Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ you are, girl? I credited you with owning more wits than that. Nevertheless, the master’s pet darling is no concern of yours. Now, do as I’ve bid you.’

      Grace hurried down the stairs obediently. She was glad to get away from the vicinity of that door, but her lively mind was troubled and those worries increased as the evening wore on.

      Much later she lay in bed, too uncomfortable to sleep. The August weather had made the attics stifling, but remembering what Esme had said, she was afraid to open the skylight. And yet it wasn’t just the airless fug beneath the rafters that kept her awake.

      She could not believe the young master would turn his nose up at an apple dumpling. What boy would? Either of her two little brothers, or any of the other tykes she had grown up with over on the East Cliff, would wolf it down in two great bites. For some time, Grace had harboured the unpleasant suspicion that Mrs Axmill was starving the child, and now Mrs Paddock was beginning to believe it too. Grace doubted if he had even seen the curried mutton. But why would the housekeeper do such a thing? And if he was genuinely sick, why refuse to call the doctor? Strong-willed and gentle-hearted, Grace refused to stand back and allow this to continue. She had resolved to do something about the situation, beginning this very night.

      The other worry that kept sleep at bay concerned the meat Mrs Axmill had been feeding the unseen beast. The brightness of the blood told how fresh it was, but Grace was certain that, apart from the mutton shoulder which went into the curry, not so much as a cutlet had passed through the kitchen all that day or yesterday. So where had it come from?

      It was just before midnight when she heard the coach bringing the marquess back to the hall. She felt sorry for Jed, the groom. He wouldn’t get any rest until the horses had been dealt with and the carriage washed of mud and the woodwork polished. Mrs Paddock had left some cold cuts in the kitchen if they hadn’t fed him in the servants’ hall of Mulgrave Castle, but knowing Jed, he’d eat them even if they had.

      Grace crept to her door and opened it slightly. Sounds carried easily up the great central stairwell of Bagdale Hall. She heard heavy boots striding through the entrance far below and two voices. One was Mrs Axmill; she had waited up for the marquess’s return. Grace pulled a face. The way the housekeeper fawned over the new master was nauseating. The other voice belonged to the marquess himself. In spite of the heat, Grace shivered. In private his manner was arrogant and ugly, yet she had heard how it changed in the presence of visitors. ‘Like wedding cake dipped in honey,’ Mrs Paddock had described it, and she was right.

      Standing in her nightdress, her hair hanging loose past her shoulders, the girl continued to listen. The boots stomped up the stairs to the landing below. There was a barked command, dismissing Mrs Axmill, then Grace heard the red bedroom being unlocked. The noises grew indistinct and she knew he had gone in to see his savage pet. Some minutes later the sounds were clearer as he emerged once more, but who was he speaking to now?

      The girl opened her door a little wider and put her head out. The cramped attic landing was pitch-dark, but a bobbing radiance below made the banisters stand out stark and black. Grace guessed the marquess was carrying an oil lamp.

      ‘One night soon,’ he snapped, ‘the parcel will be delivered to the appointed place. Your wits, such as they are, need to be clear. No helping yourself to the port and brandy, you understand? Since you’ve been under this roof, you’ve done little else but drink yourself into stupors.’

      Grace couldn’t hear any response, but the new master continued as if there had been one.

      ‘See that it finds its way into the right hands. It must be given to the town hag in good faith – she must suspect nothing. I can’t so much as touch it. Do you think I’d entrust this task to a rancid sot like you if I could?’

      There was a pause. Whoever he was talking to spoke in such a low whisper it was impossible to hear.

      ‘You’d better be, else I’ll cut off those great ears of yours and choke you with them. Now sleep it off – you reek like the floor of an alehouse privy.’

      Grace heard the door of his own bedchamber open and close and the light was quenched. On the landing there was a crash as the side table was kicked over in a temper.

      ‘Who’s down there?’ she murmured, closing her own door again and returning to bed where she hugged her knees and waited.

      The night deepened and Bagdale Old Hall eventually sank into complete silence.

      When she thought enough time had elapsed, Grace fumbled in the dark along her bedside shelf. She had taken some thick slices of ham, a wedge of pork pie and an apple from the kitchen and wrapped them in a handkerchief. Her plan was to creep downstairs and place them beside the young master’s bed. If Mrs Axmill was withholding his meals, she wouldn’t be able to stop him enjoying this little feast when he discovered it.

      Clasping the bundle in one hand, she eased her door open and, in her bare feet, stepped silently past Mrs Paddock’s room, which resonated with the chuffing of the cook’s steam-engine-like snores.

      At the top of the stairs Grace hesitated. If she was caught doing this she would lose her position, but she would almost welcome that. However, having to face the new master’s temper was a different matter; that really was something to be afraid of. Long moments passed as she pushed aside the dread of that encounter. It was the thought of young Verne going hungry which spurred her on.

      Hardly daring to breathe, she descended, taking extra care as she passed the master’s room. No sound at all came from there, not even the gentlest of snores. That unnerved Grace more than ever. He must sleep like the dead, or perhaps he was still awake, although no light was showing under the door.

      The first-floor landing was black as the grave. She had been here countless times during the day, but in this blind darkness it was alarmingly unfamiliar and she groped for the wall to guide her. The still, warm air smelled faintly of brandy and she recalled the one-sided conversation she had overheard. Where was that unknown person the marquess had been speaking to? Before her thoughts could dwell on that, she struck her shin so hard she dropped the food bundle and let out a sharp yelp.

      Her voice shattered the profound silence and she cursed the object she had blundered into. Crouching, she reached out and discovered it was the overturned side table. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited to see if her clumsiness had attracted attention. Those anxious moments seemed endless, but there was no other sound in the house.

      Grace bowed her head as relief flooded through her knotted muscles and she rubbed her painful shin. Then she frantically searched the darkness, hunting for the dropped bundle. Fortunately it hadn’t rolled far. Snatching it up, she navigated around the table and cautiously edged towards the blue bedroom.

      Locating the door, she delicately patted her hand over it to find the brass handle. Then she froze. Behind her, the lock of the red bedroom clicked. A waft of cool air blew on to her neck and a flickering stripe of dim yellow light appeared on the wall beside her.

      Her heart thudding, she turned slowly. The door of the forbidden room, where that mystery creature was kept hidden, was now ajar and, as she stared in mounting dread, it opened wider – seemingly by itself.

      ‘Mrs Axmill?’ she ventured fearfully. ‘Is that you? I was . . . I thought . . .’

      But she couldn’t think of an excuse to justify her presence here at this ungodly hour.

      The expected scornful censure never came, just more silence. Unnerved, Grace peered into the room. She couldn’t see anyone within. On the large table, СКАЧАТЬ