Deadlight-Hall(85)

On Maria’s part, what? Greed, most likely.

He glanced back at some of the entries, and it occurred to him that Thaddeus Porringer had died rather conveniently. Had Maria been behind that? She had certainly recorded buying half a grain of arsenic in the Poison Book.

He flipped over to the next page. Here, indeed, was a note of Thaddeus Porringer’s death, with Maria writing that in view of the sad demise of her beloved husband and the looming loss of the shop that had been his life’s work – which she feared was inevitable and imminent – she was accepting Mr Breadspear’s offer of work, and glad to do so. There were cousins who might take on the business, she wrote, but it was no longer her concern what happened to the place.

Most of her entries were undated, other than an occasional reference to it being Thursday 12th, or Monday 16th, or sometimes the time of day, but a brief time appeared to have elapsed before her next entry.

This was a list of work done by various tradesmen in Deadlight Hall, along with the costs, and dates the accounts were paid. Had that all been for rooms in the attics for Esther? Yes, of course.

A later page had details of the children placed in the Hall – the majority seemed to have been bastards of the local gentry, which Michael had already picked up from the material in the Archives Offices. He hoped the journal was not going to degenerate into a dry account book. He did not much like what he knew of Maria Porringer, but it could not be denied that she had an energetic way of setting down her exploits, and she sounded very organized and efficient.

He was glad to see she seemed to have thought it prudent to set down some of the daily routines she had instigated at the Hall. For, as she wrote:

People are not always to be trusted, and at some time in the future I may find it valuable to have a record of my work.

So, for that reason, I will detail how I take the prisoner’s meals to her myself – collecting a tray from the kitchen, and carrying it up to the attic floor. Breakfast, midday dinner, and a light supper. It is plain fare we have here – such children as are being housed do not, I consider, require anything more. The prisoner has the same.

Twice a day I collect the tray and each morning I leave a jug of warm water and a towel for washing purposes. I am firm about this last, cleanliness being next to Godliness, but despite that a sickly, stale smell is starting to pervade the room.

Each morning I also deal with the commode. It is menial work, even degrading, but Mr Breadspear is paying, as he promised, handsomely, and I make no doubt that I shall find other ways to increase the sums he pays.

I often write in this journal in the small room adjoining the prisoner’s. I leave her door slightly open at these times. Mr Breadspear had wanted chains at the onset, but I had stood firm against that, not wanting to chain up any human creature as if a wild animal. But twice now the prisoner has somehow managed to break out, and has roamed the upper rooms, calling for the children to come to her. That was not something that could be allowed or risked, so I agreed to Mr Breadspear’s demand – although I suggested an extra payment for all the trouble and inconvenience. I did so perfectly politely, since it is not necessary to bludgeon people with demands. He paid, albeit grudgingly.

However, he was right to suggest chains, for the prisoner is now clearly completely insane. There are times when a wild look comes into her eyes, and when she glares at me and tries to claw at me. I am very glad of the chains at those times – they are of carefully judged length, and she cannot reach me. If she starts howling I simply close the door and go down to my own room on the second floor. If it were not for my sleeping mixture I should be kept awake for hours by her mewlings on those nights.

The children are not permitted past the first floor, and they know that severe punishments will be meted out to those who disobey. So I have no real worries that they will venture up to the attics, or that anyone will hear anything.

Other than the occasional bout of frenzy, the prisoner sits with her hands folded in her lap – sometimes she stands in one corner of the attic room, in that dreadful hunched-over position caused by the bungled execution. I have taken up a few old books for her – simple ones, even children’s books, which she might be able to understand – but she is uninterested in them. She stares at nothing, or at her own hands. If I am in the adjoining room, she watches me. It is unnerving, that unblinking stare. At other times she calls for her children, wanting to find them, telling them she will do so in the end.

At those times I close my journal, put it in the pocket of my gown, and lock the attic rooms and go downstairs.