A Dark Dividing (54 page)
Authors: Sarah Rayne
‘Or,’ said Angelica levelly, ‘that I’m hiding a heart behind the cynicism.’
Before Harry could think how to answer this, she said, ‘We’d better finish exploring Karloff Castle, hadn’t we? I don’t know about you, but personally I’m extremely glad that I’m absymally ignorant about history: I wouldn’t want to even start
thinking
about the original purpose of most of these rooms, would you?’
‘I’m trying not to.’
Near the back of the house they found a long dim room where the stench of human misery was so strong that it was like walking into a solid wall. There were high, barred windows, and a rotting, worm-eaten floor.
Angelica said in a whisper, ‘And there’s something on the other side that looks like a lid—’
‘It’s a well-cover,’ said Harry after a moment. ‘Oh God, yes, of course it is! It’s a
well
, Angelica. That was what Simone photographed! The inside of a well!’
‘Yes, I see that. But does it,’ demanded Angelica, ‘get us any further? I mean, actually? And should we look inside, because—’ She broke off. The sound they had both heard earlier—the sound they had thought was the scuttling rat—had come again. And this time it was unmistakably coming from below.
‘It’s someone banging on a wall or something,’ said Harry, after a moment.
‘Someone trapped? Simone?’ They looked at one another. ‘Could it be?’ said Angelica.
‘I don’t know, but we’ll have to track it down. Through here, I think.’
They found the stone steps a few minutes later, and went cautiously down. The walls were dripping with damp and condensation, and when Harry moved the torch upwards for a moment there were pale blind fungoid growths on the ceiling.
They reached the foot of the steps, and there, in the torchlight, were rows of iron bars, each one roughly four feet high and two or three feet deep, set against the wall. There were eight or ten of them at least, each one linked to the next.
Cages, thought Harry. Iron cages. For a brief, sickening moment he was back in Floy’s book, with Tansy stealing fearfully down to this very room, to hide from the child-traders…
The cages were rusting and discoloured like decaying teeth, and they were filled with rubble and dead leaves. But in one of them something was moving… Something that was huddled inside an iron cage, and something that had bruised and torn hands from perpetually beating against the bars to attract their attention.
It took ten minutes to break off the padlock, but by dint of smashing into it with a partly-crumbled edge of floorstone Harry finally managed it.
‘Knight in shining armour after all,’ murmured Angelica, but when he paused because his fingers were cramping, she snatched the floorstone off him and took over.
As Simone, half-blinded from the hours in complete darkness, covered in dust and dirt, fell forward into Harry’s arms, Angelica, who was nearest to the steps, looked round, and said, ‘There’s someone coming.’
‘Rot,’ said Harry, ‘you’re imagining it. I can’t hear anything.’
‘No, wait, she’s right.’ Simone had struggled into a half-sitting position. ‘Listen—’
This time Harry heard it as well. Someone was walking quickly through the rooms overhead.
Simone, her eyes distended in purest fear, her hands clutching Harry’s, said, ‘She’s coming back. The woman with brown hair. She’s coming back to kill me.’
If Harry had been driven by instinct for the past five or six hours, now something even deeper took over. He said, urgently, ‘Listen, Simone—can you possibly bear to go back into that thing for about ten more minutes? Because if we’re going to lay a real trap—’
In the light from the torch, his face was white and intense. His eyes held Simone’s. She said, ‘Yes. Yes, all right.’
‘Good girl,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll both be just over here, you’ll be perfectly safe. Kill the torchlight, Angelica, for God’s sake—’
‘I am killing it,’ said Angelica in a whisper. ‘Simone, darling, you’re an absolute heroine. I promise we’ll crack the most expensive magnum of champagne together when we get out of here.’
E
VEN WITH THE knowledge that she had been rescued and that in a very short time she would be outside and the ordeal behind her, the sudden dousing of the torchlight sent Simone back into the nightmare of the last hours.
It took a great deal of resolve to scramble back into the loathsome cage, but she did it, pulling the iron bars of the door behind her, and crouching in a huddled position against the sides. Her heart was thudding with apprehension and she had absolutely no idea what was going to happen in the next few minutes. But tucked deep in her mind was the memory of the look in Harry’s eyes, and the feel of his arms catching her and holding her hard as she had tumbled out on to the stone floor. She supposed that at some point she would find out how he and Angelica had found her, but for the moment it did not matter.
The footsteps were getting louder. Simone’s heart was beating so furiously she thought it might burst out of her body. Supposing it was not the woman after all? Supposing it was just some chance passer-by, or a wino looking for a night’s doss-down, or—She’s at the top of the stairs, thought Simone, tensing, and with the thought a triangle of torchlight suddenly lit up the stairs. It was to be hoped Harry had some kind of plan: Simone had not the remotest idea of what to do.
The torchlight was coming nearer. Would the woman expect her to be dead by this time? Simone was pretty sure she had been down here for nearly twenty-four hours; she was ragingly thirsty and hungry and she felt as if she was in the middle of a bad attack of flu, but she was nowhere near dying and if the woman really was a nurse she would surely know that. Then she’s coming back to finish me off, thought Simone, and panic swept in again.
When the woman stepped into the stone underground room there was a sense of surprise, because for the past hours Simone had been building her up as a monster, and the reality was so different. She had not realized how small and how almost insignificant the woman was. You would pass her in a crowd fifty times and never notice her. Plain, a bit dumpy, dressed in drab clothes… But the eyes were the hard, cold eyes Simone had looked into yesterday, and the hands were as she remembered them: unstill and nervous.
She came up to the cage and knelt down so that her face was on a level with Simone’s. ‘Still alive, Simone?’ she said. ‘I thought you would be. But I don’t suppose you’ve had a very good few hours, have you? That was all part of the plan, of course. You had to be frightened and you had to know you were going to die.’
Simone said, ‘Am I going to die?’
‘Oh yes.’ The woman was pulling something out of her coat pocket that glinted. A syringe? ‘You’ll die quite quickly, Simone, and I’ll be here to watch you do it. And then I’ll take your body to the hillside where I buried Sonia. I think it will be a nice touch to put the two of you together, don’t you?’
‘I think it’ll be a lousy touch, Rosie,’ said Harry’s voice, and he stepped out of the shadows, Angelica at his side, and switched on his own torch.
She backed away at once, her eyes bolting from her head in the glare of the torch. Simone, consumed with fear but also with a terrible pity, thought she looked exactly like a small unattractive animal caught in car headlights on a dark night.
Before Harry and Angelica could pounce—certainly before Simone could crawl out of the cage again—Roz had whipped round and was running back up the stone steps. Harry went after her, hurling himself across the room, but Simone could hear that the woman had already reached the top of the steps, and that she was running hard across the rooms above.
Simone was not at the time aware of scrambling out of the cage, but she must have done so, because she and Angelica were running hard after the other two, and Angelica had switched on her own torch.
‘Darling, are you sure you’re all right—?’
‘Never better,’ said Simone, who was feeling so weak and light-headed she was not at all sure she would be able to reach the top of the steps.
‘Shouldn’t you be lying down—blankets and brandy and things—?’
‘We can do all that afterwards. Don’t fuss, Angelica.’ And miraculously she had reached the head of the stone steps, and they were crossing to the room that Sonia had once called the Paupers’ Room, and the ghosts were back in full force now, because they had never really gone away in the first place, those ghosts—
It was not until they reached the central hall with the cold spears of moonlight sliding across the ground, that they caught up with Harry. He was standing in the doorway, staring out into the night; his hair was untidy from the chase through Mortmain’s rooms and he looked pale and angry. He said, ‘I’ve lost the bitch. Either she’s hiding out somewhere in this wretched ruin, or—’
All three of them heard, faintly but definitely, the sound of a car starting up on the road below, and driving off into the night.
‘We’ve lost her,’ said Harry, and swore profusely.
Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
23rd November 1914
I have lain awake for most of the night, and now, this morning, I am convinced that Floy’s idea to have a straightforward interview with Dancy is wrong. Dancy is twisted and warped and evil, but I have the strongest feeling that he could also be extremely cunning.
And the only way to outwit cunning is to meet it with more cunning.
So, as soon as I have finished the coffee and toast brought up to me by the chambermaid, I shall ask them to have the pony and trap ready earlier than Floy had arranged. The young man who drives it is acquiescent and unquestioning: suspect he may be what the locals call a ‘natural’, but perfectly good-humoured and trustworthy. Floy has, of course, already paid for his services in driving us around, but I shall reward him with a couple of sovereigns as well after this is all over. And if luck is with me I shall be able to set off before Floy even realises I have gone.
(Am distinctly unhappy at practising this deceit on Floy, although have no qualms
whatsoever
about practising any kind of deceit at all upon Edward.)
However, needs must when the devil drives, and if ever the devil drove anything, he will be doing so today…
24th November
The Pheasant Inn turned out be be rather a sleazy place—Edward would have apoplexy at the thought of his wife entering such a place, and suspect Floy would not be too pleased about it, either. I asked the driver to wait for me, and went inside.
The main door opened directly on to what I thought was a tap-room (although I have no idea how to recognize a tap-room), and a slatternly-looking female asked, politely enough, how she could help me.
‘I wish to see Mr Dancy, if you please.’ I used Mamma’s most commanding voice, and was glad to see it had its effect. Also, was wearing a very authoritative hat, which may have helped.
Either the hat or the voice, or possibly both, worked, because within a few minutes I was shown to a room on the first floor, overlooking a cobblestoned yard at the rear. Beyond the small window I saw the covered drays, and my heart began to thump erratically. Were Viola and Sorrel in there? I was just wondering if I dared go out of the room and across the yard, when the door opened and he was there. The man I had for the past three weeks been hating with an intensity that frightened me.
I had visualized him as a semi-ogre—a huge blustering red-faced man with mean little eyes and greedy hands, and the reality was not so very much different, except that his voice—this was a shock—was much quieter than I had expected.
He said, in this soft, nearly-cultured voice that sat so oddly on him, ‘How can I help you, Miss—Mrs—?’
I had kept my gloves on so he could not see my wedding-ring. I said, with an attempt at efficient sprightliness, ‘Miss Craven.’ (Did not dare use real name in case he recognized it from the twins.) ‘I am from
Blackwood’s Magazine
, Mr Dancy, and I should very much like to talk to you about your work. For an article, you know.’
He liked the word ‘work’; I saw that at once. Men are ridiculously easy to flatter. He waved me to a seat on a greasy-looking sofa, and sat next to me. How extraordinary, he said, patting my hand, to find a young lady in this branch of work, although, of course, the war made it necessary for ladies to take on men’s work.
I am actually thirty-seven next birthday so by no stretch of the imagination can I be called young, but this was a promising start, so I said, ‘That’s very understanding of you, Mr Dancy. I saw your performers last evening, and thought them quite an extraordinary group.’
He leaned nearer, smiling down at me, and told me about his music hall and his travelling show. I was waiting for him to refer to the twins, but he did not, although he recounted, in a voice full of self-congratulation, how he had come by some of the other poor creatures whom he showed to the public.
I scribbled notes, more or less at random (had brought my travelling notebook for the purpose), and in a very short time he was not only patting my hand but holding it in his, and eyeing my figure. It took him another five minutes to make his pounce.
It was the most utterly loathsome experience to feel this repulsive creature’s hands pawing my body, but it was what I had planned and angled for.
I instantly donned an air of outraged, but over-awed, innocence, with—God help me!—a coy understanding beneath. ‘Oh, Mr Dancy, whatever kind of girl do you think I am…’ (Had practised before leaving, and think it came out quite well.)
But it was necessary to manoeuvre him into a position in which I would have greater physical dominance, so I set my teeth throughout the next few minutes, and allowed him a few fumbling intimacies. He slobbered kisses over my neck (will never be able to wear any of these clothes again!) and slid his free hand up under my skirt, forcing me back so that I was half-lying against the sofa’s back. He was half on top of me, his thick body pressing into me so that I could feel his arousal thrusting insistently against my legs: a thick blunt hardness like a battering ram. He would probably use it in just that way, as well—have noticed more than once that a man’s character is frequently reflected in his sexual organ.
His face was flushed an unbecoming crimson and he was breathing harshly. I waited until he had fumbled at the fastening of his trousers and pushed them down around his knees, and then I reached into my jacket pocket (so useful, these tailor-mades!) and brought out the long-bladed breadknife I had taken from the Bridge kitchens when I took my breakfast tray down.
In a voice quite different from the one I had been using, and far more like Mamma’s ringing committee tones, I said, ‘Please don’t move, Mr Dancy, for if you do I will stick this knife straight into your kidneys and I believe that is a vastly painful way to die.’
Do not think I have ever felt an erection dwindle so speedily. He became still at once, but his mean little eyes darted to my face like a watchful snake. He said, in a poor attempt at bluff archness, ‘And now what game are you playing, Miss Craven?’
‘My name isn’t Craven,’ I said, coldly. ‘And it isn’t “Miss”. I’m Charlotte Quinton.’ The flush faded from his cheeks, leaving a blotchy pallor. ‘I see you know who I am,’ I said. ‘That makes everything much simpler. No—don’t try to resist, because I’m very tempted indeed to kill you outright. And if we can’t come to an agreement I may have to do so anyway.’
‘What do you want, you bitch?’
‘My daughters, of course,’ I said. ‘The twins.’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not those two. They’re mine—all legal and above board. Your own husband signed them over to the Mortmain Trust—’
‘Let’s not play with words. We both know that you’re the Mortmain Trust. I suppose Edward paid you to keep quiet about his deception, did he? Yes, I thought he must have done.’ I felt him move slightly as if he was about to jerk away, so I dug the point of the knife very slightly into his back. It penetrated his coat and scraped his flesh so that he gasped with sudden pain and surprise. ‘I will kill you if I have to,’ I said. ‘I promise you that I really will. You’re an evil animal, and I find you utterly disgusting and I would kill a hundred people to free my daughters.’
‘They’d hang you for it, you bitch.’
‘I’ll risk that. Now tell me where the adoption papers are, so that I can destroy them and take my daughters home.’
He was sweating so profusely that I could smell it—a horrid yeasty stench that made me feel sick. But he said, ‘In the portmanteau,’ and indicated a worn-looking carpet bag in a corner of the room. ‘I take my papers with me when I travel.’
‘Stand up,’ I said. ‘But remember that when you do, this knife will be in direct line with your repulsive genitals.’
‘You wouldn’t do that, my dear—Come now—’ Incredibly his voice was sliding back into the treacly patronizing note of earlier.
‘Oh, I would,’ I said. ‘And I would enjoy it.’
He stood up slowly, a ridiculous figure with his trousers around his knees. He made to pull them up but I stopped him because it was an effective way of hobbling him, and so he shuffled awkwardly to where the bag was, and reached inside. There was a bad moment when I feared that he might snatch something heavy—a plantpot or one of the hideous china ornaments from the mantel—and fling it at me, but he did not. He rifled through a sheaf of papers, and then sulkily held out two sheets, covered in lawyers’ copperplate.
‘Good,’ I said, and like a fool I reached forward to take them.
It was what he had been waiting for, of course; within four seconds he had kicked his trousers off over his boots and launched himself at me. He knocked the knife out of my hand and pushed me back on to the sofa, one hand clasping itself around my neck, half throttling me.
‘You stupid cunt,’ he said. ‘Did you really think you could get the better of Matt Dancy? I don’t let any woman get the better of me and certainly not you.’ His other hand was already circling both my wrists. I struggled against him, kicking his shins and trying to bring my knee up to jab into his groin but he was too strong.
‘You won’t have your precious brats,’ he said, in a hissing voice, his breath hot and fetid in my face. ‘They’re for me. They’re money-spinners, those two. People
pay
to see them sing and dance on a stage. And there’s something else.’ His face swam nearer to mine, red and exultant and ugly. ‘In another couple of months I’m going to fuck them, your precious daughters,’ he said. ‘I’ve been saving them up for that. And afterwards—after I’ve taught them a trick or two—there’ll be many a man will pay to have them in bed.’
I stared up at him in horror, and he laughed. ‘They’re freaks, you stupid whey-faced bitch—
freaks!
—and there’s plenty of men who get a hard-on just thinking about being in bed with a freak! Women too.’
At that I sank my teeth into his hand, and he swore and smacked me hard across my mouth. ‘Cat,’ he said. ‘You’d better be taught a lesson. You don’t come in here with your fluttering eyes and your soft white skin, and give a man a stand like a telegraph pole, and then draw a knife on him—not without being punished for it, you don’t.’ Incredibly one hand came up to stroke my face. ‘White skin,’ he said in a voice suddenly thick. ‘And a ladylike voice. I’ve always been partial to the ladylike ones,’ he said, and I realized with horror that he had become aroused again.
I fought him for all I was worth but he was strong and heavy and I was no match for him. Then I yelled for help, but he only laughed. ‘Scream away, my soft white bird,’ he said. ‘No one here pays much attention to a screaming female.’
He jerked my legs wide and tore aside the thin underclothes I was wearing, so that there was the repulsive heat of his body against mine—coarse skin and hair, and the hot stalk of masculinity against my thighs. I yelled again, and thought that somewhere down in the tavern a door opened and closed. But it was already too late, he was already starting to force himself inside me.
The door opened and he turned his head towards it instinctively. I saw his expression alter, and incredibly he released me. There was a darting movement from the door and I struggled to a sitting position, and turned my head. And then I saw who was standing in the doorway, and I saw the horrified understanding on the two young faces.
Viola and Sorrel. My lost babies, seeing me for the first time in the grotesque embrace of this evil monster.
They moved across the room, and I saw Viola snatch up the discarded breadknife. Viola, whose left arm had to be around around Sorrel’s waist, but whose right hand was already raising the knife—
I think I cried out but it was already too late. Viola brought the knife plunging down and drove it deep and hard into Dancy’s thick neck.
He staggered back at once, his eyes bulging, blood spurting from his neck. He flailed helplessly at the air, and tried feebly to pull at the knife, but before he could reach it he crashed to the floor. His body jerked and twitched and froth appeared on his lips, and then he was still.