Abigale Hall (30 page)

Heavy rainfall on the carriage house roof woke Eliza. Though she was dry, the temperature dropped, and she shivered in the thin shirt. She wrapped a horse blanket from the mare's stall around her shoulders and went to the carriage doors. The top of the manor towered over her.

Inside, Mrs Pollard would be preparing breakfast, plotting with Ruth to bring the next girl to Thornecroft. Did Ruth help capture all the girls or was Eliza a special case? Perhaps Eliza was wrong about the curse. If the real Mr Brownawell was gone, who was Victoria trying to punish? Maybe she fed off the souls of the young in order to remain on Earth. Or maybe they were only taken once they learnt the truth about Reg Kyffin. But how could Rebecca have known? What had she done all day while Eliza completed chores?

The garden door was left open and, through the rain, Eliza glimpsed the overgrown shrubberies. The world looked different in the rain, like a series of photographs moving quickly before her eyes, each slightly different from the last.

The singing was clear – a child's voice coming from the garden. Eliza dropped the blanket. Climbing through the tangles of weeds and bushes, she ignored the fresh scratches on her skin as she ran to the latticework doors. They were already open.

A flash of white. Victoria's dress? Eliza looked, but the figure was gone.

Rebecca's voice rang through the hall.

‘
Run rabbit, run
rabbit, run, run, run . . .
'

Eliza placed one foot inside.

‘Rebecca?'

The moment her name was spoken, the singing ceased. Eliza took another step. All she could hear was her own breathing, the rain dripping from her clothes, the wind outside.

A woman screamed.

Eliza ran back through the garden, wiping the rain from her eyes as she rounded the garden wall. The shimmering white figure came towards her. Victoria stumbled and fell, red blossoming on her dress as a wig fell from her head.

Eliza saw her ghost's face.

‘Help me, please,' Ruth gasped, clutching her side.

It was another trick, a way to trap her.

‘Eliza, please. Please, she's coming for me.'

‘You're Victoria.'

‘I'll explain. Please! Help me.'

A dark figure walked briskly towards them, shaking Eliza from her inertia, and she hoisted Ruth to her feet. The blood was sticky against her rain-soaked hands. It was real.

‘The carriage house,' Ruth panted. Eliza obeyed. She supported Ruth and together they hobbled across the east lawn. Eliza resisted the urge to look behind her.

‘The key,' Ruth said, pulling at her dress collar. Eliza removed it from Ruth's neck, quickly opening the door then locking them inside.

‘But she'll still get in,' Eliza said.

‘No. Ben changed the locks. Her key won't work. Upstairs. There are bandages. Ah!' Ruth cried out and fell to her knees. Eliza helped her up to the loft and sat her on the bed.

‘By the basin. There . . . there should be . . .'

‘I'll check.'

Eliza found a roll of bandages and some clean rags. When she returned to the bed, Ruth was lying down, eyes closed.

‘Ruth. Ruth, you must stay awake.'

Ruth opened her eyes. Eliza could see now how glazed they were. Blood had seeped through most of the dress. The wig was lost somewhere outside. Eliza ripped apart the fabric where the knife had torn it. She couldn't see the wound for all the blood. It was a darker colour now, more black than red. Eliza placed a wad of cloth against the worst part of the bleeding.

‘We should have told you. More pressure.' Ruth's breathing was laboured, her skin whiter than the dress.

‘You've been Victoria this whole time.'

Ruth nodded, but the motion made her paler still.

‘When Pip was murdered, I . . . I knew it was Mrs Pollard.' She struggled to take a deep breath. ‘Thought I could . . . use the stories . . . make her feel . . . haunted. Punished.'

The blood poured over Eliza's hands. She grabbed another cloth and pressed it against Ruth's side. It made no difference.

‘Guilt can't harm those who feel nothing . . . Victoria was never for . . . you. I tried to tell you . . . there was no ghost. But I . . . thought it safer if you . . . you didn't know the whole truth. Wanted you to stay away . . . cause . . . dangerous. She's dangerous.'

‘You must rest now, Ruth. Don't try to speak.'

‘Ben. Trust him. He's . . . a good man. He'll . . . he'll . . .'

‘Hush now.' Tears, not rain, now dampened Eliza's face.

Ruth's eyes snapped open. ‘Rebecca. She was there. There with . . . You were right . . . We had no . . . idea how . . . how . . .' Ruth released a shuttered breath. She never took another.

‘Ruth?' Eliza shook her by the shoulder. ‘Ruth, what about Rebecca? Ruth? Please, don't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

It was no use. Though her eyes were open, Ruth would never wake again. Eliza retreated from the lifeless body, saw her hands, her Claddagh ring, her clothes – Ruth's clothes – covered in blood. Some water was left in the basin. Eliza plunged in her hands and the water turned red. The ring fell from her finger. She left it at the bottom of the basin. Outside, the rain continued to fall. It was the only sound in the loft until she heard the barking below.

She moved cautiously to the window. Kasey growled at a figure about a foot away. Mrs Pollard stood stock still in the rain wearing a cloak and hat, staring at the dog. Kasey refused to let her near. The housekeeper's head tilted upwards. She smiled at Eliza then turned on her heel and returned to the manor.

Mrs Pollard wouldn't need to get into the carriage house to destroy her. She could burn the place down, threaten to kill Rebecca. Anything to coax Eliza out.

Kasey sat sentry at the door, awaiting his master. Eliza could wait no longer.

The train was nearly deserted. Interspersed amongst its empty compartments were an elderly couple, a soldier and a young mother with two children silent from hunger. Peter glanced at them through the windows as he passed, every sombre face a reflection of the tired landscape outside. Wherever they were headed, it was not a place many wanted to go.

Drewry sat alone in the front compartment of the forward coach, where the engine was the loudest. Peter stayed back when he spotted him. The compartment behind was empty. He could ride there for the remainder of the journey, but he stood in the corridor, watching this man whose cap was pulled over his eyes, his arm draped across his lap. When had that calloused hand last touched his Eliza? When had those eyes last looked upon her face?

She was getting closer. Peter could nearly smell her familiar scent. Roses and old books. That's what she always smelled of to Peter, even when a night at work made her sweat through her uniform or she'd been cooking with lard and Oxo all morning. Roses and old books. That was Eliza.

Drewry rolled his shoulders and rested his head against the compartment wall. Peter wondered how much of an interrogation it would take to get the truth. The man had more muscle than Peter, but he was damaged. How much fight could a man with only one arm have? Peter was young, fit. His leg hadn't bothered him for days. He could take this man. He'd been able to take Mosley.

The train turned round a steep bend, shaking the carriage. Peter stumbled against the wall, catching his hand on the window ledge. His palm cut on a splinter of wood, and he shook it to dispel the pain. Drewry stared at him, as if the scent of blood had drawn his attention. Peter curled his hand into a fist and slipped back into the shadows of the train.

From the next-door compartment, Peter watched the sun's descending red rays. It was beautiful to see the colourful light over the hills, but it wasn't long before the sky filled with clouds and streaks of rain dashed the windows. The storm continued as the train pulled into a station. Peter saw Drewry leave the coach and waited a few moments more before doing the same.

On the platform, Peter turned up his collar as he studied the worn wooden sign – Plentynunig. He had never heard of it. He looked for Drewry but the platform was empty. Had he not disembarked here? It was too late to board the already departing train. He followed the Way Out sign. Someone might know where this house was.

Peter descended a set of rotting wood stairs onto a grassy bank and spotted a pub across the road. As he stepped towards it, someone grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the station wall.

‘I know who you are,' the man growled. ‘And it would do you best to leave this place now.'

Peter wriggled free and turned to face his attacker.

‘I'm not leaving without Eliza.'

‘You can't help her. And it'll only be tears for you if you try. Go back to London, lad. This ain't your war.'

‘I won't let you keep her prisoner. Do what you like to me, but I'll free her, even if it's the last thing I do.' Peter raised his fists and braced himself for a fight. This was his purpose, and he would no longer allow any man to come between him and his Eliza.

Drewry regarded him a moment, his expression unreadable, then started towards the pub. ‘Put those away.'

‘Why? What are you going to do? Get some help from your friends because you're too cowardly to face me on your own?'

Drewry called over his shoulder, ‘I'm going to buy you a drink,' and continued across the road.

‘You're . . . what?' Peter hesitated then jogged after him.

He entered the pub a moment after Drewry. Only the publican and the one-armed man were present. Candles and lanterns lit the dim, wood-walled space. Peter walked across the grey stone floor, unsure of where to stand. Drewry took two tankards of beer in one hand and walked to a high-backed corner booth. Peter followed, the publican eyeing him with mistrust as he passed. Drewry pushed a tankard towards him as he sat on the creaking wooden seat.

‘No one else's ever come this far. I'll give you that, Lamb.' He sipped his beer.

‘Where is Eliza?'

‘Up the road at the manor.'

Peter rose.

‘Sit your arse down and listen, will you?'

‘Why? You work for her, don't you? This Pollard?'

‘I've a feeling my employment will soon be at an end.' He drank more, tilting his head far back, downing most of his pint. ‘Look, Lamb, I'm on your side.'

‘Are you? Why?'

‘Why else? A woman.' He leaned in. ‘There are things in motion. Things you don't need to understand. But I give you my word, I'll bring Eliza back to you.'

‘When?'

‘Tonight.'

‘And her sister? Rebecca? She won't go anywhere without Rebecca.'

Drewry leaned back. Worry crossed his face. ‘I'll do what I can about . . . that.'

‘Brilliant. Though of course I have no reason to trust you.'

‘Course you don't. And I ain't got time to try and make you.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old notebook and pencil. ‘Here are directions to the house. It's called Thornecroft.' He scribbled down a few notes and a rudimentary map then tore out the paper and handed it to Peter. ‘If we're not here by closing time, then come and find us.'

‘Of course. And it will be another false address. Another trap, like Death House.'

‘Swansea ain't a trap. It's a safety net. A way of hiding the trail when girls go missing. Of keeping little shites like your old pal Stephen away from here.'

‘How many girls have you helped to disappear?' He expected Drewry to deny it, to proclaim some noble intentions.

‘Three. Including your Eliza. And one I shouldn't have . . .' He drank the rest of his beer then glanced at the clock sitting on the fireplace mantle. ‘I gave someone else my word that I'd not let this happen again. That I wouldn't let Eliza disappear. And if it gives you any comfort, I care about this person a great deal more than you.' He rose and threw some coins on the table. ‘Get yourself another drink. You look like you need it.'

He was gone before Peter could protest.

*

Time passed slowly in the strange pub. Few men entered and those that did looked nearer to death than life. Like old Addy back in Swansea, their skin was taut and grey. Sunken eyes glanced at Peter then stared into stale pints. No one spoke, not even to order. The bald, pale-faced publican simply set a beer on the bar for whoever approached. The longer Peter sat, the more uncomfortable he became. He could feel his skin shrinking like that of the other patrons, his complexion changing to grey. The cold pub felt like a cocoon transforming him into one of these moth-like men who hovered by the lantern lights as if they were their only salvation.

Peter was on his second drink when he realised he was an idiot. Trusting a man like Drewry? Believing his nonsense about bringing Eliza back? All Peter was doing was giving him a head start. But it hadn't been too long, only an hour. No other trains had come or gone. He would've heard them at the station. He left his unfinished beer and Drewry's remaining coins on the table and walked out of the pub. Some men loitered outside with their pints, staring at Peter as he passed, the smoke of their cigarettes becoming lost in the fog.

With every step, the word echoed in his head – Thornecroft. Thornecroft. Thornecroft. Something was pulling him towards that word. Towards Eliza. The fog swallowed the world around him and he felt safe, alone with his thoughts. It was only him and the road. He would be there soon.

It suddenly struck him how silent the world was. Where once there were birds chirping, now there was nothing. He listened for the wind, but that, too, had fallen still. The silence broke Peter from his trance, and he realised he had no idea where he was. He looked at his feet. He wasn't even on the road any more. At some point, the fog had become heavier and he hadn't noticed. Yet in the distance was a light, a round ball hovering in the air. Peter stepped towards it.

A twig snapped behind him, and a figure emerged through the fog.

‘Hello, mate.'

‘Drewry told you to go back to London,' Peter said.

‘And leave my dear old friend on his own?' Stephen took a step forward.

‘Why did you follow me?'

‘No choice. If you had stopped all this when I told you, we wouldn't be here now. Could still be friends. Teasing Purvis at work, going to the pub at weekends. You had to go and spoil everything.'

‘I couldn't let her go.'

‘You should have.'

‘How long? How long have you been kidnapping girls?'

Stephen laughed. ‘I've never kidnapped anyone. Girls need work, I find them work. Usually it's a matter of putting them on the streets. Like Jessie.'

‘And how many have you killed, like Jessie?'

‘She broke the rules and got what she deserved. Once the police finish their inquiries and find out she were strangled, in Peter Lamb's flat, then you'll get your chance to suffer. Or rather, your reputation will.' His hand reached into his pocket.

‘And what about Eliza?' Peter asked as he searched the fog for an escape.

‘Eliza was the first of the special ones I found. Was supposed to get a nice cut of the profits. But you had to go snooping about, and now Angelo won't give me my share until this business with you is settled.'

Peter had nothing to defend himself with except for his fists. Stephen might have a knife or even a gun in his pocket, and he was now only an arm's length away. Peter steadied himself.

‘If you needed money, I could . . .'

‘You made me look weak! Like I didn't know what I was doing. Like I was stupid! You're my friend. You're not supposed to make me look stupid.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Well, it's too late for that. So be a good lad, Peter, and let me do my job.'

Stephen lunged and they both fell to the ground. Hands clasped around Peter's neck and pressed down, cutting off his air. Peter jabbed his knee upward, hitting Stephen in the groin. Stephen's grip loosened enough for him to roll out from underneath. He could have run then, but Peter was tired of running.

He kicked Stephen in the head, knocking him backwards. He went in for another kick, but Stephen caught his ankle and yanked him to the ground. The air was knocked from his lungs, but he dodged Stephen's next blow. He coughed violently, forcing his lungs to work, until Stephen stomped a foot into his back.

Peter was pressed into the ground. He scrambled for purchase but could find none on the wet grass. Stephen kicked him and shoved him onto his side.

‘You won't forget it this time,' Stephen panted, drawing a gun from his coat pocket. ‘But you won't have long to remember it, either.'

Stephen drew back the hammer. Peter launched himself at his legs. The shot went harmlessly into the air as Stephen tumbled backwards then disappeared. Peter thought he vanished in the fog, but as the sound of the shot dissipated, he heard Stephen screaming – a faint sound growing further away. Peter crawled forward, panting, towards the spot where Stephen had just stood. His hands met air. Peering down, he saw the fog swirling in a bottomless quarry. Soon, the screaming died.

Peter crawled to his feet, regaining his breath as he stared into the abyss.

‘You should have listened to Mr Drewry.'