Spider Light(112)
George did not stop to think. He snatched up an old cast-iron handle that had broken off a pulley, and as the massive hands lunged at his throat he brought the heavy lump of iron smashing against the side of the man’s head.
He fell back at once, and as he did so Twygrist’s greedy darkness picked up the sound of the blow and magnified it a hundred times over so that the terrible crunch of iron on bone echoed around and around the mill. George dropped the iron handle and forced himself to thrust one hand inside the man’s jacket, to feel for a heartbeat. Nothing. Absolute stillness. I’ve killed him. Don’t think about that though–not yet. Think about what’s ahead: there’ll be an inquiry into all this–Louisa’s death, and the man’s. Think what that inquiry might turn up.
It was unlikely that George would be suspected of killing Louisa, but it was not impossible that he would be suspected of killing the man. The earlier escape might be dredged up, and it might be realized what had happened all those years ago–eight years and nine months ago to be precise. Although George had acted in self-defence today, the police could argue that he had a long-standing grudge against the man, and the result might be that he would have to stand trial.
But if the man’s body was never found: if only Louisa’s body was found, it would be a different story. George might be considered guilty of neglecting his responsibilities at Twygrist–unsafe machinery, people might say–but nothing worse than that.
If the man’s body were never found…
The thought slid like a serpent into his mind, and in that moment it was as if something that was no longer George Lincoln, the respectable, law-abiding citizen, took over.
He saw at once what he would do, and he also saw he would have to do it very quickly. He glanced towards the half-open door, but Maud, dear good child, was still seated patiently and obediently where he had left her. She could not be left outside for much longer though, and other people would soon be around.
Moving as swiftly as he could, he lit one of the oil lamps from the garner room, and used it to prop open the door behind the waterwheel–the door that led down to the underground stone rooms. After this, he dragged the dead man across the floor and through the little door; it did not take very long, but the man was heavy and by the time George reached the stone steps, he was drenched in sweat. He straightened up, wiping his face and neck with the back of his hand, and then exerted all his strength to tumble the man’s body down the stone steps.
He went down after him, and half-lifted, half-dragged the body into one of the little handcarts they used for moving the charcoal into the kiln room, hooking the oil lamp onto the handle. The cart’s wheels shrieked like a thousand souls in torment, and the flickering lamplight lent a dreadful semblance of movement to the man’s dead features, so that the short walk through the narrow underground rooms was a nightmare. But George set his teeth and went on until he reached the kiln room.
The ovens were set into the wall facing the steel doors; they were about three feet up from the ground and had thick iron doors of their own. George propped the handcart as near to them as possible, and set the lamp on the ground. It cast a sickly yellow light over the dead man, but it was important not to look at him. It was better to remember that this was the creature who had raped Louisa all those years ago, and that if it had not been for him, Louisa might have remained sane and ordinary. (But then you might not have married her and got Toft House, said a hissing little voice in his mind.)
He ignored the voice, and opened the doors of the ovens, pushing them flat against the wall on each side. He hooked his hands under the man’s arms, and after an initial struggle, finally succeeded in cramming him head first into the kiln. The ovens were deeper than they looked from outside, and he pushed the body as far back as he could. After this he shovelled in all the available charcoal, until he was satisfied the man was unlikely to be seen by anyone opening the doors. He slammed them firmly shut, dusted himself down, and went back upstairs, being careful to position the handcart exactly where he had found it, and to take the oil lamp back.
He made one last search to reassure himself that there was nothing suspicious anywhere, and only then did he go out to find Maud. He was working out what he would say to people: a shocking accident to his dear wife, he would say, and would then allow himself the luxury of giving way to grief. Twygrist would have to be closed down until his poor Louisa’s body could be properly removed.
He would do all he could to see that Twygrist, and what lay at its heart, stayed closed. If it did not, then George would simply make sure he was there to oversee the next firing of the kilns.
But Twygrist, once closed, stayed closed. Miss Thomasina said there was really no question about it. George told her he really did not think he could ever bring himself to go inside the place again, and she said she entirely understood. In fact, she had been thinking that the old place was no longer a practical or a profitable concern. The Corn Laws had long since been repealed, and cheap corn was being imported, so there was very little call for a mill of Twygrist’s calibre. That being so, it only remained for her to thank George for his years of devoted service to her father, and to hope he would accept this small sum of money–not a pension, of course, but a token of her gratitude.
George had accepted the money because Toft House did not run itself on nothing, and a man had to live. The amount was nicely judged; Miss Thomasina had not been miserly about it, but she had not been embarrassingly lavish. Everyone in Amberwood had been very kind to George, saying what a shocking thing for Louisa Lincoln to die in such a way, and poor George there to see it, and the child just outside, dear innocent mite.