The Poisoned House (19 page)

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Chapter 42

Sammy’s hair was plastered to his forehead and his face dark. I could smell alcohol on his breath.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘I want what you’ve stolen from me,’ he replied.

I held the pole in front of me like a sword. ‘I’ve not stolen anything.’

He coughed, a hacking choking cough, with his mouth pressed into the crook of his elbow. ‘You’ve stolen everything that belongs to me!’

The clothes rail seemed pathetic now. The end was trembling. ‘Well, I won’t give you anything,’ I said.

Samuel shook his head. ‘I thought you might say that,’ he went on, ‘which is why I’ve brought this.’ Reaching inside his jacket, he took out a paring knife from the kitchen. The words dried up in my throat. ‘Would anyone really be surprised,’ he continued, ‘if you decided to take your own life, Abi? Up here, all alone. No mother, no father, no friends. You’ve had a tough year, haven’t you?’

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the wicked blade, catching the glint of silver moonlight from outside.

‘Let me out!’ I said, louder this time. Mrs Cotton must have been able to hear me.

Samuel laughed. He had read my thoughts. ‘My aunt isn’t down there,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to scream louder than that if anyone’s going to hear you. But you know how thick these walls are. It’s your house, after all.’

I screamed as loudly as I could. If someone were outside in the lane, they’d hear me even if Rob couldn’t from the china closet where he slept.

‘Try again,’ he sneered. I screamed once more, until I thought my throat would tear. ‘Help me! Someone help me!’

I realised with horror that if Rob had gone out and wasn’t back yet, that left only Mr Lock and Cook, and they were in the basement – her dead drunk, no doubt, and him without a window for the sound to reach in.

Samuel spoke again from the doorway. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Miss Tamper? You think you deserve all this.’

‘More than you,’ I hissed. ‘You killed two innocent people.’

‘Innocent?’ he said, suddenly flaring up and moving towards me. ‘Innocent? The gentleman who couldn’t keep his hands off the nurse!’

‘They were in love!’ I shouted.

Anger took over. I swung the pole and cracked him across the head. He dropped the knife and gripped his face with a muffled shout. I hit him again, and he fell backwards into the corridor. His crutch fell beside him.

I rushed past, but he must have gripped my ankle, because I fell face down at the top of the stairs. The air was knocked out of me and I couldn’t breathe.

His weight pressed against my back as he heaved himself up on to my body. I managed to roll over, but his hands found my neck.

‘None of you are innocent,’ he said. Spit flew from his mouth, dripping on to my face. There was blood too, from a cut above his eye. His fingers tightened on my throat, but even with both hands I couldn’t push him off.

I felt the blood pumping through my temples and behind my eyes. In the shadows I could see his face, contorted with fury. His teeth were bared, and the veins stood up across his forehead. I writhed and kicked, but he was too strong.

Would it really end here, with my back on the floorboards, choked to death in the attic?

My vision started to blur, and my eyes felt as if they would explode. I tried to kick at Samuel’s stump, but my legs had no strength left in them. My hands were still tugging at his fingers as the world started to blacken at the edges.

I felt something – it was the bandage on his hand. I tore it off and felt for the scabbed skin underneath. With my last remaining strength, I dug my nails into his flesh.

Samuel howled and pulled back, releasing my throat.

Air rushed into my lungs. I squirmed, lifting my knee, then brought my foot down on the stump of his amputated leg. He screamed and rolled sideways, taking all his weight off me.

I saw his crutch and reached for it as I scrambled to my feet. Just as he managed to raise himself up on to his foot at the top of the narrow stairs, I rammed it hard into his chest.

His arms wheeled, his hand reaching for the wall to steady himself. I shoved again.

Samuel toppled backwards, his short leg jutting upwards. I flinched as his head cracked into the first step. With a cry, he fell down the narrow stairs, rolling over and over like a rag doll. The timbers shook as he crashed to the bottom.

Breathing heavily, I stared at his crumpled form. My first thought was that he was dead, but he moaned softly and pushed himself upright.

Gripping the crutch I descended the stairs, half-stumbling. He disappeared out of sight, shuffling across the floor on his backside. When I reached him he had his back against Mrs Cotton’s bedroom door. I raised the crutch, anger surging through my arms. I wanted to bash his brains out.

‘Do it!’ he gasped. ‘Do it, and you’ll never even know the truth.’

‘What truth?’ I shouted, fighting the urge to bring the end of the crutch down on his sweating face. ‘That you’re a killer!’

‘That it was an accident,’ he said, his chest rising and falling.

‘You poisoned her,’ I said, tears running down my cheeks. ‘Just like you tried to poison me.’

Samuel shook his head violently. ‘He told me he was going to marry her.’ His eyes were ablaze once more. ‘He told me he was in love, that he felt alone.’ His face twisted into a sneer. ‘I couldn’t let him shame our family. Think what they would have said! Marrying one of the staff – a nurse, for pity’s sake!’

‘So you killed her?’ I said.

He shook his head again. ‘He was so miserable, so wretched. I wanted to put the old fool out of his misery. I took up his brandy, like I always did.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Ever the dutiful son. She must have sneaked up there somehow. Must’ve drunk it instead. I never meant it to happen like that. If she could just have stayed put . . .’ His words trailed off into bitter laughter.

If he was lying, he was a fine actor. His eyes were shot through with blood and sweat covered his face, mingling with the mucus running from his nose. I saw the scene at once. Samuel leaving the brandy tray, my mother entering through their secret way, Nathaniel Greave offering her a drink . . .

‘You’re still a murderer,’ I said.

‘And there’s nothing you can do,’ he replied. ‘If you bash my brains out against this door, you will be a murderer too. Think of it,
sister
! The scullery maid who murdered the hero of the Crimea! They’ll have you dangling from a rope before the week is out!’

My determination wavered as a feeling of helplessness overcame me. My arms felt suddenly exhausted and I let the crutch fall at my side. Samuel was right.

‘I’ll tell everyone,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure you never set foot in this house again.’

‘And who will believe you?’ he said. ‘Without another witness it’s your word against mine. I’m sure my aunt will vouch for me.’

‘Aye, but we won’t,’ said an Irish voice.

I turned to see Cook, Mr Lock and Rob standing at the top of the main stairs. She was carrying a cleaver from the kitchen and the butler a poker. Rob was dressed only in his nightshirt.

The smile disappeared from Samuel’s face. ‘Get off those stairs!’ he said.

None of them moved. ‘I think we’ll be summoning the constables,’ said Miss McMahon. She held out a hand. ‘You should come with us, Abigail.’

The following hours passed in a confusion of visitors and growing weariness. Rob stood guard over Samuel until the police arrived. Cook wrapped me in a blanket beside the newly lit fire in the kitchen, and made me a cup of Mrs Cotton’s favourite hot chocolate. Repeated knocking on the housekeeper’s door brought no response. Looking in, Mr Lock found it to be empty. He told us her clothes and jewellery were missing too.

Constable Armstrong spent a long time with the butler in his parlour, while his colleagues took Samuel aside to the drawing room. There were conventions to be kept, even then, with master and servant in their rightful place. From the kitchen, we could hear Sammy ranting and raving about the injustices he had suffered.

The policemen took down statements from all three of the staff about what they had overheard. I answered the constable’s probing questions about what I had found out and when. I was worried that I wouldn’t be believed, but I later learnt that our stories concurred to such a degree there was little doubt we were all telling the truth. Before dawn Dr Ingle arrived to examine the bruising on my neck and found that it was consistent with having been throttled. As he left the house he patted me on the shoulder, and said that I was the most unfortunate patient of his but, from what he had heard, also the luckiest.

The constables suggested that Samuel might like to recover his sobriety at the police station house in Pimlico. He was sobbing as he was taken away. I wondered if I’d ever see him again. Gradually the house emptied, leaving just the four of us – four servants without a master. I was tired, but there would be no sleep, I was sure. I drifted instead into the sitting room, where Mr Lock had insisted on lighting the fire. I opened the curtains myself, and looked out as the sun came up in the east.

The grass was covered with a thick frost, and the street outside was silent. I noticed the first of the snowdrops were lifting their heads, defiant in the face of the cold.

‘What date is it?’ I asked Mr Lock.

He stood stiffly from the fire, as the kindling crackled beneath the coals.

‘The seventeenth of February, miss,’ he said.

My birthday.

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Also by Michael Ford

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The Fire of Ares

Birth of a Warrior

Legacy of Blood

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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in August 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

Text copyright © Michael Ford 2010

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This electronic edition published in September 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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ISBN 978 1 4088 1642 4

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