Terror by Gaslight (18 page)

‘I
FEAR SOME
of the plants are looking poorly,’ said Harriet. She closed the conservatory door behind her.

Clare was sitting at her father’s desk, writing studiously. She paused and looked up. ‘That’s because no one’s thought of tending them since we lost Mrs Butters. Plants need a little love, like the rest of us.’

‘How very remiss we’ve been,’ admitted her sister. ‘We should be looking after them in her memory. Well, I’ve given them all some water now.’

‘Not too much, I trust. Plants shouldn’t be too wet at this time of year.’

‘I don’t think I’ve overdone it,’ said Harriet. ‘I do hope the hyacinths survive. Their scent is so cheering in the middle of winter.’

‘Let us hope we all survive,’ Clare responded. ‘With the atmosphere we have in this house, I fear it’s by no means certain.’

She returned to her work, which was research, as usual. This time she was scanning an enormous volume, open on the desk in front of her, and extracting more facts for her notebook.

Harriet sat down on her customary seat by the window, but now with no view to admire, for the curtains were drawn.
Outside, it was a dark and dismal evening, with spots of rain falling from low clouds, and the wind soughing mournfully in the trees.

Inside, it should have been cosy, but it wasn’t. The lamps were lit but the fire in the grate was dull and smoking. Clare had lit it this morning, at her father’s bidding. But, in the absence of a housekeeper, too much of the old ash and cinders had been left behind, and the fire had not been properly managed throughout the day.

‘How lonely Hillside seems without Mrs Butters bustling about,’ lamented Harriet. ‘Thank heavens I have your company this evening. It’s good that you can sometimes do your work in here.’

‘Not for long, I’m afraid. I’m here because I need some information from Hosker’s
Flora and Fauna of Southern England
, and it’s too heavy to carry to my room. When I have all the facts I need I must return to my manuscript upstairs. You know I work better there.’

‘Oh dear.’ Harriet shook her head sadly. ‘Then I shall be desolate indeed. I would never have believed Father would go out and leave us tonight of all nights. I can’t think how he can be so heartless.’

‘You refuse to see him as he really is, sister. He is a monster. He cares nothing for either of us.’

‘And yet he gives us a home.’

‘Because it brings him money. From my mother’s will, and your mother’s trust. Funds which I’m sure he intends eventually to steal.’

‘Oh, Clare, I can’t believe that.’

‘Also, of course, he now has the services of an unpaid housekeeper. That reminds me. I have orders to lay out a meal for him to eat when he comes home. I must search the larder for something that will give him indigestion.’

‘Oh!’ Harriet cried out in anguish. ‘I cannot bear all this
hostility!’ She picked up her embroidery and began to work at it listlessly.

For a while all was quiet, as the sisters got on with their different tasks. The patter of rain on the windows had abated. Harriet found the silence oppressive, and her nervous fingers dropped the needle. She put down her work in frustration and found a new topic of conversation.

‘I wonder when Father will find a replacement for Mrs Butters.’

‘Not for a long time, I fear.’ Clare continued writing, clearly able to work and talk at the same time. ‘Probably not until he thinks he’s losing face with his friends because he has no paid servants. Till then, he’ll be happy to go on using me as a slave.’

‘Perhaps I could help, if you would show me what to do.’

‘Thank you, but it’s usually quicker to do things oneself, rather than try and explain them to someone else. Besides, you are too delicate for heavy work.’

‘I would do my best.’

‘You would not like it. My back ached terribly yesterday, after I spent two hours cleaning the downstairs floors. And then Father came in and walked all over the kitchen in muddy shoes.’

‘That was just thoughtlessness. You should have told him.’

‘And give him an excuse to hit me again?’ Clare was now warming to her subject. She put down her notebook. ‘I was wrong just now when I said that Father didn’t care about you and me. The truth is, he hates us!’

‘Oh, surely not. That cannot be true.’

‘It is true. Did you know that after Mrs Butters was murdered, the inspector offered to have a policeman on duty here for the next few weeks and Father refused?’

‘What?’ Harriet was shocked. ‘He refused to let us have police protection?’

‘I heard the conversation. Father was rude and truculent. He told the inspector to his face that he didn’t trust the police and wouldn’t have them in the house any more than necessary.’

‘And now he deserts us to go and play whist! On a Sunday night! With the Maniac still at large! Doesn’t he realize that I’m almost frightened to death?’

‘I’m sure he does. Your death would suit Meredith Austin very well.’

‘You cannot mean that!’

‘Of course I mean it. Major Steele has confirmed that if you die unmarried, your father keeps your mother’s money.’

‘Please, Clare! I cannot bear to think of these things!’

Harriet’s voice was becoming shrill with emotion. Clare sought to placate her.

‘Well, that situation may not last much longer. Major Steele is working on your behalf. There may soon be big changes in your life.’

‘I do not want big changes!’ cried Harriet. ‘I just want my books and my garden and my cat, if only she would come back to me! And I want to be free of all this fear and anxiety!’

Clare resumed her note-taking, and made no reply.

Harriet strove to regain control of herself. She picked up her embroidery and tried again. But once more she found the silence too stressful, and broke it with another question. She forced herself to speak more calmly.

‘Is it certain that Mrs Butters was murdered?’

‘Oh yes. Quite certain.’ Clare’s answer was terse and casual, as she pressed on with her scribbling.

‘Dr Frankel said it was an accident, didn’t he?’ Harriet protested. ‘And those cellar steps are very steep.’

‘The devious Frankel said it was an accident to please Father, who obviously didn’t want a police investigation. But, as you must have heard, the police doctor said no. Mrs
Butters had head injuries she could not have got in the fall.’

‘But who could have wanted to kill her?’

‘Some footpad, perhaps. Taking advantage of the open door. As you know, some housekeeping money seems to have gone from the kitchen drawer.’

‘What does Major Steele think?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve had no contact for several days. That assault on the Heath may have diverted his attention.’

‘Pray God he has not deserted us!’

‘I thought you were against accepting his help.’

‘I was, but now … oh heavens, I don’t know what to think. These are such desperate times!’

Again both young women were mute for a while, Clare busy with her research and Harriet sinking into nervous thoughts and wild imaginings.

And then suddenly, loud and clear, came the stark sound of a dog howling, somewhere out in the darkness: an awful sound, half threatening, half anguished.

Harriet gasped with fright. ‘Dear God!’ she cried. ‘What was that?’

Clare retained her composure. ‘I daresay it’s that big black hound that Dr Frankel keeps. The animal is almost as unpleasant as its master.’

‘It’s never howled like that before! I’ve heard it barking occasionally, but not that terrible noise.’

‘As you say, sister, these are desperate times. No doubt the dog shares your apprehension.’

As the fearful sound went on, Harriet put down the tray-cloth she was working on. ‘I cannot continue with this,’ she declared. ‘My hands are shaking.’

Clare did not look up from her work, and her advice was simple. ‘Well, read a book. There are plenty here.’

And then the noise ended abruptly. The beast’s last howl changed halfway into a sort of strangulated whimper. After
that all was quiet again.

‘Ah. Someone has silenced him,’ said Clare. ‘And rather brutally, from the sound of it.’

‘It can’t be Dr Frankel – he’s playing whist with Father, isn’t he?’

‘So we’re told. All we know is, they went out together. So no doubt the deed was done by that evil secretary of his.’

‘Mr Stone? Is he evil?’

‘I would say so. I have seen him from my window, whipping that dog unmercifully while the creature was chained to a post. Mr Stone seemed to be enjoying himself.’

Harriet winced. ‘How horrible!’

‘I have also seen him prowling on the Heath at dusk. He carries field glasses, and I believe he peers into lighted windows. What I think is called a Peeping Tom.’

‘Then you’re right, he is indeed a wicked man,’ said Harriet. And then, more urgently, ‘Clare, I meant to tell you. I have seen that hideous tramp again, staring at our house. He terrifies me!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Clare insincerely. ‘Well, I suppose we should feel flattered to be attracting so much attention.’

Harriet recognized that she had been rebuffed. She was suddenly aware that the noise of the wind had ceased abruptly, as if turned off by an unseen hand. And somehow the absence of any sound was more baleful than the baying of the hound had been.

She rose and began pacing up and down. This annoyance soon drove Clare to a more positive reaction. She stopped what she was doing, sighed, and looked around.

‘Do sit down, Harriet!’ she commanded. ‘Look! There are the poems of Alfred Tennyson. Read some of those. You will find them diverting.’

Her sister stopped walking, briefly comforted by a familiar thought. ‘Tennyson, yes, perhaps I should. That was the
last book Robert gave me. We used to read it aloud together. I shall be able to think of him.’

She picked up the small leather-bound volume, returned to her window seat, and began to turn the pages, looking for something soothing. It was a modest anthology of some of the poet’s better-known works, and eventually she found a poem that seemed suitable. She settled down and made a valiant attempt at concentration. Then, after reading a dozen lines to herself, she realized that she had taken in nothing. So she went back and started again, and at last the words began to mean something.

Clare took advantage of the five-minute interlude to round off her efforts and bring tonight’s research to a satisfactory conclusion. Then she put down her pen and stood up.

‘There!’ she announced. ‘I think that’s all I need on this subject.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Harriet, I have stayed with you as long as I can.’

Harriet was aghast. ‘Oh, Clare! You are not going to abandon me so soon?’

But Clare had already closed Hosker’s mighty tome and managed to tuck it under one arm. She was now heading for the bookshelves.

‘You know I cannot do creative work down here. And the rough draft of my article is strewn around my room. Now that I have these facts I must go up and begin the final version.’

‘Could I not come and sit with you?’

Clare spoke firmly. ‘No, sister. Your presence is too distracting.’

‘I promise I wouldn’t say a word.’

‘It is foolish to make promises one cannot possibly keep.’ Clare heaved the massive volume up onto the lowest shelf and began levering it into the space it had previously occupied.

Her words had injected a small spark of anger into her
sister’s gloom, and there was a hint of sharpness in Harriet’s reply.

‘Are you saying I talk too much?’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Clare. ‘However, if this work is ever published, it will carry a dedication. “To my dear sister, without whom this piece would have been written in half the time.”’

‘You are very unkind!’ Harriet protested. ‘How can you joke at a time like this?’

‘I find humour a great relief from life’s horrors. I recommend it.’

‘There’s little humour in our present situation, I must say.’

‘Perhaps you’ll find some in Lord Tennyson’s poems,’ said Clare. ‘Though, on the whole, I doubt it.’ She gave Hosker’s book a final push into place and moved off towards the door.

Harriet’s small defiance had evaporated. She rushed to intercept Clare and put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Sister, please don’t leave me here alone! Not tonight! I have not even my cat for company!’

‘Harriet, I have to go! There is no need to fret. I shall be back within the hour. And Father may be home even sooner. In the meantime, the doors are locked and the windows are fastened. You cannot possibly come to any harm.’

Harriet looked round desperately for some delaying tactic. ‘Clare!’ she cried. ‘I think the fire has gone out!’

Clare gave it a casual glance. ‘Quite possibly,’ she said. ‘However, I think it is still hot enough to deter any enemy from coming down the chimney.’

‘But surely …’

‘That’s enough, Harriet! Show some spirit! Before very long you are likely to need it!’

Clare detached herself decisively from her sister’s grasp and was gone, closing the door behind her.

Now there was just Harriet and the dim gas lamps, the big
chilly room with its dark corners, and the brooding silence: that overpowering, deafening silence.

After a moment’s bewilderment, Harriet went to the fireplace, knelt down, and began to stir the smoking embers with a poker. She noticed a wad of papers mixed in with the coals, presumably dumped there earlier in the day for instant destruction. But some of the papers had stuck together and, instead of being consumed, had merely smouldered and choked the fire.

The papers were almost entirely brown and burned, but the young woman noticed a small piece where some writing was still legible. She stared at it and made out the words ‘mental institution’ but the rest was too charred to be read.

Her efforts with the poker produced some extra smoke, but no flame. She got up, went disconsolately back to her perch by the window, and sat down edgily. She picked up the Tennyson book and found that she couldn’t recall which poem she had been reading. So she started leafing through the pages again.

Then, once more, the dog howled: a brief lament this time, three distinct howls, none of them cut short. The sequence simply came to an end, as if the animal had completed its message.