Deadlight-Hall(81)

‘If what has just happened is not an Act of God, I do not know what is,’ put in the chaplain.

‘And the prisoner is now clearly mad,’ said the doctor.

‘Mad people have been hanged before now,’ said the Home Office gentleman. ‘But …’

He looked at the doctor who, as if responding to a signal, said, ‘She has certain injuries to the spine and neck.’ He went on to use terms I had never heard, and although there was something about the vertebrae (I believe this to mean the spine) and something about damage – a fracture or dislocation – I am not recording any of what he said, since I may not have understood correctly.

What I do understand, however, is what the doctor said next.

‘You may seek other opinions,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I think you should do so. But I believe any authorities you consult will agree with my findings.’ He paused, and then said, ‘It is my opinion that in view of the injuries caused during the bungled execution, it will no longer be physically possible to hang Esther Breadspear.’





TWENTY-ONE


Michael paused again. This was an appalling story to read in any situation or setting. Reading it in the semi-darkness, in this eerie old house, it was terrifying.

Maria’s description of Esther, after the bungled hanging, having that warped, hunched shape fitted eerily with the image of the figure he had glimpsed on his first visit. But there could not be any connection between Esther and Deadlight Hall – or could there? What about the secret that Augustus Breadspear had laid on Maria Porringer?

He looked back at the doctor’s statement. Had Maria got that right? Could a key vertebra have been so severely dislocated or fractured or misaligned that it really had made hanging impossible?

Darkness was creeping out from the corners of the hall, and the narrow windows on each side of the door showed hardly any light. Decisively, Michael jammed the small book into his pocket and set off on an exploration of the ground floor. He was not yet seriously considering breaking a window to get out, but he would at least see if there were any breakable windows – or even another door where he might snap the lock. Paying for the replacement of a window was beginning to look infinitely preferable to remaining here for a night.

The ground-floor windows could all be ruled out as escape routes. Even if Michael smashed one, the thin lead strips of lattice on all of them would make climbing out virtually impossible. What about the rear of the house though? Where were the sculleries, the larders? How did you get to the back of the house, for heaven’s sake?

He had just made out a door at the far end, partly hidden by the curve of the stairs, when another sound disturbed the uneasy silence. Tapping – almost thudding. Michael froze, listening intently, trying to identify the source. The sounds were certainly coming from overhead – quite far overhead, he thought, because they were muffled and distant. He remembered that Jack Hurst had referred to something he had called water hammer – a large airlock in the pipes that made them judder. But would pipes judder unless someone had turned on a tap or flushed a cistern? Wild images of the resident ghosts reminding each other to nip along to the loo before setting out on their nightly haunting went through his mind – ‘Because it’s a cold night, and a long stretch of spooking ahead of us.’ But for all he knew pipes might have a life of their own, and not require any human intervention to start banging and juddering by themselves.

But water hammer or not, he would see about getting out of here without any more delay, and the best place to start was the door at the back of the hall, which could lead to servants’ quarters or sculleries. Michael tried the handle, and although it screeched like a tortured soul, the door swung inwards.

There was a tiny stone landing immediately beyond, and then a flight of worn stone steps leading down. Michael went down the first two steps, but the darkness was so thick he could not see anything, and there was no handrail of any kind. Even if he could get to the foot of these steps without breaking his ankle or worse, he certainly would not be able to find his way around down there. He swore, and came back into the hall and the window seat, and he was just thinking he would try Nell again when his phone rang. He had been hoping to hear it, but it was startlingly loud in the quiet house, and Michael jumped.

It was Nell.

‘Thank God to hear your voice,’ said Michael.

‘What on earth’s happened? I was collecting Beth from an after-school music lesson, so I’ve only just got your message. It was a bit fuzzy – something about being stuck at Deadlight Hall.’