This House is Haunted (10 page)

Finishing my tea, I stood up, paid my bill and thanked Molly. She picked up my empty cup and saucer from the table and
said that she hoped she would see me in there again, only not to mind if her mother was around and shouting because she could be a tartar when she wanted to be.

“I’m sure I’ll be back often,” I told her. “I’m the new governess at Gaudlin Hall so I expect I will be in and out of the village on a regular basis.”

The moment I said this, the tea cup slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, smashing into a dozen or more pieces.

“Oh dear,” I said, looking down at it. “I hope it wasn’t valuable.”

Molly, however, was not looking at the broken cup but staring at me instead with a ghastly expression on her face. All the friendliness and warmth of a moment before had left her now and she continued to stare silently as I stood there, uncertain what on earth was the matter with her, until she finally composed herself, shook her head and stepped quickly away, reaching for a dustpan and brush, with which she proceeded to clear up the wreckage. She did not turn back to look at me and I guessed that she was embarrassed by her clumsiness.

“Well, goodbye then,” I said, turning and walking away, wondering why her mood had altered so quickly, but I had little time to think of it for as I stepped out on to the street a milk-float came by and, had I exited a moment or two later, I am sure that the horses would have run me over. I gasped, took a moment to recover my wits, and resolved that I should watch where I was going in future. It didn’t matter if this was a small village, one never knew where danger might lie.

I continued to walk along the street, not entering any of the stores but looking through the windows at the products on show. This was a habit I had developed a year or so before in
London, when I would stroll down Regent Street, looking at the fine goods in the stores aimed at the quality, things I could never have afforded but which filled me with desire. Here in Gaudlin I passed a rather nice greengrocer’s with a display of fruit and vegetables that was quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. Local produce, no doubt. How fortunate to live near farmland, I thought, where the food must always be wholesome. This in turn led me to thinking of Isabella and the congealed breakfast. I hoped that dinner would be an improvement on this; it might be sensible if I prepared it myself. The window of a dressmaker’s store presented a view of another mother and daughter duo, one helping a lady decide about a particular dress, the other seated behind her sewing machine, her mouth containing so many pins that I hoped no one would startle her, lest she swallow one or more of them. A cake shop presented a bounty of delights and I wondered whether I might bring some back home with me—home! What a strange word to employ about Gaudlin Hall; as if that place could ever be a home to me—to endear myself to the children and then, finally, on this side of the road, just after a village pump from which some small children were drinking, I discovered a small mahogany plaque outside a door engraved with the words
Alfred Raisin, Solicitor-at-Law; Discerning Clients
, and smoothed down my coat, settled my hat firmly on my head, and stepped inside.

A young man was seated at a desk and he looked up from his ledger as the bell rang over the door. He was a rather odd-looking individual, prematurely balding, with fat, rosy cheeks and whiskers that were in need of grooming. A dark smudge of ink sat, unobserved by him, beneath his left eye. He took his spectacles off, replaced them on his nose once again and laid
his pen down. I noticed that his hands were covered in black marks and the cuffs of his shirt would surely present his wife with a challenging task come washday.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.

“I hope so,” I replied. “Are you Mr. Raisin?”

“Cratchett,” he said, shaking his head. “Mr. Raisin’s personal clerk.”

I struggled with an urge to laugh. “Cratchett?” I said.

“That’s right, miss,” he replied defensively. “There is something amusing about my name?”

I shook my head. “I do apologize,” I said. “I was thinking of another clerk called Cratchett. In the ghost story,
A Christmas Carol
. Have you read it?”

He stared at me as if I had suddenly started to speak an ancient Russian dialect and shook his head. “I don’t have much time for reading,” he said. “My clerking keeps me busy enough for reading. Them as has time to read should do so, I expect. But not me.”

“Well, you have heard of it at least.”

“I have not,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’ve never heard of
A Christmas Carol
?” I asked, astounded, for the short novel had been a popular success. “By Charles Dickens.”

“No, miss. I’m not familiar with the gentleman.”

I burst out laughing, certain that he was playing some elaborate joke, and his face turned red with anger. He had never heard of Charles Dickens? Was such a thing possible? Had he heard of Queen Victoria? The Pope in Rome?

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed, for the manner in which he looked at me suggested that he took any perceived slights against his character terribly
seriously. “I wonder whether I might speak with Mr. Raisin. Is he available?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. Is it necessary to make one?”

Cratchett glanced at his watch and frowned. “He has a meeting with an important client on the hour,” he said. “I can ask him if he can fit you in now but you’ll have to be quick with your business. Name please?”

“Eliza Caine,” I said and he nodded and took himself off to a different room while I stood staring around me. There was no place to sit and nothing of interest to look at. I picked up a copy of that morning’s
Times
that lay on Cratchett’s desk and glanced at the headlines. Another murder in Clerkenwell. A young girl this time. And another, in Wimbledon. A middle-aged man who was known to police. Also, a small child had gone missing in Paddington Station and the Prince of Wales was due to make a visit to Newcastle.

“Miss Caine?” said Cratchett, returning now, and I dropped the newspaper, feeling as if I had been discovered doing something I shouldn’t. His eyes followed to the desk and he seemed displeased by my rooting among his things. “Come with me, won’t you? Mr. Raisin can spare you five minutes if you promise to be quick.”

I nodded. “Five minutes will be perfectly adequate,” I said, not believing that for a moment. I suspected that I had enough questions to fill ten times that amount but five minutes would have to do for a start. I followed him into the next room, which was far more luxurious than the antechamber, and he closed the door behind me. By the window stood a large oak desk, covered in documents, neatly arranged, and as I entered a man stood up from behind it and came towards me, offering his
hand. He was in his late thirties, neatly presented with a tired if kindly expression on his face. Rather handsome too, if one’s tastes ran to the older gentleman.

“Alfred Raisin,” he said, offering a polite bow. “I believe you wanted to see me. I’m afraid I don’t have much time today though. I don’t know if Cratchett said but—”

“Yes, I understand perfectly,” I replied, taking the seat that he offered me opposite his desk as he returned to sitting behind it. “I have come on a chance, that’s all. I hoped you’d make time for me.”

“Of course, Miss …?”

“Caine,” I said. “Eliza Caine.”

“And you’re new to Gaudlin? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I arrived only last night. By the London train to Norwich and then Mr. Heckling brought me here in the carriage.”

“Heckling,” he replied, looking a little surprised. “You don’t mean the—”

“Yes, the stable man out at Gaudlin Hall,” I explained. “I’m the new governess.”

He put both hands to his face and pressed the fingertips against his closed eyes for a moment, as if he was thoroughly exhausted, then sat back and stared at me as much in curiosity as surprise. He stood up, then glanced at his watch and shook his head.

“It won’t do,” he said. “I forgot that I have an appointment with … with … with Mr. Hastings from Bramble Lodge. I can’t talk now.”

“Please,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Caine, but—”

“Please,” I insisted, raising my voice. A long silence ensued between us. He continued to stare and I turned away, noticing a rather lovely clock set inside a wooden boat on the mantelpiece. It was elaborately carved, really a thing of some beauty, and I felt an urge to walk over, release it from its mooring and run my finger along the woodwork.

“The new governess,” he said, sitting back down at last with a sigh. “Indeed. Arrived already.”

“You knew I was coming then?” I asked, turning back to him.

“Miss Bennet said something about it,” he replied, dissembling, I thought. “Well, rather more than something. She was here not three days since, seated in that same seat that you find yourself in now. She told me she was leaving. I had rather hoped I might persuade her otherwise.”

I felt suddenly uncomfortable and knew not why. I did not like the notion that I was sitting in that woman’s chair. It made no sense—it was not as if she had died there—but I shifted awkwardly and wished that we could repair to the couches that were situated along the walls of the office.

“Which is more than she told me,” I replied. “Mr. Raisin, I come to you in a state of some confusion. I understood that I was being hired by a family to be governess to their children. However, I arrived last night to discover that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Westerley is available, that neither of them is even
in situ
at Gaudlin Hall, and that the previous governess boarded the train that I disembarked in order to avail herself of its return journey. I’m quite at a loss as to what is going on.”

Mr. Raisin nodded and sighed. He smiled at me and offered something like a shrug. “I can imagine that would be quite bewildering, Miss Caine,” he said.

“You imagine correctly, sir.”

“So,” he said, making a temple of his fingers before his nose, “how can I help you?”

I hesitated, wondering why he needed to ask such a ludicrous question. “Well,” I said, feeling a sense of irritation grow in me now, “I was informed that you take care of financial matters relating to the estate.”

“I do,” he agreed. “I do indeed.” He sat up suddenly. “Ah, I think I understand now,” he said. “You’re concerned for your salary? You need have no worries on that point, Miss Caine. You may collect your weekly stipend here, at this office, every Tuesday morning. Cratchett will have everything ready for you. The accounts are in perfect order.”

“It’s not my salary I’m thinking of,” I said, although I must admit that had been at the back of my mind too; I did not have many savings of my own, after all, only what I had managed to put aside from my work at St. Elizabeth’s, and a few hundred pounds that Father had left me in his will and I had determined never to touch this capital but to avail myself of the interest instead. I needed paying if I was to survive.

“As for the other household expenses,” he continued, “you need not give them a second thought. The local grocer here organizes the food and has it sent up. All the invoices from the stores come directly to me and are settled promptly. Heckling’s wages, Mrs. … ” He coughed and corrected himself. “Any wages that need paying. We take care of them all here. There’s really nothing for you to worry about other than the obvious.”

“The obvious?” I asked. “And what obvious is that?”

“Why,” he said, smiling at me as if I was a perfect fool, “taking care of the children, of course. Who else would do that, if not the governess?”

“Their parents?” I suggested. “I assume that I am not to be left alone with Isabella and Eustace indefinitely. Their parents will be on hand soon?”

Mr. Raisin looked away, his expression becoming troubled. “Did Miss Bennet say that in her advertisement?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I admitted. “But I naturally assumed—”

“The truth is that Miss Bennet had no business placing that advertisement without consulting me first. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I picked up the
Morning Post
and saw it there. We had words on the subject, Miss Caine, I don’t mind telling you that. Strong words. But she was determined to leave. I suppose I can’t blame her in a way but—”

“Why?” I asked, leaning forward. “Why can’t you blame her?”

“Well,” he said, struggling now for an answer. “She didn’t settle here, that’s all. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t
local
,” he added, stressing the word.

“Mr. Raisin,
I
am not local,” I said.

“No, but perhaps you will fit in better than that lady did.” He glanced at his watch. “Heavens, is that the time already? I’m sorry to rush you out, Miss Caine,” he said, standing up and ushering me to my feet. “But as I said, I do have another appointment.”

“Of course,” I replied, frustrated by his evasions but rising now and allowing him to lead me to the door. “But you still haven’t answered my question. About Isabella and Eustace’s parents. When can I expect to see them?”

He stared directly into my eyes now and his forehead crinkled in dismay. There was a long pause and I swore that I would not break it; he would speak first or I would be damned.

“Did you come to Gaudlin alone?” he asked me and I raised an eyebrow, startled by the abrupt change of subject.

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

“I wondered whether you have a companion with you, that’s all. Or a parent perhaps? An older brother?”

“I have no siblings, Mr. Raisin, no friends, my mother died when I was a girl and my father passed away to his reward a little over a week ago. Why do you ask?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out and touching my arm, a gesture of such honest intimacy that it rather took my breath away. “About your father, I mean,” he added. “The loss of a loved one is a terrible thing.”

I opened my mouth to reply but found that I had no words. His hand remained on my elbow and to my astonishment I felt great consolation from his tenderness. I glanced at it, he followed my eyes, and took his hand away abruptly, coughing and turning away. Finally, trying to recover my wits, I repeated my question as to the whereabouts of the Westerley parents.