Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(41)

The furnace was still roaring up, and Simeon, clearly puzzled, went towards it. Leo, huddled in the stone passage, saw two shapes creep out of the shadows. Their outlines were densely black against the red glow, but they were small and fine-boned, and they had long hair.

‘No!’ cried Leo, in panic. ‘Come out! Come out now, oh, please.’ He scrambled to his feet and started towards the iron door, but Simeon did not seem to hear him. Instead, he went up to the furnace, and picked up a long iron rod with a black hook at one end that was lying nearby.

Simeon Hurst’s outline was silhouetted blackly against the roaring crimson furnace, like a cut-out figure. He was intent on shutting the furnace door, and he was slotting the rod in place, so he could push the cover back. Leo started forward, then paused, fearful that the door might start to close again and trap them both inside.

Simeon almost had the furnace door closed, when a sheet of flame seemed to spit outwards, and a tiny crackle of flame caught the edge of his coat. He cried out and the rod slipped from his hands and clanged noisily on the stone floor as he beat at the tiny licking fire. Leo darted across to him, but Simeon had already fought himself free of his coat and had flung it down, stamping out the flames to douse them. Without looking round, he said, ‘Leo – stay clear – it’s not safe.’

‘But—’

‘Stay clear, I tell you.’

There was such a commanding note in his voice that Leo did as he was told. Mr Hurst’s jacket was no longer burning, and he would know what to do about the furnace. It would be all right.

Hurst reached for the hooked rod again, but in doing so he seemed to miss his footing or perhaps he tripped on the uneven floor. He stumbled forwards, flinging up his arms. Leo cried out and bounded across the floor, but it was too late. Simeon Hurst fell head first into the scarlet roaring depths.

The furnace blazed up and there was the nightmare, never-to-be-forgotten sound of Hurst screaming through the fire, and of the triumphant roaring crackle of the fire itself. Leo grabbed the iron rod, hardly noticing that its heat blistered his fingers, and tried to thrust it into the furnace. He was panic-stricken and terrified, but through the panic he had a confused idea that Mr Hurst might somehow be able to grasp the rod and be pulled out.

He could not, of course. There was a moment when Leo could see his silhouette within the flames – writhing, the hands clawing as if for freedom, his hair blazing and flames shooting out of his eye sockets. Then he simply folded in on himself. The fire died down, licking greedily over what was left.

The worst part was the smell. It was exactly the same smell as the kitchen at Willow Bank Farm when Miss Hurst roasted their Sunday dinner. Hot and greasy. A scent that would normally make you think of gravy and potatoes. Leo’s mouth filled with water, then he bent over retching.

He had no idea how long he remained like that, cold and sick, but when finally he was able to go back up the stairs the hunched-over figure had vanished. Leo was shivering so violently he felt as if his bones might break apart, and despite the blazing heat of the furnace a short while ago he was so cold he thought he would probably never be able to get warm again. But he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to find someone who would tell him what should be done.

What had been done became a nightmare of confusion and grief, but men had come in response to Miss Hurst’s telephone call, and had taken charge.

Later, ashes had been scraped out of the now-cold, now-quiescent furnace so that a funeral service could be held and decent burial be given. There was some kind of official enquiry, and Leo had to explain to a policeman what had happened. He tried to do this as clearly as he could. Mr Hurst had stumbled, he said, and fallen into the furnace. No, he did not know how the furnace came to be alight. No, he had not touched anything – of course he had not. Asked why he had been there in the first place, he said he had been exploring; he remembered being there when he had meningitis as a small child, and he was curious to see the place again. He did not say anything about seeing Sophie and Susannah, because he was no longer sure if he had seen them, and he did not say anything about the figure who had called for the children.

The policeman said he had done very well, and he was not to worry. He would not have to attend the enquiry or the inquest.

People in the small farming community were shocked and horrified at Simeon Hurst’s terrible death, although several hardier souls asked if it was true that it had not been possible to distinguish the contents of the furnace from his remains, so that the funeral might be read over nothing more than, well, over bits of clinker?

The verger said that this was unfortunately true, but the vicar was going to hold the service anyway, and they must just trust in God that they would be chanting the Twenty-Third Psalm and praying for the resurrection of life over some remaining bits of Simeon Hurst at the very least, and not over pieces of anthracite. As for those attending the wake at Willow Bank Farm afterwards, the vicar had said they were please to remember not to refer to funeral bak’d meats under any circumstances whatsoever.

Several ladies from the neighbourhood came to the farmhouse on the morning of the funeral to cut sandwiches and make tea and coffee, because Miss Hurst, poor soul, could not be expected to cope. Leo could perhaps help with handing round the sandwiches, could he? When Leo said he could, the ladies were pleased and told one another what a very nicely behaved boy he was, and how well repaid Simeon and poor Mildred had been for taking him into their home.