The Taxidermist's Daughter (27 page)

Chapter 45

Blackthorn House

Fishbourne Marshes

‘It’s getting worse,’ Davey said, running back into the room. ‘Are there any more sandbags I can use, Mary? A flour bag we could fill?’

‘In the pantry,’ Mary said, though she didn’t turn to look at him. Mrs Christie said nothing.

The boy stared, then turned on his heel. ‘All right, I’ll do it all on my own. Even if the rain’s coming down in stair rods.’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Mary said.

She folded her hands on her lap, then unfolded them again. She was restless, didn’t know what to do. Only now, after listening to her mother’s story, did Mary realise she’d never before asked herself what sort of woman her mother was, or what she’d been like when she was young.

‘I don’t regret it for an instant,’ Mrs Christie said. ‘If I had my time over, I’d do the same again.’

Mary had no memory of her real father. Her earliest memories were of living in Lavant, with her mother and her new father. A few years later, the twins coming along. Then Mr Christie becoming ill, and moving to Fishbourne when he died. By the age of forty, her mother had buried two husbands.

Mary glanced at her mother and saw the strain on her face. She couldn’t take in that her mother and Mr Gifford had been friends – fond friends, by the sound of it – but that she had never mentioned it until now.

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Christie said. ‘Ten years is a long time.’

Mary crossed the room and put her arms around her mother. ‘I’m proud of you, Ma,’ she said. ‘Having the wits to get her proper care.’ She paused. ‘Does Miss Gifford not remember you?’

‘No.’ Mrs Christie shook her head, then reconsidered. ‘At least, I think she knew we’d met before, but no more than that.’

‘But you saved her life, Ma.’

‘And the doctor,’ she said. ‘He did just enough to keep her going. Very anxious his name wasn’t mentioned.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, love.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘That’s why it gave me a turn when you came home talking about a Mr Woolston. It brought it all back.’ She sighed. ‘Poor little scrap. Ill for ever such a long time, and then, when she was better, her memory gone. No bad thing, as it turned out.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Gifford took on this young woman to teach Miss Gifford. Nothing as fancy as a governess, just basic teaching. More like part of the family, a big sister to Connie. He was very good to the girl. But when he lost the museum, then with Miss Gifford being ill, she moved on. Left them in the lurch.’

‘Was she the ungrateful type?’ Mary asked.

Her mother frowned. ‘To be fair, Cassie was a lovely girl.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But she upped and left them. It would have broken Connie’s heart, if she’d have remembered. So it was for the best in one way.’

‘Did you say Cassie?’

‘That’s right. Short for Cassandra; silly name I always thought.’ She hesitated. ‘What is it, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘The master kept talking about her last night, Ma. I was half asleep, not listening or anything, but hearing, if you know what I mean? Mr Gifford said she was dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘When? Did he say when?’

Mary frowned. ‘No, but he mentioned not knowing about the funeral, so recently, I suppose.’

Mary watched her mother take a deep breath, then suddenly begin to sob.

‘It’s all right, Ma,’ she said quickly. ‘No need to take on.’

Mrs Christie took a handkerchief from her sleeve. They both looked up at a noise from the doorway.

‘Sorry to, and all that,’ Davey said from the threshold, ‘but these sandbags isn’t going to be enough. Look.’

Mary squeezed her mother’s hand, then went to the window and wiped the glass with her sleeve.

Black clouds were rushing across the fields and over the creek, blown by the ferocious sou’westerly wind. There was no longer a difference between the land and the sea. The spit in the middle of the creek had vanished and the water had breached the wall of the garden of Salt Mill House. The mill itself looked as if it might buckle and collapse and be swept away at any moment.

‘Much more of this and we’ll be cut off,’ Davey said.

Mary ran to the side window, noticing how the seawater was already surging up against the banks of hawthorn and blackthorn. Sometimes covering the footpath and draining back, but soon it would be into the lowest-lying reaches of the garden.

‘Did Miss Gifford say how long she’d be, Davey?’ Mrs Christie said.

He shook his head. ‘Only that she’d be quick as she could. Back before the tide started to come in.’ He paused. ‘She’s late.’

‘Just look at it,’ Mary whispered.

Mrs Christie walked to the door. ‘I’m going to wake the master,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s Gifford’s house. It’s up to him to tell us what he wants done.’

Mary felt Davey’s thin fingers grasp her arm.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing through the glass. ‘Someone’s out on the marshes.’

Mary rubbed the glass again, then, when she couldn’t see properly, ran up the stairs to the large window on the half-landing for a better look. Davey followed. Through the driving rain, and across the water, a small, dark figure could just be seen battling his way along the sea wall on the Apuldram side of the creek.

‘Ma,’ she called. ‘Ma! It’s him.’

Mrs Christie joined them. Her hands flew to her mouth.

‘Didn’t you tell me Gifford hadn’t the strength hardly to stand, let alone get himself downstairs and all the way over there?’

As they watched, Gifford suddenly changed direction and headed inland, disappearing from their view in the rain and spray.

‘Miss Gifford asked me to hold the fort,’ Davey wailed. ‘To keep an eye on him.’

Mary put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re not to blame.’

‘I am. She left me in charge.’

Mrs Christie turned to Davey. ‘Here’s your chance to make amends. You’ve got to go after him, lad. Stop him. Can you do that?’

‘Stop him doing what, Ma?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘Only, I want him back safe here. He shouldn’t be out there, not with the tide coming in. Not with all this going on.’

‘What do you mean? Do you think he’s in danger?’

Mrs Christie didn’t answer. ‘Can you get to him, boy? Bring him home?’

Davey looked to Mary, who nodded.

A few minutes later, he was racing down the treacherous footpath towards Mill Lane. The water was lapping up to his ankles, but he knew the safest tracks over the dips and folds of the unstable ground. He knew where the mud was deepest, most dangerous.

‘Bring him back in one piece,’ Mary called after him. ‘But you take care of yourself, too. Do you hear me, Davey?’

Mill Lane

Fishbourne

The rain beat down on Davey’s face and the wind boxed his ears. Over the creek, the break and crack of thunder. He glanced up the road and saw, on the corner by the Bull’s Head, Gregory Joseph come out of the tavern. Looking back the other way, he saw a trap approaching, slowing down. Recognising the driver, Davey nodded but didn’t stop, anxious nothing should delay him.

‘Sir.’

‘You shouldn’t be out in such weather. A new storm is coming in; you should be inside.’

‘But it’s Mr Gifford, sir,’ Davey said, struggling to catch his breath. ‘He’s out on the sea wall. Mrs Christie’s sent me to fetch him home. She’s worried for him.’

Davey wiped his nose on his sleeve. The rain was streaming down his face, and every moment he stood talking, he felt Mr Gifford getting further away. He’d failed in his duty once. He didn’t want to fail again. ‘So I need to get on. I gave my word.’

‘What about I take you in the trap?’ he said.

Davey’s eyes widened. ‘Would you?’

‘Climb in the back, young man. We’ll be there in no time.’

This method of passing the central wire through the neck after it is stuffed, is preferable to all others, not only because it is easier, but because it preserves the neck in its cylindrical form: we even stuff the neck of a swan before we introduce the wire.

T
AXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,

AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Mrs R. Lee

Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820

These are the last words I will write. My last instruction is for your journal to be returned to you.

It is almost over.

The rain continues to fall and the wind to howl over the estuary. If he does not arrive soon – the last of my four guests – I fear the track from the road to the sea will be impassable.

I have lost my appetite for this game. The preparations and the planning and the execution. The end is all that matters.

Have I said there are things I regret? Poor, dear Birdie, lost through this sorry business. The fact that you and I did not, could not, meet. The fact that I caused profound grief to one who tried only to do his best by me. Had he known my intentions, though, he would have tried to stop me and I could not allow that.

I knew, long before he did, that there was no comfort to be had. All those years of talking cures, of kindness, the sunlit terraces and pink and white horse chestnut trees in the park. Everything designed to soothe a troubled mind. None of it made any difference in the end.

Then I saw one of them – Jackdaw – in a crowd of men in top hats and tails, the men of the committee come to sit in judgement. Rage, anger such as I had never experienced before, and I understood.

I could not forget and I would not forgive while they walked free.

Crime, punishment, justice.

*

Do I hear something above the noise of the storm? In the thundering of the tides? The sound of boots on the path? The drumming of fists on the door? Or is it not yet time?

Chapter 46

Apuldram Lane

Fishbourne

The top of Apuldram Lane was completely flooded, Connie could see the swirling brown water covering the road and surging round the foundations of the houses. The small homespun shrine to the family killed in the March floods when their trap overturned was completely submerged. Bedraggled flowers clung to the memorial, their petals ripped off by the strength of the current.

The cabman pulled up and twisted round on his seat.

‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he shouted over the wind, ‘I can’t get any further. I can’t risk my horse. Even if it’s not too deep, there’s no guarantee I’ll get back.’

Holding her hat on with one hand, and fumbling in her purse, Connie pulled out a coin and pressed it into the driver’s hand. He touched his cap.

‘Good luck, miss.’

She watched him turn the carriage, then snap his whip and set his horse back towards Chichester.

Overhead, a clap of thunder. Closer this time.

Connie quickly took stock. A lake had formed at the bottom of Clay Lane, and as the driver had said, it was impossible to know how deep the water was ahead. She walked fast, to the path that ran down the side of Clayton Cottage into the water meadows. Those fields had never completely recovered from the devastating spring floods, but at least they were designed to flood. On the road, there was nowhere for the water to go and she feared Mill Lane might be impassable.

Heading down against the wind, she pressed forward, desperate for a first sight of Blackthorn House on the far side of the creek. She had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Fear for her father; worrying about why Harry had not kept their appointment.

However many times she tried not to read something dark into his absence, it made no difference.

She ploughed on. Her face was soaking and the brim of her hat, lifted by the wind, flapped around her head like a huge bird. After a moment, she took it off and put it in her bag, then struggled on.

Vera, Dr Woolston, her father, Cassie.

Then, some way ahead, Connie noticed she wasn’t the only person foolhardy enough to be out of doors. About half a mile away, closer to the water, someone else was battling the storm and the tides. She saw him fall, then heave himself up and keep going, stumbling along the vanishing shoreline towards Apuldram, regardless of the obstacles in his way.

The man fell again, got up again.

Now, something about the motion and the way he staggered through the mud triggered a recognition. A spark of relief followed quickly by fear and panic. What was he doing?

‘Father!’ she shouted, but her voice was carried away by the wind. ‘Gifford!’

Abandoning all thoughts of her own safety, Connie struck out across the marshes after her father.

*

Davey sat up and spat the straw from his mouth. He had no idea what had happened.

Last thing he remembered, he was in the trap. Sitting huddled on the floor, to keep out of the wind, and seeing something beneath the bench. A large floppy black hat, with feathers pinned all over it. Wondering how Vera Barker’s hat came to be in there.

Then, nothing.

He put his hand to the back of his head, wincing at the touch of a lump the size of an egg. He rolled his shoulders, then stood up. He was in some kind of stable or animal pen. There were old rags on the ground, bird dropping everywhere, and a stack of wooden birdcages. On an upturned packing crate, a single candle in a plain brass holder.

Where was he? How had he ended up here?

*

‘Father!’ Connie shouted.

She was astonished at how quickly her father was covering the ground. Despite his fragile condition, if anything he seemed to be drawing away from her. He clearly had a fixed destination in his mind.

Connie’s heavy skirts were clinging to her legs, her saturated coat weighing her down. She could barely feel her feet, and with each heavy step, she seemed to be sinking lower into the mud as the seawater rose higher and higher over the ground.

Then, to her relief, she saw Apuldram Woods ahead. She hoped that Gifford would take shelter there.

‘Father!’

There was no answer. Connie ran into the cluster of trees. The trees were plunging forwards and back, like untamed horses, but the canopy of leaves provided some protection from the rain. She exhaled, letting the ringing in her ears die away. She still couldn’t see Gifford.

She traced her way through the trunks of the ash trees and the oaks. She had lost all track of time, but she could see the tide was terribly high. She kept going until she saw the outline of a small, single-storey cottage in the distance through the trees. The grass at the end of the garden had been reclaimed by the estuary, but the path was passable still.

She made a dash into the open, on to the path and up to the front door. The sign read:
THEMIS
COTTAGE
. Connie frowned, another memory of Cassie coming back to her. The handwritten label. Themis, the goddess of justice.

She rapped on the door. ‘Hello? Let me in. Please.’

Another gust of wind at her back slammed into her, all but knocked her off her feet. She hammered harder.

‘Is there anyone here? Father?’

When no one answered. Connie tried the latch and found the door was unlocked.

She stepped inside.