Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ the rattling of the bars – and them weird cries it makes in the dead of night, like a tortured child in hell. Scared Esme half to death it did; she swore sometimes it were right outside her window – and she saw eyes looking in at her.’

      ‘Through an attic window? It was in a hot-air balloon, I suppose, or perhaps it’s a Barbary ape and clambered up the ivy? Head full of dreams, that useless juggins!’

      ‘Weren’t just that neither. It’s the horrible feeling something is watching when there’s no one about, things moving on their own. I’d heard about the ghost in this place before I come here, but didn’t rightly believe in it. I does now and Esme said she’d felt foul breath on her face more than once.’

      ‘Chestnut stuffing and nonsense.’

      ‘And then there’s him, the new master. There’s a cruelness in his eyes – gives you gooseflesh it does. Devil’s eggs would suit him. They say Old Nick is dangerous handsome and that’s him right enough. I’m glad he’s not at home tonight – wish he’d dine out all the time so I wouldn’t have to serve him.’

      ‘Oh, the scandal! And him a Most Honourable, a marquess – almost a prince where he comes from! How wicked to think such evil thoughts of your betters! You’re only a squalid jet worker’s daughter. I won’t hear another word of it. Just you convey that there curried mutton to the new master’s poorly ward before it gets any colder.’

      Grace took up the tray and carried it to the door.

      ‘Make sure you set it down in front of him yourself, mind,’ the cook called after her, with a crinkle of concern in her voice. ‘Then come straight down again. There’s an apple dumpling in the oven which will surely get his appetite growling if the curry don’t manage it.’

      Grace caught the anxiety in the cook’s tone. She wasn’t alone in her suspicions then. Young Master Verne was as unlike his guardian as it was possible to be. He was a quiet, timid boy, whose thin face was marked with an expression of loss and grief. From the moment he arrived, Grace had felt sorry for him.

      With a nod to Mrs Paddock, she left the kitchen.

      Built in 1516, as well as being one of the oldest residences in Whitby, Bagdale Hall was also one of the finest. For many years it had fallen into disrepair, having been turned into a tenement, whose lodgers had chopped up the panelling and oak staircase to burn as fuel. Then in 1882 the dilapidated building had been acquired by Dr Henry Power, a renowned London surgeon, who spent two years restoring and improving it.

      Beneath the new roof, a hive of local craftsmen had replaced or installed almost everything: floors, plasterwork, magnificently carved fireplace surrounds, internal lighting, even the kitchen was a newly built extension with every modern appliance Mrs Paddock could wish for. The old hall had resumed its position as a grand dwelling once more and for six years Dr Power and his family had lived there happily, well liked and respected by everyone, including their servants. And then, unexpectedly, in that summer of 1890, the news spread rapidly about the town that the Powers had returned to London, and Bagdale had been let to a mysterious foreign nobleman, the Marquess Darqueller, and his ward.

      Grace’s shoes clicked smartly over the parquet floor of the entrance hall, which smelled agreeably of the turpentine, linseed oil and beeswax concoction she had polished it with yesterday. Passing a mirror, she paused briefly to check her appearance. She was more than presentable. Her face was clean and her auburn hair was neatly coiled beneath her white linen cap. At fifteen years old she was already a beauty and would bloom into even greater loveliness. Esme had called her an angel and had been in awe of her ‘churchy’ features, often joking she felt like a mucky potato next to a lily with sugar on. But Grace found her good looks an encumbrance; she was determined to make something of herself and paid no heed to the unwanted attentions of the ironmonger’s apprentice or the grocer’s boy, who both lived in hope that ‘the jammiest bit of jam in all Whitby’ would step out with them on one of her rare afternoons off. A childhood friend of hers, over on the East Cliff, spoke of nothing else but the wedding she planned to have one day. Grace wanted more from this life than that.

      Ascending the impressive staircase to the first landing, she put the tray on a small side table and was about to tap on the door of the blue bedroom when she heard a sound that spiked a chill between her shoulders.

      Across the landing, within the red bedroom, came the angry shaking of a cage’s metal bars.

      Then a female voice, muffled by the closed door, said soothingly, ‘Shall I slice some cheek for you next, my sable princeling? Or would you prefer a cut of neck? There, you do enjoy it juicy and dripping, don’t you? Dearest pusskin, darling Catesby.’

      Grace took a nervous step sideways and in doing so nudged the table. It banged against the wall and the voice fell silent. The girl bit her lip. Presently the door of the red bedroom opened slightly and a middle-aged woman’s sharp face appeared, with a pinched nose and dark, suspicious eyes.

      ‘Mrs Axmill,’ Grace said. ‘I was just taking the master’s ward his supper.’

      The housekeeper withdrew her face in order to glance over her shoulder. The gas lamps in that room were turned down and Grace couldn’t make out anything except the domed silhouette of the cage. Without opening the door any wider, Mrs Axmill manoeuvred herself on to the landing, deftly sweeping the bustle of her prim black dress behind her. When she had turned the key in the lock, she directed her wintry stare at Grace once more.

      ‘That will be all, Flossy,’ she instructed. ‘I will take the tray in to Master Verne.’

      ‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Axmill.’

      ‘Has the summer heat made you deaf, girl?’

      ‘No, Mrs Axmill. There’s a baked apple dumpling to come as well.’

      The pinched nose sniffed with distaste. ‘He won’t care for that,’ the housekeeper said flatly. ‘Don’t bother bringing it up.’

      ‘You sure? He must eat something, he’s wasting away, poor lamb. Could a doctor not be called?’

      Mrs Axmill glared at her, stung by her impertinence.

      ‘Don’t speak out of turn, girl! It’s not your place to comment on the health and well-being of your employers. Return below and be about your duties. If you don’t have enough work to occupy your time, I can easily furnish you with more.’

      Grace lowered her eyes to hide the insolent gleam which she knew would be burning in them. Her glance fell upon the starched white cuff jutting from the housekeeper’s sleeve. There was a vivid smear of blood across it.

      ‘You’ve cut yourself bad!’ she exclaimed.

      The housekeeper looked down at her cuff in consternation and covered the bright scarlet streak with her hand.

      ‘Don’t be foolish,’ she rebuked her. ‘It’s from the meat I was feeding the marquess’s pet.’

      ‘Oh,’ Grace said, staring anxiously back at the red room’s closed door. ‘Can I ask, Mrs Axmill, what sort of creature is in there? I’ve heard how some lordly gentlemen keep savage beasts, like tigers and lions. In olden days they say the famous Captain Scoresby brought a polar bear back to Whitby aboard one of his whaling ships, and it escaped and rampaged through the town. It’s not a bear or lion in there, is it? I’m just fearful if the cage don’t prove all it should be and it gets loose . . .’

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