didn’t have the skill to continue the deception.

‘I only want to speak to my mother,’ I pleaded.

‘Without a token, I can no more speak to her than any other corpse that lies in the ground,’ he said harshly. ‘Now, please leave me and stop wasting my time.’

The shaman’s mask eyed me from the mantel.

‘Is there no other way?’ I said.

The doctor waved his hand. ‘There are countless ways to talk to the dead,’ he said, ‘but they will all cost you, and I take it that I have been duped and you have no money.’

I felt wretched and suddenly tired. My high hopes on leaving Greave Hall, bolstered by the generosity of the cab driver and the magnificent sights of the city, now lay in shattered ruins. The doctor was standing at the parlour door, tapping his foot. I stood up, then felt a weight in my pocket: my father’s watch.

I pulled it out.

‘I have this,’ I said, before even thinking through the implications.The doctor’s eyes lighted on the timepiece, and he held out his hand.

‘Let me see,’ he said.

I handed it to him. ‘It belonged to my father.’

He turned the watch over. I knew enough to be certain it had value, but he sniffed. ‘It’s broken.’

‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘I wind it every night.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s stopped now.’ He fiddled with the winder and tossed it back to me. I caught the watch and looked at the face. He was right. The second hand was still, the time was well off.

‘I don’t understand . . .’ My words dried up in my throat. My eyes checked the hands again. It wasn’t the fact that the watch had stopped but the position of those hands that held me.

Seventeen minutes past four.

‘Well, it’s time you left,’ the doctor said. ‘Otherwise I will have to have serious words with your employer – something which I expect you would care to avoid.’

Seventeen minutes past four. The time, to the exact minute, when my mother had died.

‘It can be fixed,’ I said, holding it out. ‘Please, is there anything you can do to help me?’

He looked at me for a good five seconds without speaking, then sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I will hear no more of you after today.’ He opened a cupboard and took out what looked like a dirty rolled-up tablecloth.

He crouched down and spread it out on the floor.

It wasn’t as big as a tablecloth, and was circular in shape. Around the edges were the embroidered letters of the alphabet, and between the letters
Z
and
A
were stitched the words ‘Aye’ and ‘No’.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They call it a Ouija,’ he said.

I must have given him a blank look.

‘It’s another method to talk to those who are no longer in this world.’

I was sceptical – it looked like something a child would make under a nurse’s care.

‘How does it work?’ I asked.

Dr Reinhardt took an empty cup from the dresser. ‘Find a quiet place,’ he said, ‘then take a pointer – you’ll need something round that rolls easily.’ He turned the cup upside down in the centre of the cloth. ‘Sit down and place your fingers like this,’ he went on, touching his index and middle fingers to the top of the cup.

‘And then?’

‘Then ask your questions.’

I laughed a little. It looked so foolish.

‘Do you want it or not?’ he said, his anger bubbling to the surface once more.

What else was there? I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Then give me the watch. A broken timepiece is a fair price.’

Reluctantly, I handed back the watch. He rolled up the cloth and gave it to me, then led the way to the front door. He held it open.

‘Goodbye, Miss Tamper. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

‘So do I,’ I replied, stepping out into the cold. The mist had dropped further now, and drifted along the road.

I climbed the steps. ‘I say, my girl!’ the doctor called after me.

I turned. ‘Yes?’

‘You say this watch belonged to your father.’