inhabitants. Or perhaps he is the ghost. He goes upstairs to bed. Behind a door on the landing he hears the sound of a woman weeping. He thinks it is Mrs Graham, but cannot be sure. He contemplates knocking on her door and establishing she is well, but decides against it. Reluctantly he goes to bed.
During that first night in Thorpe Lee House he is constantly awoken by the dreams of those hidden inhabitants of the place. From above him come a variety of moans, shrieks and sobs which are so regular that they give the impression that the house itself is having a particularly bad night of it.
At one point he is woken by howling dogs from somewhere in the blind dark. Sir Henry’s pack, presumably, two of whom have been killed. He gets up to look out of the window. A light is shining from a downstairs window – another waker, perhaps? It casts a flickering shadow on the grey surface of the lawn, which is broken only by a ring of freshly dug earth which he had not noticed before.
Wide awake now, he goes out into the hallway. He cannot hear the moans and groans of the servants in the attic rooms above when he is outside the room, and it is as if the house has shushed itself upon hearing Horton’s waking. A burst of coughing ending in a rattling sigh comes from one of the main bedrooms.
He hears a clatter of something metallic from downstairs, and a woman’s curse. He walks to the stairs and sees an old woman scurry across the vestibule into the drawing room. She is carrying something in a tankard, and from within the drawing room Horton hears the sound of a woman weeping.
He goes down to the kitchen. There is no one there. Three pans and their lids lie on the floor, the source of the noise he’d heard from the landing. A big jug sits by the ugly-looking sink, and finding a tankard he pours himself some water from within it. He sips from the tankard, looking around the kitchen. A scurrying sound from behind the cupboards. He feels watched by twitching rodent eyes.
He waits a few minutes, half-expecting one of the servants to come in and demand an explanation. But no one comes. He walks back up the gloomy stairwell and goes over to put his ear to the drawing room door. He hears a woman talking within, soothingly, her words indistinct.
He senses the great quiet which surrounds the house, so different from London. It seems to squeeze in against the great front door, and he glances through the fanlight at the top of the door, to be greeted only by a flat inexpressive purple, a non-suggestive void.
There is no one out there
, he thinks to himself, and after so long as a sailor in crowded ships and a resident of London’s scurrying mazes, the thought is a confused and frightening one.
He goes back up to bed.
BROOKE HOUSE
Abigail waits for the night to come once again. Like all her nights in Brooke House, it will be full of sounds and sights which may or may not be true. She no longer has any faith in her perceptions or her understanding.
There is an observing part of her mind that she has started to think of as an anatomist, one such as William Hunter, gazing down at her opened body as she lies on a slab inside some institution or other, the very core of her exposed to men’s inspection. This part of her records all the insanities of the previous months inside a doleful ledger, one which she is free to peruse during the daylight when her mind is most at rest.
The ledger is full of the Pacific woman who had pursued Abigail from Wapping to here and who still, somehow, can climb into the madhouse and infect her dreams. The woman’s presence has faded not one jot, despite the treatments of the weasel-faced Dr Bryson and his self-important employer Dr Monro.
She has been bled twice, once from each arm. Each time Bryson watched from the doorway as Brooke House’s resident surgeon opened his leather-bound case and made great play of selecting the right instrument ‘for such an intelligent and sensitive creature as
During that first night in Thorpe Lee House he is constantly awoken by the dreams of those hidden inhabitants of the place. From above him come a variety of moans, shrieks and sobs which are so regular that they give the impression that the house itself is having a particularly bad night of it.
At one point he is woken by howling dogs from somewhere in the blind dark. Sir Henry’s pack, presumably, two of whom have been killed. He gets up to look out of the window. A light is shining from a downstairs window – another waker, perhaps? It casts a flickering shadow on the grey surface of the lawn, which is broken only by a ring of freshly dug earth which he had not noticed before.
Wide awake now, he goes out into the hallway. He cannot hear the moans and groans of the servants in the attic rooms above when he is outside the room, and it is as if the house has shushed itself upon hearing Horton’s waking. A burst of coughing ending in a rattling sigh comes from one of the main bedrooms.
He hears a clatter of something metallic from downstairs, and a woman’s curse. He walks to the stairs and sees an old woman scurry across the vestibule into the drawing room. She is carrying something in a tankard, and from within the drawing room Horton hears the sound of a woman weeping.
He goes down to the kitchen. There is no one there. Three pans and their lids lie on the floor, the source of the noise he’d heard from the landing. A big jug sits by the ugly-looking sink, and finding a tankard he pours himself some water from within it. He sips from the tankard, looking around the kitchen. A scurrying sound from behind the cupboards. He feels watched by twitching rodent eyes.
He waits a few minutes, half-expecting one of the servants to come in and demand an explanation. But no one comes. He walks back up the gloomy stairwell and goes over to put his ear to the drawing room door. He hears a woman talking within, soothingly, her words indistinct.
He senses the great quiet which surrounds the house, so different from London. It seems to squeeze in against the great front door, and he glances through the fanlight at the top of the door, to be greeted only by a flat inexpressive purple, a non-suggestive void.
There is no one out there
, he thinks to himself, and after so long as a sailor in crowded ships and a resident of London’s scurrying mazes, the thought is a confused and frightening one.
He goes back up to bed.
BROOKE HOUSE
Abigail waits for the night to come once again. Like all her nights in Brooke House, it will be full of sounds and sights which may or may not be true. She no longer has any faith in her perceptions or her understanding.
There is an observing part of her mind that she has started to think of as an anatomist, one such as William Hunter, gazing down at her opened body as she lies on a slab inside some institution or other, the very core of her exposed to men’s inspection. This part of her records all the insanities of the previous months inside a doleful ledger, one which she is free to peruse during the daylight when her mind is most at rest.
The ledger is full of the Pacific woman who had pursued Abigail from Wapping to here and who still, somehow, can climb into the madhouse and infect her dreams. The woman’s presence has faded not one jot, despite the treatments of the weasel-faced Dr Bryson and his self-important employer Dr Monro.
She has been bled twice, once from each arm. Each time Bryson watched from the doorway as Brooke House’s resident surgeon opened his leather-bound case and made great play of selecting the right instrument ‘for such an intelligent and sensitive creature as
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