Spider Light (13 page)

‘A lot more.’

‘We could say another five hundred, perhaps.’

‘I think we’ll have to say a lot more than that.’ He moved closer, and in the candlelight his face looked sharper.

‘I was thinking we’d double the three thousand,’ said Simon. And, as Thomasina made a quick gesture of annoyance and refusal, he said, ‘And then a yearly payment of five hundred on top of that.’

‘It can’t be done,’ said Thomasina at once. ‘I’m sorry, Simon, I simply can’t afford it.’

‘Then,’ said Simon softly, ‘you’ll have to find a way to afford it. Because, my dear, if you don’t I shall make sure the entire county knows what you get up to with your plump little girls. There’ve been quite a few of them over the years, haven’t there?’ he said. ‘All the seductions of those pretty daughters of the local landed gentry. And all those trips to London to pick up street girls–Oh yes, I know all about that, Thomasina. An old school-friend saw you near Seven Dials in the summer–he recognized you from when he used to stay at Quire in the holidays. He was surprised to see you in that part of London. You were striding along with what he described as a very queer look in your eye, and he couldn’t imagine what you were doing there. But I can imagine,’ said Simon. ‘You were after the girls, weren’t you? The ones who don’t much mind if they do it with a man or a woman, providing there’s money to be made.’

‘No one would believe any of this,’ said Thomasina, but she felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She thought: how much does Simon really know about me? Supposing this friend of his followed me? Along to the familiar turning off St Martin’s Lane, and into the place where the seven streets meet. Seven Dials. And from there into the little yard nearby. Number 17 Paradise Yard, that’s the address. I wrote it down, even though I’d never forget where my cat-faced girl lives.

‘I’ll bet there are a few whispers about you in Amberwood as it is,’ Simon was saying. ‘Believe me, Thomasina, it wouldn’t take much to fan the flames of those whispers, and inside a week you’d be a byword. And on top of that, I could tell them about your latest adventure, and that’s first-hand information, isn’t it? I can describe it exactly: how you’re paying me to make your newest little paramour pregnant. How we’re enjoying those cosy three-somes in bed together–except that Maud isn’t enjoying them, is she? You’ve had to lock her up to stop her running away, and I’m having to drink myself into insensitivity every night because
oddly enough, Thomasina, I don’t much care for doing it to a female who finds it–and me–so repulsive. But I think you’ve got your way–I’ve heard her being sick on three mornings in succession.’

There was a moment when Twygrist’s whispering darkness swooped around Thomasina’s head almost knocking her off balance. Maud was being sick in the mornings–she was being
sick
. After a moment, she was able to say, ‘I don’t believe you. I empty the commode and the washing bowl–I’d have known.’

‘She’s sick out of the window,’ said Simon exasperatedly.

Thomasina stared at him, and then, because he could not be allowed to get the upper hand, said, ‘I don’t believe you’d talk about any of this. You wouldn’t come out of it so very well yourself, would you? That arrangement we had—’

‘My dearest girl, I shouldn’t give a tuppenny damn what people in Amberwood said about me, because I shouldn’t be around to hear it,’ said Simon. ‘I’d be back in London, living on your money. But a tale like that wouldn’t do me much harm, you know. The women would eye me with that particular kind of nervous fascination they always reserve for libertines. And most of the men would be rather envious–I told you, didn’t I, that it’s every man’s private fantasy to be in bed with two women together? Even if one of the women is you.’

From within the turmoil of Thomasina’s mind, two things came uppermost. One was that if Maud really was pregnant, Simon’s spiteful greed must not be allowed to taint the future of that small Josiah. Her thoughts flew ahead to the whispers that would hiss round Amberwood. Something odd about young Josiah Forrester’s conception, people would say. Something unsavoury. And her lovely boy would find himself shunned and cold-shouldered. That must not be allowed to happen.

But there was a much deeper danger here, and that was Simon’s threat to tell people about the visits to Seven Dials. Thomasina did not mind so much if people knew about the sweet innocent young things she had seduced in Amberwood over the years–the daughters
of solicitors and businessmen who lived in Amberwood and the surrounding villages. The girls had been flattered and slightly awed at being pampered and petted by Miss Forrester, and they had probably not understood the actual seduction anyway. Thomasina thought she could very easily deal with any sly rumours about that. But she was not sure she could cope with the truth about Seven Dials coming out. How much did Simon actually know about the girl who lived at 17 Paradise Yard? Might this friend of his have followed Thomasina, and seen her enter the ramshackle house with the peeling façade?

Thomasina’s first visit there had horrified her. The girl, who seemed to be called the Cat by most people, shared her two disreputable rooms with two other girls who plied a similar trade, and with a thin girl of about fourteen who sat in a corner of the room with a book, never spoke and scarcely looked at Thomasina.

Thomasina had been appalled by the squalor and the poverty, although the Cat had only laughed and demanded a half-sovereign–she set her charges according to her clients’ prosperity, she said, and one day she intended to be very rich indeed–and then had gone through to the squalid bedroom that was barely bigger than a cupboard, and flung off her clothes and thrown herself onto the bed.

Listening to Simon’s threats, Thomasina knew she would do anything to keep her association with the Cat a secret.

For a long moment neither of them spoke, and then, in an ordinary, slightly grudging, voice, Thomasina said, ‘It doesn’t look as if you’re giving me much choice, does it, Simon? I’d better see what I can work out.’

‘I think you had,’ said Simon. And then, in a slightly more conciliatory tone, ‘Sorry to do this to you, old girl, but needs must.’

‘Oh yes, I quite see that.’ Thomasina did not even care that Simon had called her old girl. ‘We’d better go back to Quire,’ she said. ‘You lead the way up the steps, and I’ll bring the candle.’

‘Yes, all right. Uh–no hard feelings?’

‘None in the world,’ said Thomasina and waited for Simon to turn away and go back up the steps. He had reached the third step when she snuffed out the candle, and at once made a little
tsk
of annoyance.

‘Oh what a nuisance–I’m sorry about that, Simon; it must be the damp air. I can relight it, though–I’ve got matches in my pocket.’

‘Ever efficient,’ said Simon, waiting. ‘It’s jolly cold down here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it—Here’s the candle, and—Oh, no.’

‘What?’

‘It’s the keys. I had them in my pocket with the matches, and now they aren’t there. I must have dropped them while I was in the tunnels. I’ll have to go back; I must lock the doors when we go.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t leave them on the upper floor? Or even in the door? If they’d fallen out of your pocket down here, you’d have heard them, surely?’

‘They were definitely in my pocket when I lit the candle. But I stumbled against some of the bits of machinery down here–a rusty cog-wheel as a matter of fact–and they probably dropped out then. I don’t think I’d have heard them, what with getting tangled up with the cog-wheels.’

She felt, rather than heard, Simon’s sigh of exasperation. ‘Give me the candle,’ he said. ‘You wait here and I’ll go back to look for the wretched keys. How far along the tunnels did you actually get?’

‘Only to about the third cellar. I wanted to see if the roof had caved in anywhere. I’ll light another candle for you, shall I? I brought two.’

Simon took the candle and set off. His footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and the candle flame flickered, sending his shadow leaping grotesquely across the roof and the walls. His voice came back to her, distorted by the enclosed tunnels, saying he could not see the keys.

‘Keep looking. It’s quite a large bunch, so you won’t miss them.’

‘I’ll go a bit further along. Stay where you are.’

It was no part of Thomasina’s hastily conceived plan to stay where she was. She waited until she thought Simon was far enough into the brick-lined cellars not to hear her footsteps, and then snuffed out her own candle and stole after him.

It was very dark, but there was sufficient light from Simon’s candle up ahead to see her way well enough not to trip over, or make any sound that might alert him. Although she did not much like what she was about to do, there was no doubt in her mind
about doing it. Simon must not be allowed to make good his threats.

Padding stealthily along, Thomasina thought again what people would say if they knew about the Cat. Imagine it, they would say, shocked. Miss Thomasina Forrester and a fifteen-year-old prostitute from Seven Dials. Buying her clothes, sending her food.

The parcels of food and clothing had been because Thomasina had been unable to bear the thought of the girl going hungry, or facing a winter’s night in the thin garments she always wore. Once, when she had been looking through the bills for those things, Maud had come into the study, and had said in a pettish voice, ‘Dull household books
again
.’

It had been in the early days of Thomasina’s infatuation with Maud, but she had been stung to a sharp retort. ‘It’s for a girl who lives in a poor part of London.’ She’s exactly your age, Maud, in fact she even resembles you a bit–the same colouring. But over the years she’s had to do some dreadful things to avoid starving in the gutter. There’s a sick sister–I think she’d do anything in the world for that sister. If it wasn’t for the chance of birth, you might be in her shoes and she might be in yours. So I give her a little help from time to time.’

Maud had said, ‘Oh, I see,’ and wandered disconsolately away.

Thinking back to that conversation, Thomasina wondered if it was possible for anyone to trace those presents back to her. Little treats she had called them. There had been bottles of preserved pears, cheeses carefully wrapped in waxed paper, chicken in aspic, a woollen cloak and some dress lengths. Had the Cat worn the things or had she simply laughed scornfully and sold them? At Christmas Thomasina had even sent a parcel of books for the girl with the translucent skin, although she had not known if the books would be read or sold.

Simon must be nearing the kiln room now; he had already called back twice to say there was no sign of the keys. In a moment he would probably give up the search and come back down the tunnels. Fearing this Thomasina quickened her steps.

Here was the tangled rustiness of machinery that was at the heart of her plan. She bent to pick up a piece of iron, weighing it carefully in her hand. Heavy enough? Yes, surely it was. A shower of rust came away from the iron, marking her hand and speckling the front of her gown; in the dim light it looked exactly like blood. Thomasina kept a firm hold of it, concealing it in a fold of her skirt. No longer bothering to move quietly, she caught Simon up.

He heard her approach and turned round at once, saying he had not yet found the keys. It looked as if they would have to leave Twygrist unlocked for a day or so.

‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ said Thomasina. ‘Unless George Lincoln still has keys—Oh, but what’s that in that corner?’

‘Where?’

‘Over there. Isn’t it the keys?’

Simon bent down to look, exactly as he was meant to do, and Thomasina raised the iron bar high and brought it heavily down on his head. There was a crunch of bone–sickening! She had not allowed for that! Rust specks flew up against the darkness. Simon gave a sort of ‘Ouf’ of surprise and slumped to his knees, then crashed to the floor. He lay prone, not moving, a rim of white showing under his eyelids. Thomasina set her teeth and brought the bar down on his head a second time. Simon’s eyes flicked open, and stared unseeingly into the darkness.

Thomasina sat down on the ground, heedless of the dirt and scuttling crunchy-backed beetles, furious that she was feeling dizzy, and even more furious to realize she was feeling slightly sick. She put her head down between her knees, and willed herself not to faint: she had never fainted in her life, and she was damned if she was going to do so now.

Ah, but you’ve never killed a man before, have you?
said Twygrist’s soft voice inside her mind.
You didn’t know what it would feel like, did you?

Thomasina pushed the whispers away, got briskly to her feet, and held the candle up so she could examine Simon’s face. Was
he dead? He certainly looked it: that glassy stare, the dead-weight feeling of his whole body. She felt for a heartbeat, and thought there was the faintest flutter in his chest. Or was there? Her hands were shaking so badly she could not be sure. She took several deep breaths, and tried again. No, there was nothing; it must have been her imagination. She kept her hand across the left side of his chest for another minute, but it was absolutely still and silent. He was dead.

And really, she must be more disturbed by the atmosphere than she had thought, because she could still hear the hoarse creaking voice of the mill all around her.

‘I don’t care,’ said Thomasina angrily to the voices, and standing up she brushed the dust from her skirt. Simon was dead–of course he was, and a very good riddance to him–and she must get on with the next part of the plan.

If she had been able to drag Simon’s body as far as the reservoir, or out to the Amber River, she would have tipped his body into the water and trusted to luck that he would not be found. But she did not think she could manage it. Simon was too heavy for her, and there was also the risk of someone seeing them. She was taking no chances about this; Simon’s death must look like an accident.

She relit her candle and the one Simon had been carrying which had rolled into a corner and snuffed itself out, and positioned them both on the ground at intervals along the tunnels.

Beacon lamps to light the way to a man’s tomb, Thomasina?

No, just to show me where I’m going.

Hooking her hands under Simon’s arms, she dragged him towards the kiln room. It took longer than she anticipated, because she had to keep stopping and moving the candles along with her to see her way, but eventually she got him to the steel doors, thankfully released her grip, and straightened up.

The kiln-room doors were shut, of course: when Twygrist was empty they always were shut to contain any fire that might break out from a spark kindling in the brick grate. But they were also kept shut to prevent people wandering into the kiln room and being trapped if the doors closed. George Lincoln had explained this to Thomasina and Simon, and had impressed on them that they must never go down there by themselves. Dangerous, he said solemnly. The doors were constructed so they would swing inwards at the lightest touch, and if that should happen, Thomasina and Simon might be imprisoned and might not be found for a very long time.

Thomasina grasped the handle on the left-hand door and pulled hard. At first the door refused to budge–it was solid steel and there seemed to be some kind of track that sloped down into the room itself, so that opening the door was almost like pulling it uphill. But eventually there was a screech of protesting hinges and she was able to force it all the way back and wedge it against the wall with the iron bar she had used on Simon. Only when she was satisfied that it could not swing shut and trap her, did she drag Simon inside.

Even though it was years since fires had burned down here, the air felt dry and raw and Thomasina found herself disliking the place very much. After a moment’s thought she arranged Simon’s body just inside the door, half-propped against the right-hand side. When he was eventually found–which might be quite a long time–it would appear that he had accidentally shut himself in and been trying to get out.

And the blows to the head? What if they’re noticed, Thomasina?

What if people wonder what Simon was doing inside Twygrist?

It would be easy enough to say that she and Simon had discussed the possibility of reviving Twygrist and the family business, and that Simon had mentioned taking a look at the mill while he was here.

As for the blows to the head, they would probably be thought the result of his falling down while trying to get out, but it did
not really matter what conclusion was reached about that, no one was going to suspect Simon’s own cousin of killing him.

Thomasina took a final look round, shining the candle into all the corners. There was nothing to indicate she had been down here, and as soon as she got back to Quire she would get rid of the rust-stained gown she was wearing, and wash the smell and the taste of Twygrist away. Her mind dwelt pleasantly for a moment on a lavishly hot bath, scented soap and fluffy towels.

Finally, she bent down to remove the iron bar that had wedged the door. She would not risk leaving it down here. She would throw it into the reservoir on her way back to Quire.

For a moment she thought the door was not going to swing back into place, but then the hinges gave another banshee-shriek, and began to move. Thomasina watched it, gnawing at the knuckles of one hand with nervous anticipation. Supposing she had knocked the tracks out of true when she forced it open, or supposing the door itself had warped with age and would not close? But it was all right. The door scraped grittily over the ground, and then with a muffled clang, locked into place alongside its fellow.

Twygrist’s kiln room, with Simon inside it, was sealed.

It was already growing dark outside–Thomasina saw she must have been inside Twygrist for a long time. All to the good, however; it meant she was unlikely to be seen walking back to Quire House.

She threw the iron bar into the reservoir, waited to be sure it sank, and then set off along the lanes. Her mind was already moving ahead, working out what she would say to people–it might be as well to say Simon had left Quire without any word, not even taking his luggage. She could appear puzzled and slightly concerned which would be natural and innocent behaviour.

Her original plan for Maud and Simon would obviously need to be altered. Thomasina considered telling people that Maud
and Simon had actually been married, but decided against it. Simon’s body would eventually be found, and if Maud was believed to be his widow all kinds of complications might arise.

She needed to give Maud a fictitious husband, an unknown man. The more Thomasina thought about it, the more she could see that the whole thing would work better without Simon. It should be possible to take Maud away for a few weeks, after which they could announce that there had been a private marriage ceremony in London–a long-standing but secret romance, they would say; people liked that kind of thing. Then a tragic honeymoon accident. Everyone would be sympathetic, and there would be no raised eyebrows at the child, no stigma surrounding his birth, because it simply would not occur to anyone in Amberwood that innocent little Maud Lincoln might have misbehaved before marriage.

She and Maud would choose a name for the man–even Maud would understand that she could not have a child outside marriage–and they would think up a few extra details to make it really plausible.

Maud’s father would have to be squared, but Thomasina could deal with George Lincoln. He could probably be paid to keep quiet; as well as being a social climber, he was greedy for money. Toft House, he often said proudly, was an expensive old place to maintain.