Spider Light(72)
That’ll never work, thought George, but incredibly, it did. Maud drew in a deep shuddering breath. She stopped crying, and looked at Sullivan for a moment, then took the flask and tilted it to her lips. She gasped as the spirit–George supposed it was brandy–went down, but after a moment it seemed to kick her back to some form of sanity.
The fit, whatever it was, seemed to have passed. When they took her arms again, she walked between them with a docility that upset George far more than anything else that had happened tonight. To see his dearest Maud in this condition–crying and screaming, talking about macabre things–it was more than he could bear. It was more than any man should be expected to bear. And to think she had run here, to the very place where her mother…
But if he allowed himself to think about Maud’s mother, George knew he would break down altogether. He turned his whole attention to the task of getting Maud back to Toft House.
If it had been an odd experience to steal along the dark lanes in company with Cormac Sullivan, it was even odder to sit with him in Toft House’s drawing room.
Maud had been safely tucked into bed–George had roused Mrs Plumtree, telling her that Maud had succumbed to a sudden fever, and so in Miss Thomasina’s absence they had brought her home. Mrs Plumtree had administered a tiny measure of laudanum, and that, probably along with the contents of Cormac Sullivan’s flask, had sent Maud into a sound sleep. She’s all right, thought George determinedly. A nerve storm, that’s all it was.
He poured whisky into two glasses, handed one to Sullivan, and thanked him for what he had done. A great help. He did not know how he would have coped on his own.
‘Oh, daughters are the very devil,’ said Cormac. He was seated near the fireplace and he looked entirely at his ease, which was vaguely irritating of him. A man of Sullivan’s morals and reputation ought not to be so at ease in a house of this kind.
He frowned, and said, ‘Here’s the thing, Lincoln. We need to take a look inside the mill.’
‘Why?’ said George at once. The word came out sharply, but beneath it he was aware of a churning panic.
‘Because Thomasina and Simon Forrester are both absent without explanation,’ said Cormac. ‘And because Maud was talking about somebody–and it sounded like more than one somebody–being buried alive inside Twygrist.’
As George started to make a protest, Sullivan said, half to himself, ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it, that however much you think you’re modern and without superstition, the primeval fears still grab you by the throat. Buried alive, that’s what she kept saying. Down there in the dark, hammering on the walls to get out–Jesus God, I hope we’re wrong about this, but we need to make sure, and we need to make sure tonight. If you’re not up to it, Lincoln, say so, and I’ll haul out Daniel Glass to come with me.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said George.
‘We’ll cut across the field,’ said Cormac, when they reached Scraptoft Lane. ‘It’ll bring us out just below the reservoir and that’ll save time. It’s a short cut I often use,’ he said offhandedly, and George glanced at him, and thought: I bet you do!
The underground rooms of Twygrist were dismal and dank and it was necessary to walk cautiously to avoid tripping over bits of broken or discarded machinery littering the floor. The oil lamp George had brought created grotesque shadows on the walls, and there was a faint drip of water from somewhere. Twygrist was probably leaking like a sieve; George had known that for years, though. It was one of the reasons the place had been closed down. As for the other reason–his mind shuddered away from that, and he concentrated on what they must now do.
Here was the kiln room, with the massive old doors firmly closed. George said, ‘You know, I really don’t think we need look in there.’
‘I think we do,’ said Cormac. ‘And we’ll get to it at once.’ He grasped the edge of the left-hand door as he spoke. It moved reluctantly, and its hinges shrieked painfully in the enclosed space, but it slid slowly open.
‘God Almighty, it’s like the gates guarding the entrance to hell,’ said Cormac ‘But I think we’ve got it now. Give me something to wedge it in place, would you? That’s better. Now hold up the lamp.’
As the light fell across the floor, Cormac swore softly and George felt as if he had been punched in the ribs.
Thomasina Forrester was huddled against the brick chimney at the far end of the room where once the fires had burned. Her face was turned towards them; it was hideously distorted and covered in livid crimson blotches–for a moment George was not even sure it was Thomasina. Her tongue, black and swollen, stuck out of her mouth. A few feet away, as if he had tried to crawl to the door, was her cousin Simon, his face, mercifully, turned away from them.
‘Jesus God,’ said Cormac softly, ‘that would be a terrible way to die. Down here in the dark, all alone.’ He bent over the dreadful thing that had been Simon Forrester, and then moved to Thomasina, in case, George supposed, there might be a faint flicker of life left in either of them.
After a moment he straightened up. ‘They’re both dead. God knows how they became trapped down here, but it looks as if they tried to find the door to get out. It’d be pitch dark though, so they’d have no way of knowing where they were. Would they have suffocated, do you suppose?’