Spider Light(40)

‘Only to about the third cellar. I wanted to see if the roof had caved in anywhere. I’ll light another candle for you, shall I? I brought two.’

Simon took the candle and set off. His footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and the candle flame flickered, sending his shadow leaping grotesquely across the roof and the walls. His voice came back to her, distorted by the enclosed tunnels, saying he could not see the keys.

‘Keep looking. It’s quite a large bunch, so you won’t miss them.’

‘I’ll go a bit further along. Stay where you are.’

It was no part of Thomasina’s hastily conceived plan to stay where she was. She waited until she thought Simon was far enough into the brick-lined cellars not to hear her footsteps, and then snuffed out her own candle and stole after him.

It was very dark, but there was sufficient light from Simon’s candle up ahead to see her way well enough not to trip over, or make any sound that might alert him. Although she did not much like what she was about to do, there was no doubt in her mind about doing it. Simon must not be allowed to make good his threats.

Padding stealthily along, Thomasina thought again what people would say if they knew about the Cat. Imagine it, they would say, shocked. Miss Thomasina Forrester and a fifteen-year-old prostitute from Seven Dials. Buying her clothes, sending her food.

The parcels of food and clothing had been because Thomasina had been unable to bear the thought of the girl going hungry, or facing a winter’s night in the thin garments she always wore. Once, when she had been looking through the bills for those things, Maud had come into the study, and had said in a pettish voice, ‘Dull household books again.’

It had been in the early days of Thomasina’s infatuation with Maud, but she had been stung to a sharp retort. ‘It’s for a girl who lives in a poor part of London.’ She’s exactly your age, Maud, in fact she even resembles you a bit–the same colouring. But over the years she’s had to do some dreadful things to avoid starving in the gutter. There’s a sick sister–I think she’d do anything in the world for that sister. If it wasn’t for the chance of birth, you might be in her shoes and she might be in yours. So I give her a little help from time to time.’

Maud had said, ‘Oh, I see,’ and wandered disconsolately away.

Thinking back to that conversation, Thomasina wondered if it was possible for anyone to trace those presents back to her. Little treats she had called them. There had been bottles of preserved pears, cheeses carefully wrapped in waxed paper, chicken in aspic, a woollen cloak and some dress lengths. Had the Cat worn the things or had she simply laughed scornfully and sold them? At Christmas Thomasina had even sent a parcel of books for the girl with the translucent skin, although she had not known if the books would be read or sold.

Simon must be nearing the kiln room now; he had already called back twice to say there was no sign of the keys. In a moment he would probably give up the search and come back down the tunnels. Fearing this Thomasina quickened her steps.

Here was the tangled rustiness of machinery that was at the heart of her plan. She bent to pick up a piece of iron, weighing it carefully in her hand. Heavy enough? Yes, surely it was. A shower of rust came away from the iron, marking her hand and speckling the front of her gown; in the dim light it looked exactly like blood. Thomasina kept a firm hold of it, concealing it in a fold of her skirt. No longer bothering to move quietly, she caught Simon up.

He heard her approach and turned round at once, saying he had not yet found the keys. It looked as if they would have to leave Twygrist unlocked for a day or so.

‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ said Thomasina. ‘Unless George Lincoln still has keys—Oh, but what’s that in that corner?’

‘Where?’

‘Over there. Isn’t it the keys?’


Simon bent down to look, exactly as he was meant to do, and Thomasina raised the iron bar high and brought it heavily down on his head. There was a crunch of bone–sickening! She had not allowed for that! Rust specks flew up against the darkness. Simon gave a sort of ‘Ouf’ of surprise and slumped to his knees, then crashed to the floor. He lay prone, not moving, a rim of white showing under his eyelids. Thomasina set her teeth and brought the bar down on his head a second time. Simon’s eyes flicked open, and stared unseeingly into the darkness.

Thomasina sat down on the ground, heedless of the dirt and scuttling crunchy-backed beetles, furious that she was feeling dizzy, and even more furious to realize she was feeling slightly sick. She put her head down between her knees, and willed herself not to faint: she had never fainted in her life, and she was damned if she was going to do so now.

Ah, but you’ve never killed a man before, have you? said Twygrist’s soft voice inside her mind. You didn’t know what it would feel like, did you?

Thomasina pushed the whispers away, got briskly to her feet, and held the candle up so she could examine Simon’s face. Was he dead? He certainly looked it: that glassy stare, the dead-weight feeling of his whole body. She felt for a heartbeat, and thought there was the faintest flutter in his chest. Or was there? Her hands were shaking so badly she could not be sure. She took several deep breaths, and tried again. No, there was nothing; it must have been her imagination. She kept her hand across the left side of his chest for another minute, but it was absolutely still and silent. He was dead.