The key in the lock, p.9
The Key In the Lock, page 9
‘And Miss Cardew, sir,’ Mrs Bly said, glancing at me. ‘Will I give her what you and the master have? Or the same as Agnes and myself?’
Edward looked rather stricken.
I said, ‘The same as Agnes, Mrs Bly, thank you. You can send it all up on the same tray.’
However much I yearned for the chance to dine with Edward, the prospect of sitting at table with Tremain was not one I could contemplate.
Outside in the passage, Edward stopped. We could hear Mrs Bly again, moving around the kitchen. In the dimness, his face seemed close.
‘I’ll see to the tree,’ I said again.
‘Thank you, Miss Cardew,’ he replied, softly. ‘Boscawen said he would ask you to come, and I’m glad he did.’
‘It was Father who asked me,’ I said. ‘But of course, I’m delighted to, that is … I hope I can be of use,’ I said.
His gaze had moved away, to a dark corner of the passage. Just discernible, there leaned a hoop and a stick. He dragged his eyes back to my face. ‘It’s a great solace – I mean, you’re –’ And now it was his turn to flush. Awkwardly he bowed, and went away.
I listened to his departing steps, then turned back into the kitchen for a bowl of hot water.
8.
Agnes took the steam quietly, coughing an encouraging amount, and then subsiding back on to the pillows. I emptied her chamber pot, took the bowl away, and she agreed to close her eyes while I went about the house fastening the shutters. Those at the front would be sufficient for a chance caller to understand that death had touched Polneath.
With Tremain out of the house, moving through the passages ought to have been gentler upon the nerves, but I found myself treading softly. I told myself it was out of respect for a grieving household; but that did not explain why I also stopped to look over my shoulder every few steps. In the failing light I could hear distant gunshots. Tremain, exercising his feelings upon the rooks.
I began at the top of the house, with the storerooms opposite the rooms occupied by Mrs Bly, Agnes, and now myself, and then moved down to the grander rooms. None of the doors were locked, and unseen draughts shook them in their frames. I thought of what Mrs Bly had said: of Tremain hoarding his bunch of keys, his evident determination that no one should sneeze but that he know about it.
I guessed that Edward’s bedroom must overlook the back of the house: the two servants’ wings, the pond, and the mills beyond. Tremain’s room did – his was the only door that gaped ajar, a cold draught coming from an open window within. I could glimpse a decanter still holding a half-inch of port, sitting on the bedside table. A grand mirror, dusty cut-glass jars catching the light.
The front bedrooms were damp-smelling rooms, too grand to be comfortable; identical four posters draped in a faded peach, the hangings bagged haphazardly, so that surely moth had got in. Spotted mirrors and ornate, cracked chamber pots pushed into corners. Every windowsill was host to a graveyard of dead flies. The view from these rooms was of the great sweep of gravel at the front of the house, and the rarely used carriage drive climbing away to the top road, where Boscawen lived.
There was a chill to those front rooms. I had rather be in William’s, however melancholy.
The last of the grand bedrooms was different. It must have been the one used by Edward’s wife, before she died: Emily, William’s mother. The room was done in pink. There were small soft slippers beside the bed, and in the wardrobe a host of pale summer dresses and linen, expensive things. Large white hats. She had only ever come for June.
She had been new money, Emily Tremain, though it was not polite to know that. She had been a little thing, fair. People had said that William took after her, although you could not really tell with children what their colouring would go on to be. She had been quiet – Edith had thought her shy, but she had seemed to me aloof, not understanding country things, nor caring to. Her father made cotton in Leeds, while Edward brought the older family, and the southern connection; for it had been made clear to her father, Mrs Humphrey said, that her health meant she oughtn’t to settle in the north.
Edward had been so young, when they’d married. Twenty. A year older than I was now, but men were such fools. I could not decide what I would prefer, that he should have loved her, or that he should have been indifferent. He had seemed indifferent. Never cruel, but no more than polite; except, the year she was large with William, holding doors for her more carefully, placing a shawl about her shoulders in church.
Some people said there had been unpleasantness, between her father and Tremain; that, while William would have inherited her money, Edward was cut out from doing so. It was not polite to know about that, either. That was why, people said, Tremain had appeared to dote upon his grandson, as he never had upon his son. If it was true, it meant that Edward’s money, money that might have been invested in the failing mills, had gone up in smoke, along with his son.
I closed the shutters in Emily Tremain’s room, plunging the scent bottles on the dressing table into darkness. If Edward had not loved her, it was strange that all her things had simply been left like this. He must have, then. He must have loved her.
On the landing, I almost turned my ankle, and then picked up a small spinning top, which had rolled against the edge of the carpet. I thought of the little hands entranced by its smoothness, the delighted counting as it would spin, and I almost thought I heard him – six, seven, eight – and looked around, but there was only the quiet, dim passage, and that air of waiting.
I finished with the shutters on the ground floor. There was a music room, with a harpsichord. The billiard room felt like Tremain’s realm: an overflowing ashtray, and a single ugly burn in the green baize of the table. In the library I found the packing for the tree decorations, where Mrs Bly had told me I should find it, pushed under one of the tables. There was thick dust all around. The books were shut up mostly, in glass-fronted cases, and plenty looked as though they had never been touched. I idled along one or two of the titles – temperance and Methodist tracts, which must have belonged to Edward’s grandfather.
As the daylight failed entirely, I attended to the tree. Mrs Bly had said Jake would come when I was finished, and take it out. Evidently, it must come down, yet it seemed a shame. Some of the ornaments were exquisite – and old, too. There was a porcelain Holy Family: father, mother, little son. There was an alabaster dove, and a lovely little drummer boy, perfect in every detail.
I began with the presents beneath the tree, packing them into a crate Mrs Bly had given me. As I touched each one, I could not help feeling for what was inside. One was soft. Another felt like a little set of cricket stumps, or skittles perhaps. None had a name on, Will having been the only child in the house, and it occurred to me that this was fortunate, since the presents would now be going to other boys, and then chastised myself for the cold practicality of the thought.
The presents done, I moved on to the tree; the heavier things, and then the baubles. Usually I would enjoy the feel of the ornaments, the peculiar bend of my reflection in the blown glass. But there was no joy in the task. Some of the tissue was almost disintegrating, and I was tired, I realized, more tired than I had thought. After Mother died, when I would decorate the tree, Father would cry. I had got into the habit of bringing the ornaments down from the attic myself, dusty-handed, and decking the tree while he was out on his rounds. A surprise for him, I would say to Mrs Humphrey.
Now I took down the Holy Family, but I must have mishandled it somehow, for the child came away from the manger, snapped off at the root like a tooth. I looked around me, at the dim and quiet hall. The break was a clean one, perhaps it could be mended; I dithered like that, for a minute. I ought to put the ornament aside, and give it to Mrs Bly, or to Edward. Instead, I wrapped it in tissue, with clumsy hands, and put it away with the rest, telling myself they had other things to think of.
The mistake made me anxious to see Jake. Keen, as well as nervous.
It had been nagging at the edge of my thoughts, what Edward had said about servants. That their business is their own. That it did not follow that their business must be malicious – I had not been able to avoid veering towards what Edward might have meant. Avoid proposing to myself the reasons a maid might have, for being out of her bedroom at night, that were not malicious. Their business is their own. Could she have been meeting a sweetheart? And there was but one manservant at Polneath, and that was Jake … but it was impossible. I was running too far. Jake would never be so underhand – and now I was eager for nothing more than to see him, to have the solid reassurance of him.
When the front door opened, I leapt to my feet. But it was Tremain: he gripped the door frame, dropped his hat. Over his arm was a half-dismantled gun.
‘Have I missed dinner?’ he said.
‘It’s not yet five, sir,’ I replied.
He looked at me, properly. Weak but dangerous, as a beast when it is wounded.
‘Good evening,’ I added. I was thinking, Edward, come out of your study. Jake, come in for the tree.
‘Didn’t you get married?’ Tremain said, reaching for his hat.
I looked down. ‘My friend Edith was married, sir. In the autumn. The vicar’s daughter …’ I paused.
‘Ah yes,’ Tremain said.
I looked up in time to see the unpleasant expression which had overtaken his face.
‘And you’re here to check on us.’
‘I’m helping Mrs Bly,’ I said.
And at that, Jake appeared behind him. Tremain dropped his hat again, lurched for it, and almost lost his balance. Jake stooped to help him, taking the gun with a murmured, ‘Allow me, sir.’
Tremain made for the stairs, using the bannister to haul himself up, step by arduous step.
‘I’m almost finished,’ I said to Jake, when Tremain was out of earshot.
We stood and looked at the tree, a strange, sentient scrap of the outside.
‘They burn nice. Do you remember my father would make a bonfire of ours?’
‘I do,’ I said. And then, ‘Mr Edward said, would you see the presents sent to St Margaret’s in Falmouth.’ I gestured to the crate.
Jake nodded. ‘It’s sad.’
He looked thinner, suddenly. Weary. I remembered him wet through. Was it only the night before? I looked up the stairs after Tremain. ‘He thought I was Edith.’
‘You’re nothing alike,’ Jake said.
I looked back at the tree. ‘Inquest tomorrow.’
‘Mm. And then you’ll go home.’ He was fidgeting with the gun. ‘Your father oughtn’t to have sent you,’ he said, suddenly.
‘Whyever not?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Jake?’ I stopped, dropped my voice. ‘Jake, do you suppose Agnes was happy here?’
He still said nothing.
I whispered, ‘She said she’d given Tremain her notice.’
Jake looked at me. ‘Did she?’ His gaze moved back to the gun. ‘Does Mr Edward know?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t want to burden him with it …’
Jake had fallen quiet again.
‘Jake?’ I said. And then, ‘Do you like Agnes?’
This time he did not look at me, only balanced the gun across the useless presents, hefted the crate. When he had a grip on it, he said, ‘You shouldn’t be here. You should go home.’
‘It’s only a night. The inquest is tomorrow.’
He looked at me. ‘You’re not a servant,’ he said. ‘I know you’re in and out of houses – that you help people, because of your father. But there are things you don’t understand.’
‘For instance?’ I said, more coldly now.
He looked at me for a long moment, but then only gave a resentful kind of shrug, and went off with the crate.
When he had gone, I lingered in the hall, gathering the few stray scraps of tissue to put in the fire. I thought Jake might come back for the tree, and then I might sweep the needles, but he didn’t appear again.
Nor did Edward. The house was quiet, and I was alone.
Mrs Bly had lit the gas mantle in the stairwell when I went down, and she thanked me, curtly, for the shutters and the tree. There was a stew ready, and some roast beef for the gentlemen. I waited while she finished the plates. Mrs Bly told me she would take the master’s, and Mr Edward’s, so I carried two bowls up the stairs for Agnes and myself. My knees ached. I knew I must press her, about the packed bag, about where she had been. I knew I ought to ask her about Jake. I left one bowl in William’s room for myself, set it on the little chest of drawers, and took the other in to Agnes.
Her eyes were closed as I went in, but she quickly opened them, and then calmed as she saw who it was.
‘Manage any sleep?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘A bit.’
I stood by with the stew as she struggled upright against the pillows. She was just reaching for the bowl, when her eyes flicked over my shoulder.
I had never seen the colour drain so fast from a face. From pink to white to grey in half a moment, and her mouth fell open and a sound came out.
‘What?’ I said. I whirled about to put down the stew. I thought she was having some kind of turn. ‘What is it?’
‘Did you put it there?’ Agnes nodded at the door.
And then I looked.
Hanging upon the door across the two hooks was a grubby, yellow garment.
Though I didn’t recognize it, I felt suddenly cold. ‘No. What –?’
I looked at Agnes, and understood. It was a child’s nightshirt. Small, spoiled with dirt, and stained now a bright, sick yellow. There was mangled lace at the throat and cuffs. It was William’s nightshirt. Dyed? In the dim light of the bedroom it seemed almost to glow.
‘How did –’ I looked at it again. ‘You didn’t hear anyone come in?’
Agnes was pale. ‘The noise of the key would have woken me.’
I looked at the shirt again. Hanging, like a rag for scaring birds. Brimstone, that was the colour. Like they put in the powder. My hands, my arms had gone almost numb, and I realized my breath was quick. Aware of Agnes’s eyes on me, I worked to be calm, and made myself touch it. The cloth was fine, and almost imperceptibly damp.
I thought of the child in the woods, the yellow ghost.
I made myself fold the shirt.
‘I didn’t lock you in,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like to.’
It took several minutes to calm Agnes down, and even then she would not accept the stew. She insisted that she felt sick, but took a little of the draught my father had left, after I’d promised to lock the door.
As Agnes’s eyelids began to look heavy, I told her that I would be just through the wall, a cough or a sneeze and I would hear her. I thought she looked comforted. I held the nightshirt bundled behind my back, and nodded at the now empty hooks on the back of her door.
‘Do you suppose it was Mrs Bly?’ I stepped closer. ‘Is she cruel to you, Agnes? Is that why you wished to leave?’
But Agnes was already half asleep, in spite of herself. She only said, ‘When you turn the key, you’ll take it with you?’
I did as she asked. Locked her in, and took the key, put it on the little table near William’s bedside, leaving the nightshirt draped at the end of the bed. I ate my own cold stew quickly, trying to think.
Tremain had accused Agnes. Mrs Bly would not hear a word against him. Had woken to the fire, and turned not along the passage to Agnes’s room, but up the stairs to wake Tremain. I picked up the yellow nightshirt, and rolled it up, tucked it into my apron, and went down.
I set my empty bowl down rather hard on the kitchen table, and Mrs Bly jumped.
‘Everything alright with the stew, Miss Cardew?’
‘Where is William’s nightshirt?’
She turned from her work. ‘His –?’
‘His nightshirt. The one he was wearing when he died.’
Mrs Bly’s face was a careful blank. ‘In the wash, I suppose. I put him in a new one, and wiped his face and hands –’
‘Why did you do that?’ I said, and when it was clear she didn’t take my meaning, I added, ‘The nightshirt is evidence, Mrs Bly. Mr Boscawen will want to be able to examine it. Along with any marks on William’s person.’
She looked scared at that, and began to bluster that she would find it, she was sure she could lay hold of it.
I could hardly tell whether she was honest, she had such a flinching, averted way about her. At last, I held up the nightshirt. Clutched in one fist, it looked like a grubby yellow rag. ‘Is this the one?’
‘Is – what’s the matter with it?’ she said. ‘Why is it –?’
But I could not make out what was behind her eyes. Was it guilt? Or fear?
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Nor how it got to Agnes’s room.’
‘To where?’
‘To Agnes’s room.’
Mrs Bly swallowed. That blankness returned. ‘I suppose she did it herself,’ Mrs Bly said. ‘No doubt she wished to trifle with you.’
In William’s room, I put the bundled nightshirt on the floor by the door, and paced. I could not settle. Ought I to go to Edward? But he had so much with which to contend, and the memory of his heavy head and red eyes earlier was enough to stop me. Besides, what would I tell him? That a nightshirt had gone astray – turned yellow – it almost sounded ridiculous, and hardly described the feeling of seeing it hanging there, the sick glow of it, and realizing to whom it belonged. What was more, I hardly knew what to think. Agnes’s fear had seemed real. But what if she had put the nightshirt there? She might have. After all, I hadn’t locked her in. Suddenly I felt that I did not understand her at all. As though I had waded beyond my depth.
I felt resentful, suddenly, of the task Boscawen had set for me, the manner in which he had pulled me in. Who was he, to ask this? And yet at the same time I felt grateful, that the inquest was tomorrow, and that I could hand it all to him. Never think of it again.
To calm myself, I dug out the spinning top I had found earlier, and set it on the bookshelf, beside a mysterious felt bag, the contents of which I recognized the moment I lifted it. I tipped the marbles out gently on to the coverlet, nudged them to and fro. There was one that was clear, with a swirl of green smoke. Another that was blue.
