Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(83)

We all nodded, and indeed I had already moved well away from the furnace, and was standing on one side of the door of the room, up against the wall. Hurst levered back the front cover, using the long hooked rod kept for the purpose. As it came open, heat poured out, blisteringly hot, so that my eyes felt scorched and my skin prickled.

‘Quickly now,’ said Hurst, bending to lift Esther. He glanced across at me. ‘Mrs Porringer, we have no clergyman to speak the funeral service, but—’

I said, ‘She has already had the funeral service. It was read during the procession to hang her – outside this very room, in fact. But,’ I said, as his expression darkened, ‘perhaps we should all say the Lord’s Prayer, as a wish that the woman’s soul will find repose.’

‘And sanity and some peace,’ said Hurst.

I began the prayer. Behind me, Rosie and Daisy drew closer together, and I saw them link hands. I cannot be sure that they joined in the prayer, but I think they did.

Hurst lifted Esther’s body, and carried it to the furnace. His skin was flushed from the heat, and he was keeping his head slightly turned away from the open door.

As we reached the words ‘forgive us our trespasses’ he swung the body towards the furnace.

And Esther Breadspear opened her eyes.

It was too late to stop the momentum of the throw. Hurst had put all his force behind it – like a man throwing a ball at cricket – and that force had propelled Esther inexorably into the furnace. Hurst realized what was happening, and he also realized he was powerless to stop it. His face twisted with horror, but she was already tumbling into the depths of the furnace.

Someone had begun to scream, but I cannot say, even now, if it was Esther who screamed, or if I was screaming, or even if it was John Hurst.

In that moment the two girls rushed forward. They looked like small demons – lit by the flames, their hair tousled – and at first I thought they were following their earlier avowal – that they wanted to make sure she was dead and that they were now making sure she burned. Then I saw I was wrong. The reality of what was happening had hit them, and they were trying to do what neither I nor Hurst could – they were trying to save her. It was no use, of course, because they could not get near enough, but they tried to grab the woman, reaching for her with their small hands. Esther was probably dead already, from shock, if from nothing else. At least, that is what I tell myself.

John Hurst had backed into a corner, and was huddled there, his hands over his face, like a terrified child suffering from a nightmare. Somehow I managed to get him back up the stairs to my own room. I sent the children to their beds – a couple of the boys helped Douglas Wilger – telling them we would discuss this more in the morning.

Nothing I could say or do seemed to break through John Hurst’s frozen horror, and I wondered if I should send for Dr Maguire – although what explanation I would have given I have no idea. I poured a glass of my own sleeping draught, and Hurst had just taken it from me when I realized that Rosie and Daisy had not been with the other children when they went off to their own rooms.

With that realization came another. Deep within the basement, the furnace was still thrumming.

I did not stop to think or reason. I ran from the room, down the main stairs, and down the narrow stone steps to the furnace room. Halfway down I heard Hurst coming after me, and I was aware of gratitude. As he caught me up, I saw that his eyes were sensible and clear, and I managed to gasp out an explanation. ‘The two girls – Rosie and Daisy – I think they’re still down here.’

He flinched, then said, ‘Pray God you’re wrong.’

But I was not wrong. They were both in there, standing up against the iron door – which was closed. They were beating on the round glass window with their small fists, and screaming for help, their faces wild with fear, their eyes wide and terrified. But they were silent screams, for the massive old door smothered their cries. That’s another of the things that I believe will haunt me – those silent screams.

Behind them, the furnace was roaring up, and the black iron lid – the lid that I thought we had closed before leaving the room – was no longer in place. The fire belched out, uncontrolled and fierce, and the iron door, even from this side, was already almost too hot to touch. The open furnace was heating up the room.

John Hurst and I fought to get the door open, but it resisted all our efforts. It had jammed, or its lock had snapped – I do not know which, and it does not matter. The moment when I realized we could not reach those girls is one that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

We put everything we had into trying to get that door open, but it was all to no avail. Neither Hurst’s greater strength nor my lesser, puny strength could free the lock. I remember he ran down to the scullery, and I heard him crashing into cupboards, ransacking the place for an implement that would force the door. He came back with chisels and knives and a couple of wooden mallets used for tenderizing meat. He tried everything; his hands were blistering from the heat of the door, and his hair was beaded with sweat.

‘The only thing left is to try to smash the glass and help them climb through,’ he said, and I nodded, and seized one of the mallets.

But the glass was fearsomely thick – intended to act as a barrier between the furnace’s heat and the rest of the house – and the mallets were not designed for such a task. We barely managed to splinter the window’s surface.