Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(73)

Something cold seemed to brush against my whole body, because I knew what the Silent Minute was. It’s an old country superstition I was told as a girl. I thought it had been long since forgotten and lost, but here were these children knowing it – more than knowing it; making use of it against something they were planning to do.

The Silent Minute, the very stroke of midnight when the night hands over to the day – when the world takes a step from one realm of existence into another – when there is a gap between darkness and light, and when God walks the ragged edges of that strange place, to protect the soul from all evil …

‘Remember,’ Wilger was saying, ‘in that minute we’ll be protected from all evil. Nothing can hurt us.’

I do not believe the old superstition, of course. But the children believe it. They are planning something, and whatever it is, it is something so serious they are going to wait for the Silent Minute so it will protect them from the consequences.

10.55 p.m.

I am writing this in my own room. I have left the door slightly open so as to hear if anything happens. Perhaps nothing will, and it is all no more than some childish adventure or game. If so, there will have to be a punishment, for I cannot allow the children to rampage around the house during the night. Quite aside from it being bad for them to behave in such an unruly manner, there is the prisoner to be thought of. Secrecy must be preserved.

11.05 p.m.

I was wrong to write that nothing would happen. Doors are being furtively opened, and I can hear stealthy footsteps and the faint creak of a floorboard. I think the children are creeping down the stairs to the main hall. So I shall put this journal in my pocket and go downstairs. I shall not immediately confront them, though. I shall try to find out what they are about.

2.00 a.m.

I am not sure if I will be able to properly set down what has happened tonight. But I think I must try.

The hall, when I reached it, was in darkness. There are gaslights in most of the house, and oil lamps in some places, but at this hour no lights were burning anywhere, of course.

The children were clustered together at the back of the hall, grouped around Douglas Wilger’s wheelchair. They did not see me, and by keeping to the shadows, I was able to tiptoe to the front of the hall, and step into the concealment of the deep window by the front doors. Then one of them moved slightly, and I received a real shock, because there, bold as brass, were the two Mabbley girls.

Before I could recover from the surprise, they, along with four of the others, went up the stairs, moving as lightly and as swiftly as shadows. The remaining two boys lifted Wilger from his wheelchair, and carried him between them. He cannot walk up or down stairs for himself since he was injured in the fire, so the others take it in turns to carry him, and push the chair. As they went up, he was clutching their shoulders and his eyes shone like a malevolent imp.

I waited until I heard them reach the first floor and start the ascent to the second. I shall not say fear seized me at that point, but I was aware of growing concern. The prisoner had been restless earlier, murmuring about her children again, pacing the floor so that the chains slithered coldly on the bare boards. If the children were to hear her …

I crept up the stairs after them, pausing just before reaching the second floor. There is a curve in the stair, and by dint of standing there I could look through the banister posts and watch them. Douglas Wilger was set down and left half-sitting against the wall, while the others went along the corridor to my own room. I was glad to remember I had locked it, and that the key hung on the ring, clipped to my waist.

They did not need a key, though, because they had no intention of going into the room. Three of them seized a big blanket chest standing by the wall, and dragged it across the floor, positioning it across the door of my room. Rosie and Daisy Mabbley, working together, pulled out a large court cupboard that stands a little further along, and between them they pushed this against the blanket chest.

A barricade. They thought they had barricaded me into my room, and it was only by the purest good luck they had not done so.

By now I was more than concerned, I was frightened. And minutes later I knew it did not matter whether the prisoner howled like a banshee, because it was startlingly apparent that they knew she was there. How they knew, I have no idea, for I had taken such care, but know they did, and they were bounding up the attic stair, carrying young Wilger with them, and then hammering on the door of the inner attic room to get to her. The floor was reverberating with the sounds and the force of the blows, and through it the prisoner was screaming – terrible, trapped-hare screams that shivered throughout the whole house.

Then the children themselves began to shout, loudly and angrily, as if they no longer cared about being heard. And why should they? They believed I was safely behind the barricade, and unable to get out to them.

I heard one shout, ‘You are a murderess.’

‘We know what you did,’ cried another.

‘And we know what you still want to do.’

Douglas Wilger’s voice rose above the rest. ‘We’re doing this to stop you doing to Rosie and Daisy what you did to your own children,’ he screamed. ‘We’ve all heard you, you murdering bitch. All those nights, calling to us to come to you – did you think we didn’t know what you wanted!’

‘You wanted us,’ cried Rosie Mabbley. ‘Daisy and me! You thought we were your own daughters come back from the dead. You wanted to kill us all over again.’