Читать книгу Time of Blood - Robin Jarvis - Страница 9
ОглавлениеGrace Pickering placed the covered dish of curried mutton and rice on to a tray and shook her head.
‘He won’t touch none of it,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at the aromatic scent that had filled the kitchen.
Mrs Paddock, the cook, leaned across the wide table and rapped the back of Grace’s hand with a wooden spoon.
‘The master’s young ward is accustomed to stronger flavours than plain fish and mashed turnip, or whatever else you were used to in your shabby hovel on the East Cliff, my girl,’ she scolded. ‘They wolf down all manner of spiced dishes in foreign parts, them being foreigners.’
‘He didn’t fancy that kedgeree this morning, nor them devil’s eggs at dinner time, if he even got so much as a whiff of them. I don’t think Mrs Axmill is giving them to him. And my home weren’t shabby – just crowded was all. Kept it spick and span for my dad I did.’
‘Devilled eggs,’ Mrs Paddock corrected. ‘And it was luncheon, you ought to know that by now, Flossy; you’ve been here since Penny Hedge day and here we are at the back end of August. And you just keep those nasty suspicions about Mrs Axmill to yourself. If you start flinging slanderous accusations around, you’ll be out on your ear and worse.’
‘Don’t think I’d care much. It were a different household when I joined. It weren’t on its ears back then. ’Sides, I can’t never get used to being called Flossy!’
‘That’s what your name brooch says and that’s who you’ll be for as long as you’re in service in this house so you can cut that backchat, else I’ll put a dent in my turbot kettle the shape of your head. The mistress has her quaint fancies and she always likes her maids to be called Flossy. Goodness, you can’t expect her to learn the name of every new chit of a girl what Oakeys her doorknobs and dusts her conversation pieces.’
‘But Mistress in’t here – and Esme kept her proper name. It’s not fair. Flossy’s what you’d call a dray horse.’
Mrs Paddock pursed her lips and the apron that barely contained her meaty frame inflated with indignation.
‘Don’t you mention that ungrateful wretch Esme Fuller to me!’ she snorted. ‘Up and vanishing in the dead of night, leaving me without a scullery maid to do the heavy work and wash the pots. I can only wish her the very worst and that’s the Almighty’s honest truth of it.’
‘She were frightened, that’s what it were – with good reason. She’d never have gone otherwise. It’s ever since the family went away and he took over Bagdale.’
‘Frightened? Fiddle-faddle! Mrs Axmill told me she’d slunk off with some gawky farm lout from the Dales. Disgraceful! Always knew the girl had dirty hands, but it’s a stained reputation she’s got now. Fie and shame! And her with a face covered in more blackheads than a Sunday seed cake. All I can say is they must be powerful short of female company up in them Dales if Esme Fuller is thought to be any sort of catch.’
‘That’s unkind, Mrs Paddock. I liked little Esme – and she worked her hands raw for you. There weren’t a bone of a lie nor no wink of slyness in her whole body neither. She would’ve told me if she’d had a young man, and he’d have been the lucky one for it. Don’t care what Mrs Axmill says. I don’t trust her nohow; she’s swanning about the hall like she owns the place nowadays. No, Esme ran off because of the goings-on here.’
‘Plain absurdity! Why, there’s less than half the work to do with the family gone and most of the rooms locked up.’
‘It weren’t the work.’
‘What then, I ask you? It’s clear as custard to me.’
‘For one, there’s that wild beast the new master keeps locked in the red bedroom. Why won’t they tell us what it is? That great cage what got delivered was empty when it arrived but it in’t now. I’ve heard the scritching and scratching and the rattling of the bars – and them weird cries it makes in the dead of night, like a tortured child in hell. Scared Esme half to death it did; she swore sometimes it were right outside her window – and she saw eyes looking in at her.’
‘Through an attic window? It was in a hot-air balloon, I suppose, or perhaps it’s a Barbary ape and clambered up the ivy? Head full of dreams, that useless juggins!’
‘Weren’t just that neither. It’s the horrible feeling something is watching when there’s no one about, things moving on their own. I’d heard about the ghost in this place before I come here, but didn’t rightly believe in it. I does now and Esme said she’d felt foul breath on her face more than once.’
‘Chestnut stuffing and nonsense.’
‘And then there’s him, the new master. There’s a cruelness in his eyes – gives you gooseflesh it does. Devil’s eggs would suit him. They say Old Nick is dangerous handsome and that’s him right enough. I’m glad he’s not at home tonight – wish he’d dine out all the time so I wouldn’t have to serve him.’
‘Oh, the scandal! And him a Most Honourable, a marquess – almost a prince where he comes from! How wicked to think such evil thoughts of your betters! You’re only a squalid jet worker’s daughter. I won’t hear another word of it. Just you convey that there curried mutton to the new master’s poorly ward before it gets any colder.’
Grace took up the tray and carried it to the door.
‘Make sure you set it down in front of him yourself, mind,’ the cook called after her, with a crinkle of concern in her voice. ‘Then come straight down again. There’s an apple dumpling in the oven which will surely get his appetite growling if the curry don’t manage it.’
Grace caught the anxiety in the cook’s tone. She wasn’t alone in her suspicions then. Young Master Verne was as unlike his guardian as it was possible to be. He was a quiet, timid boy, whose thin face was marked with an expression of loss and grief. From the moment he arrived, Grace had felt sorry for him.
With a nod to Mrs Paddock, she left the kitchen.
Built in 1516, as well as being one of the oldest residences in Whitby, Bagdale Hall was also one of the finest. For many years it had fallen into disrepair, having been turned into a tenement, whose lodgers had chopped up the panelling and oak staircase to burn as fuel. Then in 1882 the dilapidated building had been acquired by Dr Henry Power, a renowned London surgeon, who spent two years restoring and improving it.
Beneath the new roof, a hive of local craftsmen had replaced or installed almost everything: floors, plasterwork, magnificently carved fireplace surrounds, internal lighting, even the kitchen was a newly built extension with every modern appliance Mrs Paddock could wish for. The old hall had resumed its position as a grand dwelling once more and for six years Dr Power and his family had lived there happily, well liked and respected by everyone, including their servants. And then, unexpectedly, in that summer of 1890, the news spread rapidly about the town that the Powers had returned to London, and Bagdale had been let to a mysterious foreign nobleman, the Marquess Darqueller, and his ward.
Grace’s shoes clicked smartly over the parquet floor of the entrance hall, which smelled agreeably of the turpentine, linseed oil and beeswax concoction she had polished it with yesterday. Passing a mirror, she paused briefly to check her appearance. She was more than presentable. Her face was clean and her auburn hair was neatly coiled beneath her white linen cap. At fifteen years old she was already a beauty and would bloom into even greater loveliness. Esme had called her an angel and had been in awe of her ‘churchy’ features, often joking she felt like a mucky potato next to a lily with sugar on. But Grace found her good looks an encumbrance; she was determined to make something of herself and paid no heed to the unwanted attentions of the ironmonger’s apprentice or the grocer’s boy, who both lived in hope that ‘the jammiest bit of jam in all Whitby’ would step out with them on one of her rare afternoons off. A childhood friend of hers, over on the East Cliff, spoke of nothing else but the wedding she planned to have one day. Grace wanted more from this life than that.
Ascending the impressive staircase to the first landing, she put the tray on a small side table and was about to tap on the door of the blue bedroom when she heard a sound that spiked a chill between her shoulders.
Across the landing, within the red bedroom, came the angry shaking of a cage’s metal bars.
Then a female voice, muffled by the closed door, said soothingly, ‘Shall I slice some cheek for you next, my sable princeling? Or would you prefer a cut of neck? There, you do enjoy it juicy and dripping, don’t you? Dearest pusskin, darling Catesby.’
Grace took a nervous step sideways and in doing so nudged the table. It banged against the wall and the voice fell silent. The girl bit her lip. Presently the door of the red bedroom opened slightly and a middle-aged woman’s sharp face appeared, with a pinched nose and dark, suspicious eyes.
‘Mrs Axmill,’ Grace said. ‘I was just taking the master’s ward his supper.’
The housekeeper withdrew her face in order to glance over her shoulder. The gas lamps in that room were turned down and Grace couldn’t make out anything except the domed silhouette of the cage. Without opening the door any wider, Mrs Axmill manoeuvred herself on to the landing, deftly sweeping the bustle of her prim black dress behind her. When she had turned the key in the lock, she directed her wintry stare at Grace once more.
‘That will be all, Flossy,’ she instructed. ‘I will take the tray in to Master Verne.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Axmill.’
‘Has the summer heat made you deaf, girl?’
‘No, Mrs Axmill. There’s a baked apple dumpling to come as well.’
The pinched nose sniffed with distaste. ‘He won’t care for that,’ the housekeeper said flatly. ‘Don’t bother bringing it up.’
‘You sure? He must eat something, he’s wasting away, poor lamb. Could a doctor not be called?’
Mrs Axmill glared at her, stung by her impertinence.
‘Don’t speak out of turn, girl! It’s not your place to comment on the health and well-being of your employers. Return below and be about your duties. If you don’t have enough work to occupy your time, I can easily furnish you with more.’
Grace lowered her eyes to hide the insolent gleam which she knew would be burning in them. Her glance fell upon the starched white cuff jutting from the housekeeper’s sleeve. There was a vivid smear of blood across it.
‘You’ve cut yourself bad!’ she exclaimed.
The housekeeper looked down at her cuff in consternation and covered the bright scarlet streak with her hand.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ she rebuked her. ‘It’s from the meat I was feeding the marquess’s pet.’
‘Oh,’ Grace said, staring anxiously back at the red room’s closed door. ‘Can I ask, Mrs Axmill, what sort of creature is in there? I’ve heard how some lordly gentlemen keep savage beasts, like tigers and lions. In olden days they say the famous Captain Scoresby brought a polar bear back to Whitby aboard one of his whaling ships, and it escaped and rampaged through the town. It’s not a bear or lion in there, is it? I’m just fearful if the cage don’t prove all it should be and it gets loose . . .’
‘A bear? A lion? Can you hear how absurd you are, girl? I credited you with owning more wits than that. Nevertheless, the master’s pet darling is no concern of yours. Now, do as I’ve bid you.’
Grace hurried down the stairs obediently. She was glad to get away from the vicinity of that door, but her lively mind was troubled and those worries increased as the evening wore on.
Much later she lay in bed, too uncomfortable to sleep. The August weather had made the attics stifling, but remembering what Esme had said, she was afraid to open the skylight. And yet it wasn’t just the airless fug beneath the rafters that kept her awake.
She could not believe the young master would turn his nose up at an apple dumpling. What boy would? Either of her two little brothers, or any of the other tykes she had grown up with over on the East Cliff, would wolf it down in two great bites. For some time, Grace had harboured the unpleasant suspicion that Mrs Axmill was starving the child, and now Mrs Paddock was beginning to believe it too. Grace doubted if he had even seen the curried mutton. But why would the housekeeper do such a thing? And if he was genuinely sick, why refuse to call the doctor? Strong-willed and gentle-hearted, Grace refused to stand back and allow this to continue. She had resolved to do something about the situation, beginning this very night.
The other worry that kept sleep at bay concerned the meat Mrs Axmill had been feeding the unseen beast. The brightness of the blood told how fresh it was, but Grace was certain that, apart from the mutton shoulder which went into the curry, not so much as a cutlet had passed through the kitchen all that day or yesterday. So where had it come from?
It was just before midnight when she heard the coach bringing the marquess back to the hall. She felt sorry for Jed, the groom. He wouldn’t get any rest until the horses had been dealt with and the carriage washed of mud and the woodwork polished. Mrs Paddock had left some cold cuts in the kitchen if they hadn’t fed him in the servants’ hall of Mulgrave Castle, but knowing Jed, he’d eat them even if they had.
Grace crept to her door and opened it slightly. Sounds carried easily up the great central stairwell of Bagdale Hall. She heard heavy boots striding through the entrance far below and two voices. One was Mrs Axmill; she had waited up for the marquess’s return. Grace pulled a face. The way the housekeeper fawned over the new master was nauseating. The other voice belonged to the marquess himself. In spite of the heat, Grace shivered. In private his manner was arrogant and ugly, yet she had heard how it changed in the presence of visitors. ‘Like wedding cake dipped in honey,’ Mrs Paddock had described it, and she was right.
Standing in her nightdress, her hair hanging loose past her shoulders, the girl continued to listen. The boots stomped up the stairs to the landing below. There was a barked command, dismissing Mrs Axmill, then Grace heard the red bedroom being unlocked. The noises grew indistinct and she knew he had gone in to see his savage pet. Some minutes later the sounds were clearer as he emerged once more, but who was he speaking to now?
The girl opened her door a little wider and put her head out. The cramped attic landing was pitch-dark, but a bobbing radiance below made the banisters stand out stark and black. Grace guessed the marquess was carrying an oil lamp.
‘One night soon,’ he snapped, ‘the parcel will be delivered to the appointed place. Your wits, such as they are, need to be clear. No helping yourself to the port and brandy, you understand? Since you’ve been under this roof, you’ve done little else but drink yourself into stupors.’
Grace couldn’t hear any response, but the new master continued as if there had been one.
‘See that it finds its way into the right hands. It must be given to the town hag in good faith – she must suspect nothing. I can’t so much as touch it. Do you think I’d entrust this task to a rancid sot like you if I could?’
There was a pause. Whoever he was talking to spoke in such a low whisper it was impossible to hear.
‘You’d better be, else I’ll cut off those great ears of yours and choke you with them. Now sleep it off – you reek like the floor of an alehouse privy.’
Grace heard the door of his own bedchamber open and close and the light was quenched. On the landing there was a crash as the side table was kicked over in a temper.
‘Who’s down there?’ she murmured, closing her own door again and returning to bed where she hugged her knees and waited.
The night deepened and Bagdale Old Hall eventually sank into complete silence.
When she thought enough time had elapsed, Grace fumbled in the dark along her bedside shelf. She had taken some thick slices of ham, a wedge of pork pie and an apple from the kitchen and wrapped them in a handkerchief. Her plan was to creep downstairs and place them beside the young master’s bed. If Mrs Axmill was withholding his meals, she wouldn’t be able to stop him enjoying this little feast when he discovered it.
Clasping the bundle in one hand, she eased her door open and, in her bare feet, stepped silently past Mrs Paddock’s room, which resonated with the chuffing of the cook’s steam-engine-like snores.
At the top of the stairs Grace hesitated. If she was caught doing this she would lose her position, but she would almost welcome that. However, having to face the new master’s temper was a different matter; that really was something to be afraid of. Long moments passed as she pushed aside the dread of that encounter. It was the thought of young Verne going hungry which spurred her on.
Hardly daring to breathe, she descended, taking extra care as she passed the master’s room. No sound at all came from there, not even the gentlest of snores. That unnerved Grace more than ever. He must sleep like the dead, or perhaps he was still awake, although no light was showing under the door.
The first-floor landing was black as the grave. She had been here countless times during the day, but in this blind darkness it was alarmingly unfamiliar and she groped for the wall to guide her. The still, warm air smelled faintly of brandy and she recalled the one-sided conversation she had overheard. Where was that unknown person the marquess had been speaking to? Before her thoughts could dwell on that, she struck her shin so hard she dropped the food bundle and let out a sharp yelp.
Her voice shattered the profound silence and she cursed the object she had blundered into. Crouching, she reached out and discovered it was the overturned side table. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited to see if her clumsiness had attracted attention. Those anxious moments seemed endless, but there was no other sound in the house.
Grace bowed her head as relief flooded through her knotted muscles and she rubbed her painful shin. Then she frantically searched the darkness, hunting for the dropped bundle. Fortunately it hadn’t rolled far. Snatching it up, she navigated around the table and cautiously edged towards the blue bedroom.
Locating the door, she delicately patted her hand over it to find the brass handle. Then she froze. Behind her, the lock of the red bedroom clicked. A waft of cool air blew on to her neck and a flickering stripe of dim yellow light appeared on the wall beside her.
Her heart thudding, she turned slowly. The door of the forbidden room, where that mystery creature was kept hidden, was now ajar and, as she stared in mounting dread, it opened wider – seemingly by itself.
‘Mrs Axmill?’ she ventured fearfully. ‘Is that you? I was . . . I thought . . .’
But she couldn’t think of an excuse to justify her presence here at this ungodly hour.
The expected scornful censure never came, just more silence. Unnerved, Grace peered into the room. She couldn’t see anyone within. On the large table, beside the cage, an oil lamp was burning. Mustering all her courage, she put the food bundle down and stepped forward.
‘Mrs Axmill?’ she repeated. ‘You in there? Or . . . or is it you, my lord?’
Still no answer.
Grace’s curiosity began to master her fear. Reaching the doorway, she hesitated on the threshold, frowning at the shadow-filled corners. Were they dark enough to conceal someone? Her sharp eyes detected no lurking figure, but they drank in other details.
The rugs had been rolled up and empty bottles littered the room. It looked as if the unknown drinker had guzzled half the wine cellar. Most of them were crowded round an untidy heap of blankets that someone had been using as a bed, the real one having been dismantled and stacked against the wall. But marks of savagery were everywhere. Were they the result of drunken rages? No, it was more than that. Propped against the panelling, the mattress had been slashed to tatters, the horsehair stuffing spilled out in tangled clumps and the floorboards were gouged with deep scratches. To Grace’s astonishment the vicious scoring continued up the walls. In several places the wainscoting was nothing but splinters. With a shock she saw that even the ceiling had not escaped the frenzied attacks, and laths were jutting through the clawed plaster. But how did any creature get up there?
The girl turned her attention to the only other feature in that ruined space. Made from ornate ironwork, in the shape of a classical Greek temple with gilded details, was the largest cage she had ever seen. It was easily big enough to hold a lion. Standing on the central table it reared above her, the dome almost reaching the ravaged ceiling.
A fringed cloth was draped over the near side, concealing the beast within. Grace’s imagination raced. What was in there? She couldn’t hear any breathing.
Edging closer, she squeezed her hands together to stop them shaking and warily drew back the cloth. The cage was empty.
The shock made her jump. Picking up the oil lamp, she saw that the metal gate was open and for one horrible moment thought the animal was loose in the room with her. Then she realised where the draught was coming from.
‘It climbed out the window,’ she whispered. ‘Or . . . or flew out.’
Grace shrank back. She had to get away from Bagdale Hall. There was an overwhelming presence of evil here. But who would believe her?
‘Nannie Burdon,’ she whispered. ‘She will. She’ll know what to do. I’ll go see her.’
Replacing the lamp on the table, she noticed for the first time an object that resembled a large hat. Bringing the light closer she realised it was a plate, and a dark cloth covered the bulky object on it. A sharp knife nearby and the smell of blood told Grace that this was the meat Mrs Axmill had been feeding to the creature earlier. Unable to stop herself, she reached for the edge of the cloth and raised it. The lamplight shone over what lay beneath.
A strangled shriek scratched out of the girl’s throat.
‘Esme!’
Reeling from the grisly horror she had unveiled, Grace stumbled out of the room and on to the landing, where she saw that the side table was now upright. The handkerchief bundle was on top of it, untied, and a large bite had been taken from the pork pie. An uncorked bottle of brandy slid across the table on its own and a filthy laugh mocked her from thin air.
Grace screamed and fled down the dark stairs.
Flinging herself across the hall she wrenched at the front door, but it was secured by three large iron bolts.
‘Save and protect me!’ she prayed aloud, reaching up to drag the topmost across. ‘Please Lord, help me! Send an angel to protect me from the devils and demons of this house!’
Stooping to pull the lowest bolt clear, she heard slippered footsteps hurrying along the passage from the housekeeper’s room.
Wrapped in an expensive silk dressing gown that had belonged to her former mistress, Mrs Axmill burst into in the hallway. With steel-grey hair plaited in a heavy cable down her back, her face was slathered in so much cold cream that she looked like a greasy apparition.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, girl?’ she bawled. ‘Return to your room at once! How dare you shriek down the household at this hour of the night.’
‘Stay away from me!’ Grace shouted back, struggling with the middle bolt. ‘Murderers is what you are! Monsters! You and the master! I saw – I saw what you did to poor Esme!’
Mrs Axmill’s fierce expression vanished immediately and was replaced by a stony derision, which was even more alarming.
‘You should not have gone into that room,’ she said with icy finality. ‘Why can’t you silly girls ever do as you’re told? So foolish.’
Grace wiped her frightened tears away.
‘I’ll fetch the law on you!’
A sinister smile appeared in the cold cream.
‘You won’t be telling anyone anything, Flossy,’ Mrs Axmill threatened.
‘My name is Grace!’
‘No,’ the housekeeper corrected her with a vicious grin. ‘“Dead” is what you are.’
Snarling, she leaped at her, seizing the girl by the throat.
Grace tried to fight back, but the housekeeper was stronger than she looked and the girl crumpled beneath her.
‘Who would believe a snot-nosed slum slattern like you anyway?’ Mrs Axmill growled through bared teeth as she squeezed her fingers tighter round the slender neck.
Gasping for breath, Grace kicked and pushed, but it was futile. In choking desperation she grabbed the woman’s long plait and tore at it.
Mrs Axmill screeched and Grace punched her in the stomach. The grip loosened from the girl’s throat and she shoved her away. Mrs Axmill spun into the wall, splatting cold cream where her face smacked the panels. Incensed, she came raging back, launching at Grace like a tigress.
But Grace was ready. She had snatched a silver-topped walking cane from the cloak stand and swung it defiantly. It cracked Mrs Axmill across the skull and she howled as she crashed to the floor.
Grace drew the final bolt free, yanked the door open and raced into the night.
Clutching her head, Mrs Axmill lurched to her feet and headed for the stairs.
‘My lord!’ she called urgently. ‘My lord!’
Reaching the marquess’s bedchamber, she was about to pound on his door when it opened and the master of the house stood glowering at her.
The Marquess Darqueller was a tall, athletic man. She worshipped his strong, handsome face, with its penetrating velvet black eyes that seemed to see into those deepest, most secret places she had kept hidden from the world for so long. He was half dressed, his shirt was undone and his thick raven hair pleasingly untidy.
Even through the hammering pain between her temples, Mrs Axmill took a moment to admire him. She was so completely in his power.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘The maid, Flossy. She’s been in the red room.’
‘And you let her get away?’
‘She attacked me and struck me down. I’m sorry, my lord.’
Her master pushed by and ran across the landing.
‘Rouse the boy!’ he ordered the housekeeper. ‘Don’t bother to dress him – there is no time.’
Mrs Axmill hurried to obey, but glanced back before entering Master Verne’s room. The marquess was speaking angrily to what appeared to be an empty corner, where an empty bottle of brandy lay on the floor.
‘I warned you, Gull!’ he growled, his fists trembling with barely contained fury. ‘I said leave the drink alone. You’re stewed! Don’t strain my patience further! The humans in this hall are not here for your amusement, you stunted, mollusc-brained halfwit. I don’t care how curious she was – I would have dealt with it. I had a particular use in mind for that girl; she was not for you to play with!’
Frowning at those last words, Mrs Axmill rubbed her aching head and entered the blue bedroom.
‘Get up, Master Verne,’ she shouted, clapping her hands. ‘Wake up!’
Another thick, low fog, what the locals called a ‘fret’, had rolled in off the sea. It flooded the labyrinth lanes of Whitby with dense grey vapour. In some places it was waist-deep; in others it crept up the walls and pressed against bedroom windows.
Fleeing Bagdale Hall, casting the walking cane aside, Grace rushed up Spring Hill, scything a path through the curdling mist. The police station wasn’t far. If there was no one on duty at this hour she would batter on the door until she woke the inspector in his house or one of the unmarried constables in the rooms above.
Cocooned in fog, the red-brick building was just in view when a tall, burly figure in a caped coat strode into sight ahead. The gaslight of a street lamp behind him pitched his bearded face into shadow, but the girl could tell from his homburg hat that he wasn’t a policeman.
‘You there!’ he challenged her, in a gruff Irish brogue. ‘What are you doing out at this hour?’
Grace’s mind was in turmoil, whirling with the horror she had witnessed in the red bedroom. Halting, she stared at the stranger fearfully and was about to cry for help when he raised his arm and she saw a revolver in his hand.
A shot exploded from the muzzle. It thundered high over her head. Grace spun round and tore back down the hill. Only one thought blazed brightly now: she had to get home, across the river, to her father’s cottage on the East Cliff.
‘Stop!’ the man yelled behind her. ‘Wait there! Stop!’
Grace didn’t even hear him. Panic and terror drove her. She ran like a hare through Baxtergate. No glimmer of light shone in the windows of the surrounding buildings and the blanketing fog obscured the road. Stones cut her bare feet and she almost twisted her ankle when she crashed against the unseen kerb.
The quay was just ahead. One dash through Old Market Place, then over the bridge, and home and safety would be moments away. Yet she knew she would never be free of the hideous sight she had uncovered in that forbidden room. That ghastly horror would haunt her forever and thinking of it now made her feel sick.
‘What’s this, what’s this?’ a hearty voice greeted her. ‘Why have you strayed from the snuggery of your bed, little miss?’
Another man had emerged from the shadowy mist into her path. Grace tried to dodge aside, but he hooked her arm and reeled her back towards him.
‘What’s sent you dashing through these dark streets as though your chemise were on fire?’ he asked.
The girl struggled.
‘Hold easy, lass!’ he chuckled. ‘Rufus Brodribb won’t harm you none. He saves his pugilism for the dough in the bakery. What’s got you so frighted? You’re quailing like a cornered mouse in the grain store.’
Gulping desperate breaths, Grace looked up at him. She saw a thin but benign and ruddy face, flanked by a profusion of ginger side whiskers and a pair of pince-nez on a long nose. His shirt sleeves were rolled past the elbow and over his waistcoat he wore a large white apron.
‘Honest Rufus Brodribb, presently of Botham’s baker’s,’ he introduced himself with a friendly grin. ‘But most others do call me Crusty Rustychops, on account of me trade and the luxuriance of me cheek ticklers. What say you and me cut along to the place of my employment, where you can regale my ears with your troubles over a pot of tea and a fresh-made pastry? As me old mam used to say, “Nowt looks so bad over the brim of a china cup.” ’Tis not far.’
Grace squirmed in his grasp. ‘I must get on home!’ she protested. ‘It’s not safe out here. Let go, he’ll be after me!’
‘Who, lass?’
‘The master!’ she cried. ‘They’re killers, her an’ him! They murdered Esme – butchered her! And there’s another out here, back that way – with a gun. Mercy save me! They cut her head clean off !’
The baker stared at her in disbelief.
‘What are you saying?’ he asked, and the bantering tone was gone from his voice. ‘Tell me. Be quick!’
Before she could answer, a shrill mewling sounded in the sky.
‘God’s teeth!’ he declared, scanning the heavens as a black shape flew across the stars. ‘What in thunderation was that?’
‘It’s what were in the cage,’ Grace muttered.
‘Cage? Where is this cage? Tell me, child!’
Grace shook her head in confusion. The baker was no longer speaking in a Yorkshire accent.
Two shots rang out. The noise ricocheted through the cramped lanes, seeming to come from every direction.
Rufus Brodribb whirled about and gave a snort of annoyance.
‘What is the blessed fool doing?’ he snapped. ‘I told him no wild shooting tonight!’
Grace grabbed her chance. She pulled herself free and raced into the mist, towards the quayside. Brodribb was about to give chase when another shot blasted into the night, followed by a man’s bellowing yell. This time there was no doubt: it came from somewhere near Bagdale.
‘By God’s eyelid!’ he declared impatiently.
It was too late to pursue the frightened girl. The billowing vapour had swallowed her. He would never find her in that. Taking a small pistol from his waistcoat pocket he hurried back along Baxtergate.
Grace was lost in a fog bank. This close to the river it was thicker than ever and she could barely see her hands in front of her face. Finding a wall, she warily edged her way alongside it until she reached a corner. There was nothing she could do but follow it round. Soon she encountered a row of barrels and heard the clank and rattle of rigging close by. Grace realised she was perilously near the quayside and would have to take care not to step off the edge and plunge into the water.
Cautiously, she continued on her way. The Scottish herring fleet had departed early this year and more barrels than usual crowded the quay. It was slow work, picking her way along, but a breath of wind moved over the waters and the mist began to thin until Grace could get her bearings. She was dismayed to discover she was only behind Collier’s, the chandler’s and ironmonger’s, and that the bridge was still a little distance away. Hurrying forward she was astonished to see a small, familiar figure standing upon one of the barrels ahead.
It was a boy in his nightshirt; in his hands he held a beautiful round object made from shining gold.
‘Master Verne!’ exclaimed Grace. ‘Thanks be! How did you escape? What are you doing here and what have you there? Don’t say you stole it from the master!’
There was no recognition in his wide, staring eyes and no answer came from his lips.
‘It’s Grace,’ she told him. ‘You know me. Come, take my hand. We’ll both get out of this nasty fret and put my dad’s stout door ’tween us and the horrors of Bagdale Hall. Get you fed as well. You’re fair starved, poor lad.’
Still no reply, but the boy’s dark pupils drifted from her anxious face to a tall shape that jumped down from the barrels behind her.
‘He knows you best as Flossy surely?’ came the unmistakable snarl of the marquess. ‘Do not confuse my ward any more than he already is. His young mind is as befogged as these streets. Mrs Axmill is a most efficient housekeeper and has many superior qualities for a female of her time and station, but she founders in the management of young boys. The laudanum bottle is a poor substitute for a governess. However, it and a spartan diet keep him subdued and biddable. He used to be so defiant and mutinous.’
Grace turned slowly.
Cloaked with curling mist, the Marquess Darqueller towered before her. An ugly sneer twisted his handsome face and cruelty beyond measure beat from those pitiless eyes.
Grace felt faint. She sensed his domineering will strike at her spirit, trying to subjugate and crush her personality, to control her thoughts. But she refused to be cowed and turned her fear to anger.
‘Don’t you come near me!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll scream this town out of their beds, telling everyone what you done – and scratch such a mark on you you’ll never be rid of it.’
‘Don’t show your claws to me, kitten,’ he said with a foul laugh. ‘I have sharper barbs.’
Reaching into the pocket of his tailcoat he brought out a lozenge-shaped leather case, from which he took a syringe.
‘Blood is the bridge,’ he told her. ‘I had planned to wait a few weeks more before this intimate moment, but your incurable inquisitiveness, coupled with the inebriate tendencies of my unseen house guest, have advanced matters.’
Grace shrank back.
‘You’re mad!’ she cried. ‘But they’ll hang you anyways – you and Axmill. You’ll both twitch at the end of ropes. Keep that needle away from me.’
‘I do not fear the gallows. I have already danced that jig.’
Grace threw back her head to scream, but terror killed her voice. Leathery wings swooped down out of the fog. Razor claws dug into her scalp and a ferocious feline face spat into her eyes.
Grace whirled around wildly, trying to drag the creature from her head.
‘Play dainty, Catesby,’ the marquess said. ‘Don’t spoil its beauty. I want the corpse to be a comely one, not riven with scars and stitches like your own patched and lumpen carcass.’
Striding up to the girl, he raised his hand.
A tear carved a path down Verne’s cheek as he watched Grace lose her frantic battle and fall to the ground.
Smirking, the marquess knelt beside her and brushed the auburn tresses away from her throat. Blue sparks crackled between his thumb and forefinger as he rubbed them together and by their bouncing light he admired the exposed neck.
‘Such a pretty one,’ he observed as he set about filling the syringe with blood.
Moments later he held the scarlet fluid aloft. ‘Behold, Catesby. The first of our dowries, the bonniest of bride prices.’
Before he could say more, the mist echoed with urgent, running footsteps.
‘You certain you saw it fly this way?’ a panting voice asked.
‘I’d swear to that,’ came the insistent reply.
Returning the syringe to its case, the marquess gazed down at Grace’s body. For the present he had what he needed. Stepping over to Verne, he snapped his fingers at Catesby.
‘Divert them,’ he instructed.
The large sable creature spread its wide bat wings and pounced into the air. Soaring up, it skimmed the ironmonger’s chimney and zigzagged over the road beyond, screeching its unearthly cry.
‘There!’ one of the voices called.
A gunshot split the night.
‘You’ll never hit it,’ the other man declared. ‘And even if you did, would a mere bullet have any effect? God’s teeth, what misshapen devils plague this little town? What malignant canker has taken root?’
Hearing them, the marquess laughed softly to himself. Standing behind Verne, he gripped the boy’s shoulders.
Verne lifted the golden Nimius and they rose off the quayside, flying silently into the fog that hung low over the harbour.
Keeping Catesby in view, the two armed men turned into Flowergate.
‘It’s over the fields behind the Union Mill is where that hellspawn will be heading,’ said the burly, bearded Irishman. ‘Where it eluded me the last time.’
‘Hellspawn?’ repeated his companion with the ginger side whiskers. ‘What has become of the rationalist and his steadfast belief in a natural, scientific explanation for the events here?’
‘When a fiend fresh out of Hades knocks your hat off, only a dunce would claim it was the wind. No one’s ever seen anything like that before.’
‘Mark the way it wheels about up there. Why such brazen dilly-dallying? I find that singularly suspicious.’
‘You think we’re being led by the nose? To what intent?’
‘I believe we should heed the counsel of Friar Lawrence in the Romeo tragedy: Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.’
The Irishman scratched his beard. ‘Was that not a caution against falling in love?’
‘It is a prudent maxim for every hazardous circumstance.’
‘And if, against all scientific reason, we should find that bullets do indeed prove useless against that agent of evil? What do we do then?’
Brodribb raised his thick brows dramatically and peered over his pince-nez at him.
‘Why then, my friend,’ he said with zeal, ‘we do our Christian and theatrical best.’
Staring back down Flowergate towards the harbour, a spasm of concern clouded his face.
‘I pray that young girl reached home safely. If only she had disclosed more. The blame is entirely mine; I should not have dropped out of character. These are the murkiest and deepest waters we have ever waded in. But come – let us hunt our quarry through field and thicket and, as I always say when we embark upon these perilous undertakings, Here’s to our enterprise !’
On the quayside, Grace Pickering’s discarded body lay by the barrels. Her blood trickled in a vivid stream over the flagstones until it reached the edge, where it dripped into the river.
