Spider Light (24 page)

Dreadful, said people, gathering outside St Michael’s Church after Reverend Skandry had announced the tragedy from the pulpit. The most shocking thing. Trapped inside Twygrist’s kiln room, seemingly, and unable to make anyone hear their cries for help. Oh dear, it did not bear thinking about. The mill had been closed down years ago, of course–that had been after George Lincoln gave up his work as manager–and the place had never really been made safe.

And what would happen to Quire House? If there were any other Forrester relatives, nobody in Amberwood had ever heard of them. It was possible they would turn up at the funeral, people did turn up at funerals: long-lost cousins and aunts whom no one had ever heard of. Anyway, whoever turned up or did not turn up, it would be quite an occasion. Reverend Skandry would give those two poor souls a good send-off, they could all be sure of that. Mrs Minching was going to put on a cold lunch up at Quire and everyone was invited to attend.

It was known that George Lincoln was very distressed by the news–he was looking quite ill, the poor man. This was hardly surprising, though, what with him actually having found poor Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon, and what with him having worked for the Forrester family for a good many years. And then Miss Thomasina had recently been taking one of her kindly interests in Maud Lincoln. This last was said without any conscious undercurrent; most people were sorry for George, poor old George, and genuinely concerned to learn that Maud had been unwell, and was presently recuperating with some family somewhere. Ah well, the best place for her, under the circumstances.

Bryony Sullivan went to the double funeral, although it had been difficult to get her duties changed to do so. A new patient had just been brought into the private section who seemed to be taking up a good deal of the Prout’s time, which meant the general running of the main wards fell to the nurses. Poor little Dora Scullion was sent scuttling hither and yon like a demented rabbit, doing the work of three people–and probably getting less wages than one. Bryony would have preferred to stay and help Scullion and the nurses, but this was not a funeral that could be avoided.

‘We’re living on Thomasina Forrester’s land,’ said Bryony’s father. ‘And although neither of us cared for her much, attending the old girl’s funeral is something we should do. There are decencies to be observed.’

He was so seldom bothered about the decencies, that Bryony
was quite surprised when he said this. She was even more surprised when he eschewed his usual shabby clothes and donned one of the few good outfits he still possessed.

‘I can still shine myself up when the occasion requires it,’ he said, coming down the stairs of Charity Cottage, and Bryony smiled, because if it was rare for him to bother about the decencies, it was even rarer for him to display any vanity.

A rather desultory wake was held at Quire House after the service. Mrs Minching had provided a buffet and sherry, confiding to Bryony as she handed round the food, that she would never get over the way Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon had died.

‘What is the world coming to, Miss Bryony, tell me that?’

‘It’s so sad,’ said Bryony.

‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, lowering her voice, ‘that there’s more to those two deaths than is being told. Accident, that’s what they’re saying, but to my mind, that’s all so much eyewash, Miss Bryony, beg pardon for being so forward.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, ‘that Maud Lincoln knows more than she should about what happened. Out for all she could get, that one, and very odd behaviour at times. And since she’s gone off to be ill somewhere, I’ve found some very puzzling things in my household books.’

‘What do you mean, puzzling?’

‘What they call discrepancies, Miss Bryony.’ The word was pronounced with care. ‘Invoices and delivery notes for things never delivered to Quire, but not a one of them in my pantry inventory, and you can’t argue against that, can you?’

Byrony supposed you could not, and did not say that at Charity Cottage food was bought as it was needed, and put in the meat safe or onto the cold slab, according to what it might be. The state of the larder was largely reliant on the state of the finances, although the larder’s deficiencies were frequently augmented by Bryony’s father. In the Irish house hospitality had been so casual but so lavish, that no one had ever seemed to mind if two people
turned up for a meal or twenty. No one would have bothered about pantry invoices or discrepancies either, because it would not have occurred to anyone that such things needed to be written down.

‘Very extravagant items of food they were, Miss Sullivan. Jars of preserved pears and peaches in brandy, and expensive foreign cheeses. Camembert and Brie, and the
best
water biscuits to go with them.’

She nodded several times, and Bryony looked round to see if there was any hope of being rescued from this, but the only person anywhere nearby was the Reverend Skandry. It would be better to stay with Mrs Minching who was saying that she would never believe Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon could have got themselves shut inside Twygrist, not if fifty crowners said so, and would Miss Bryony be so kind as to pass round the shrimp patties.

The idea of a memorial to Thomasina was being discussed in several corners of the room by this time. It appeared to have captured people’s interest, although it sounded to Bryony as if opinions as to the form it could take differed wildly. It was perhaps as well that the suggestions being made by several gentlemen who had looked on the wine when it was red did not reach Reverend Skandry’s hearing.

They had reached Dr Glass’s hearing, though. Bryony saw his eyebrows go up at one point. He wandered over to where she was standing, and said had she ever noticed that funerals produced a remarkable degree of bawdiness in some people.

‘It’s simply the relief that they’re still alive,’ said Bryony. ‘In Ireland they all get roaring drunk. In fact, I think there are still places where they prop the corpse up in a corner of the room.’

‘Wouldn’t the parish priest object to that?’

‘He’s usually roaring drunk with them,’ said Bryony caustically.

Dr Glass grinned, and said, ‘I’ve been to Ireland, but I’ve never seen your Ireland, Bryony, and I’d like to do so someday.’ Before Bryony could think how to reply to this, he said, ‘I was thinking though, that if Amberwood really wants a memorial to Thomasina,
they could make it in the form of a bequest to one of the hospitals. A new ward, or, at the most, some new equipment. Do you think that’s a good idea, Bryony?’

He had rather a nice way of saying her name. She said, ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea.’

‘And if people want something permanent to look at and remember Thomasina Forrester, then I’ll personally pay for something to be stuck on the side of Twygrist. A clock perhaps. It’d look hideous, but it’s probably what people would like. What do you think?’

‘I think it would look hideous too, but I think it would be very well received.’

At first Maud did not realize where she was, except that she was in a small room inside a rambling echoing place, with long soulless passages.

Awareness came gradually, like stagnant water trickling into her mind, and like sly throaty whispers inside her head.

Of cours-s-e you know where this is, Maud…Of course-s-s-e you do…

Latchkill. She was inside the place of nightmares, the place of huge heavy doors, the place where spider light lay thickly on all the rooms all the year round, so you could never be sure what might be crouching inside it, watching you. The place mamma used to stare at through the thick iron bars of the gates. But what mamma could not have known was that the inside of Latchkill was so full of pain and fear and despair that there seemed to be hardly any room for all the people who came and went.

People came and went in and out of Maud’s own little room, which was quite bare, apart from the bed and a cupboard next to it. The woman everyone called Matron, who had a face like a slab of concrete and tiny mean eyes, came in quite a lot of times, and some nurses came in as well. At first Maud had hoped Bryony Sullivan might be one of these. She did not know Bryony very well, but she knew she was pretty and clever. She would be
someone Maud might be able to talk to–she might explain why Maud had been brought here and what was going to happen next. But Bryony did not come.

Father came, although not very often. Maud was taken to a special room for his visits–a proper bedroom, it was, with a frilled bed-cover and cushions, a dressing-table with an embroidered runner, and a little table and chair in one corner. There was a marble washstand in the other corner, with a flowered jug and basin. Father liked the room. He looked round approvingly, and said, My word, very nice, very comfortable, and he was glad to see Maud was being properly looked after.

‘I don’t sleep here,’ said Maud. ‘I have another room. Not nearly as nice,’ and father looked immediately worried, and said he would speak to matron about it. Maud did not really understand this, but she was more concerned with finding out if Thomasina and Simon had been found yet. She listened carefully, but father did not mention them at all. He just talked about ordinary things–about what was happening in the town–and he did not mention Twygrist or ask why Maud had been there that night.

Did this mean Thomasina and Simon were still in the mill? Surely it must. After a while Maud could not be bothered to listen to father’s babbling any longer. She hated him because he had brought her to this place and was trying to pretend it was for her own good, and she did not think he believed her about the room. So she stared at a single point in the wall, which she had found was quite a good way to shut everything out–father’s stupid talk, the nurses telling her to eat this, drink that, my word, you’re a silent one, aren’t you…One day she would have a very good revenge on all of these people.

But the one thing she could not shut out was the growing conviction that Thomasina and Simon must still be inside Twygrist. Were they both alive? Maud began to believe they might be–they were so sly and so clever, those two.

What if they were still there? They would not look very nice by
this time. Their skin would be yellowing and dried out from being in the dark for so long, and the bones of their hands would be sticking through the flesh from where they hammered against the ancient bricks to get out.

Maud would not have thought she would be able to hear their fingerbones and knucklebones beating against Twygrist’s walls from inside Latchkill, but she could. At first she thought the sounds came from outside, but presently she realized they were directly under the floor of her own room. This was surely impossible, but then Maud remembered again how very cunning they had been, and she counted up all the days and the nights they would have been down there, and she began to understand. They must be digging their way out–making a tunnel from beneath Twygrist all the way across the fields and lanes, until they reached Latchkill and Maud. And one night–it might be very soon–they would burst through the floor of her room.

But Maud was going to be ready for that. Thomasina and Simon might think that the spider light would hide them–they might even believe it would smother the sounds–but Maud was cleverer than those two by far! She began to lie down on the floor, pressing her ear closely against the floor boards so she could hear better, and so she would know exactly where they were, and how near to the surface they were. This was a very good idea indeed, and even though she was shut away in this terrible place, she began to feel safer.

The realization that Antonia Weston would have to be punished had grown gradually in Donna’s mind. But before she could make a plan about this, she needed to know more about the bitch’s life–where she lived, if she had any other besotted young men in tow. Donna took a few days’ holiday from the restaurant. She was sorry to give such short notice of this, she said, but there were some family problems she had to sort out. No one questioned this and she thought it was an excuse that could be stretched to cover a fortnight if necessary.

It was easy to find out the times of Antonia’s various clinics, then to wait for nights when Don was not around, and not using the car. Donna waited in the hospital car park and followed Antonia home. She was very discreet about it careful to keep at least two cars between them.

Weston lived in a bungalow a few miles from the hospital. It was not in the same class as the house where Donna and Don had grown up, but it was quite big and was a whole lot better than the poky flat which was all Donna could afford now. The sheer unfairness of the last few years rose up like bile in her throat.

The following day she went back there. It was four o’clock, a
time when most people would be out at work. She drove slowly past, seeing that it looked comfortable and that there was a big garden at the back with a large lawn sloping down to some trees. Donna glimpsed a table and chairs beneath one of the trees. She imagined Antonia having meals there in the summer or inviting colleagues for evening drinks. Her parents used to do that. Her mother always ordered canapés from Harrods and her father always complained about the cost. It was only after their deaths Donna realized her father must have been on perilously thin financial ice for years.

She drove to the end of the tree-lined road, reversed, and came back. This time there was a definite movement in the large bay window; Donna pulled into the kerb, pretending to consult a map. For some reason she had assumed Antonia lived on her own, but she might be married or living with someone, or even have children. She parked in a side road, and walked back. At first she thought she had been mistaken: nothing moved inside the bungalow at all. Could she risk waiting, hoping to get a better look? Yes, she could. She needed to know as much as possible about Antonia Weston’s life. Donna pulled a notebook from her handbag and pretended to consult it as if looking for a particular house number or name.

There was someone in the bungalow! Standing by the gate she had a clear sightline through the side pane of the bay, and she could see a man seated at a small grand piano. Baby grand, did they call it? Boudoir grand? Whatever it was called, it looked as if he was playing a few bars and then breaking off to make some kind of note. Donna was not near enough to see clearly but she had an impression of someone dark-haired and quite young. Late twenties or early thirties, maybe? She walked on, her mind seething.

So the bitch already had a husband or a live-in lover–a musician from the look of things. Perhaps he was a music teacher or attached to one of the big orchestras. They would have a good life together, living in this extremely nice part of North London, in this comfortable-looking bungalow with its big garden. They
would have friends and money and interesting jobs, in fact, you could say that Antonia Weston had it all. The knowledge sent hatred searing through Donna. The bitch had so much, but she had still taken the one thing in the world that Donna wanted and needed above all else. She had taken Don.

Somehow she got back to her car and drove home. By the time she reached her flat, she knew exactly and precisely the form Antonia Weston’s punishment would take.

These days, on most mornings Don said offhandedly not to bother about supper for him. If Donna asked where he was going, he always said, brusquely, ‘Out.’

He treated the flat as if it was a dosshouse these days. His bedroom was a disgusting mess. Several times Donna had been late for work at the restaurant because Don had taken her car without telling her. But all this was Weston’s fault, and so Donna put up with it. She cleaned Don’s room, and bought a steering-wheel lock for her car and hid the key so Don could not use it without her knowing.

Antonia usually left the hospital at around half past six and each night Donna followed her.

Each evening Weston got home between seven and half past, put her car into the garage at the side of the bungalow, locked it, and then went in through the glass-panelled front door. She often had a briefcase with her, or a laptop. Donna imagined her having dinner with the dark-haired man, and then perhaps retiring to a study or a spare bedroom to work. Very cosy indeed. But not for much longer, Doctor Weston. There would surely come a night when Weston did not go straight home to the warm welcoming bungalow, and that was the night Donna was waiting for.

By the fifth night she no longer bothered with the hospital, she drove directly to the bungalow, parking in different places in the road each time, or using one of the side roads and walking back. At one end of the road was a small group of shops, with a
pub. On one of the nights a man came out of the pub as she was passing it, and said, ‘Hello darling, going my way?’ Donna ignored him and walked quickly on, but the small encounter worried her and she was careful to park at the other end of the road afterwards. You never knew how much people might remember about even the most casual of meetings.

Every night Antonia came faithfully home and did not go out again. As the second week wore on, Donna began to panic because she could not extend her holiday much longer.

But two nights before she was due back at Jean-Pierre’s, she sat in her car and watched the dashboard clock click its way from seven fifteen to seven thirty, and then to ten minutes to eight. Antonia had never been this late before. Might she have gone out straight from the hospital? Could Donna risk making her move? Supposing Weston had only called at a late-opening supermarket or was stuck in traffic?

Ten past eight. Surely the bitch was safely out of the way? Donna went over the plan one more time. There were one or two weak points, and the weakest of all was the necessity for the man being in the bungalow on his own. If he was not there, Donna would wait for another night when Weston was out. Fortune favours the bold, remember that, Donna, and the stars in their courses fight for the steadfast of heart. And it’s a quarter past eight, so you’d better get on with things.

She put on thin cotton gloves and pulled on thick socks over the lightweight slip-on shoes she was wearing. She had picked up the idea about the socks from a crime book. If you put large-sized socks over your shoes, it gave you two advantages: it prevented telltale shoe prints being left anywhere, and if you trod in blood or glass all you had to do was step back out of it, slip the socks off, and walk away with them in your pocket and your shoes unmarked. Last of all, she pocketed the heavy glass paperweight, keeping it tied inside a clean handkerchief. Then she got out of the car, closed and locked the door, and walked along to the bungalow.

He was in! There was a light on in the room on the right. It was a fairly low light–it might be a table lamp–but the curtains were open and she could see Antonia’s dark-haired musician clearly. He was seated at the piano as he had been before, and this time he was playing without breaking off.

She watched him for a few moments, her heart racing, and then, taking several deep breaths and glancing up and down the road to make sure no one was watching, she pushed open the gate. It swung inwards and she went in, careful to keep to the grass edges so her footsteps would not crunch on the gravel drive.

The man was playing the piano quite loudly; Donna could hear it now. Although she did not recognize what he was playing–she was not very knowledgeable about music–it sounded complicated and rather showy. Trickles and trills of notes cascading up and down.

The paperweight broke the glass panel in the front door as easily as if it had been Cellophane, and the glass fell inwards onto a carpet. Practically soundless. Donna replaced the paperweight in her coat pocket, and waited to see if there was any reaction from inside. If there was, she would be back down the drive and vanishing into the shadows within seconds. But nothing stirred, and the piano-playing continued. So far so good. Could she reach inside the door and release the catch? Yes, she could. The door opened, and she stepped inside.

The warmth and scents of Antonia’s home folded around Donna, and her excitement spiralled upwards. This was it, the plan was gathering speed, and soon–perhaps in half an hour’s time–this bitch would get what she deserved.

The piano music was still going on so the man really had not heard her. She vaguely recognized the music now–it was used for the opening of one of those late-night arty-type programmes. The
South Bank Show
, was it? Standing in the darkened hall, Donna began to dislike the music very much; she began to feel that something inside it was watching her, and it was conjuring up jeering demons, red-eyed and sly.

We know what you’re going to do,
said these slant-eyed demons.
We know about the plan, and we approve, Donna…But if you get into trouble, don’t expect us to help you…We like murder but we’re the last people to ask for help if something goes wrong, in fact we’re more likely to grass on you to save our own skin.

This was utterly ridiculous. There were no voices inside the music, and this was stupid nerves, nothing more. Donna stood very still. The bungalow was in darkness, except for the soft low light spilling through the half-open door of the music room. She would have to do something about that light.

Listening intently to the piano-playing, every nerve tensed in case it suddenly stopped, Donna went cautiously along the hall. Would the kitchen be at the back of the bungalow? Yes, here it was, a big room, dim and cool. There was a tiled floor and modern fittings, and someone had partly prepared a meal: on a work surface were diced peppers, and chicken and tiger prawns defrosting in a shallow dish. A crusty French loaf was on a chopping board. It looked as if Weston was coming home to eat, which meant she could be home at any minute, which meant that Donna had better buck up her ideas.

Next to the chopping board was a long sharp-bladed knife and the next piece of the puzzle slid neatly into place. She had intended to use the paperweight for the next stage of the plan but the knife would be far, far better. In three paces she was across the tiled floor and had picked it up. Even through the cotton gloves the thin blade felt strong and as if it was sizzling with its own energy.

She went stealthily back to the hall. Had the musician heard anything? No, he was still playing. Very good; now for the light. It was necessary to switch that light off. She dare not risk being seen in case things went wrong and the man was able to identify her later on.

Nothing would go wrong, but Donna preferred complete darkness, which meant either switching the light off in the room itself–which was clearly impossible–or finding the mains switch.

There was often a cupboard under the stairs for electric meters and switches, or even a cellar, but there were no stairs here, and the bungalow looked a bit modern for a cellar. How about a pantry in the kitchen? Or a cloakroom out here in the hall? As the thought formed, she saw the door midway along the hall, on the other side to the music room, and saw that it was the kind that had slats in it–louvres, weren’t they called? A cloakroom? A meter cupboard?

She moved silently forward, and inched the door open, every nerve stretched in case it made a noise. But it did not, and she breathed more freely. Inside, were several coats hanging up–the kind of semi-battered jackets most people kept handy for dashing out to post a letter in the rain or collecting the Sunday papers–together with a couple of umbrellas and wellingtons. It was all a bit higgledly-piggedly. Bit of a slut when it comes to housework, are you, Doctor Weston? I suppose you’d say you hadn’t time for housework, what with your patients, what with your musician, what with your toy boys…

But there, behind the door, was a row of switches with modern trip-switches, and if the cupboard itself was a bit untidy, the switches were all marked. Heating. Lighting. Cooker. Power. Mains.
Mains.
A smile curved Donna’s lips and, keeping a firm hold of the knife with her right hand, with her left she reached up to the mains switch and depressed it.

There was a soft click, and the bungalow fell into thick cloying darkness.

But it did not fall into silence. The piano-playing–the jeering prancing music that had whispered its jibes into Donna’s mind–continued.

For a moment this almost completely unnerved her. For several panic-filled moments she had absolutely no idea what to do. She had no idea why the man was continuing to play. Surely anyone, suddenly plunged into what would appear to be a power cut, would display some form of exasperation, break off whatever he or she had been doing, and go in search of candles and matches?
But the pianist did none of these things; he simply went on playing, and the more she listened, the more Donna could hear a frightening madness within the music. Things jeering, things mocking…
We know what you’re going to do, Donna…

There was a moment when it suddenly occurred to her that the man might be blind–you often heard about blind people being musicians. Then she remembered the first time she had seen him he had broken off his playing to scribble notes. Not blind then. But there’s a madness in here–I can feel there is, and I can feel that it’s very close to me indeed.

Had the man heard her break in after all? Was he ignoring her in the hope that she would go away? Was he so arrogant he had assumed she was just a common house-breaker who would go away if ignored, or was he simply a coward?

It did not much matter what he was, because he was about to die. He was about to die so that Antonia Weston should suffer. Her hatred of Antonia enveloped Donna’s whole being, sending her courage and resolve sky high. She was ten feet high, she was a giant–a giantess!–she was unstoppable and invincible and she could do this and walk away scot-free, exactly as she had done at Twygrist that day.