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Authors: Michael Ford
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least a little. We both wanted to be away from Greave Hall and Mrs Cotton. Perhaps Henry was a good sort after all. And perhaps he was her ticket away from here.
There was one more set of windows to wash by four o’clock – Mrs Cotton’s. She kept her room locked at all times, and I found her in the drawing room, drinking tea from one of His Lordship’s finest Worcester cups.
‘I thought that I heard raised voices,’ she said, sipping delicately.
I replied that I didn’t know what she could mean, but perhaps it was noise from the street. She didn’t respond to that, but gave me the key to her bedroom.
‘I shall expect it back shortly.’
As I climbed the stairs with clean water, a plan formed in my mind. If I were to go through with it, I would have to be quick. If I was caught, my punishment would be unspeakable.
Mrs Cotton’s bedroom was immaculate. The bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in, so neat were the sheets. I placed the bucket on the floor beside the window, and began to rub down the glass. It looked out over the road beyond and into the Park. Somewhere out there lived Dr Reinhardt and, unless I was mistaken, somewhere in this room was the key to contacting him. I wiped while casting my eyes around. Apart from the bed, there was a wardrobe built into a recess beside the fireplace, a dressing table and a shelf above the bed which held a single book – her Bible. There was also a bureau.
No, Abi, I said to myself. Don’t do this.
But it was my only chance.
I wrung out the cloth and pricked my ears for the slightest sound. If Mrs Cotton were to come up the stairs, I told myself, I would hear her.
I crossed the room quickly and turned the small key that had been left in the lock of the writing-desk drawer. It opened. Inside was a pad of writing paper, some blotting pads and a collection of spare pen nibs. There was also a book bound in moleskin. I took it out.
It was an address book, the corners of the pages marked with the letters of the alphabet. My mouth was dry and my heart seemed to be thumping somewhere high in my throat as I skipped to R.
There were three entries on the page:
Rathbone, Frederick. 92 Silk Road
Reinhardt, Dr M. 11b Argyle Terrace
Roberts, T. (chimneys and flues). 18 Kent Terrace
11b Argyle Terrace. It didn’t sound like much, certainly not a grand place like Greave Hall. Probably a basement apartment by the sound of it.
My ears caught the faint sound of rattling china. My fingers fumbled as I put the book back and closed the drawer.
The key wouldn’t turn!
I tried again. No. It was jammed.
There were rapid footsteps on the stairs. Steps that could only be Mrs Cotton’s.
I pulled open the drawer and saw that the blotting pad was pushed up against the locking mechanism, so I moved it further inside and closed the drawer again. This time it locked. I scurried quickly back to the window and snatched up the drying cloth. Behind me the door opened.
‘Almost done, I hope,’ said Mrs Cotton.
I didn’t look round for fear she would read my guilt in my face.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Nearly there.’
I felt her watch me for a while, and then, quiet as a fox, she was gone.
My heart took a long time to slow. Outside, the sun was already dipping to the west above the trees. Buckingham Palace was visible just beyond. The sky was awash with streaks of navy and orange. As I wiped back and forth, making sure no streaks remained, I chanted the address, making sure it was indelibly imprinted on my mind.
‘11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace.’
I didn’t know yet what I would do, but I knew one thing for certain: the basement apartment in Argyle Terrace held some answers.
.
Chapter 13
I went downstairs to empty the pail, and found that Cook had left – to find a tavern for the rest of the night, no doubt, as she often did on a Sunday. I needed paper, and it would be easiest to use the pad that Cook and Mr Lock used to write out her
There was one more set of windows to wash by four o’clock – Mrs Cotton’s. She kept her room locked at all times, and I found her in the drawing room, drinking tea from one of His Lordship’s finest Worcester cups.
‘I thought that I heard raised voices,’ she said, sipping delicately.
I replied that I didn’t know what she could mean, but perhaps it was noise from the street. She didn’t respond to that, but gave me the key to her bedroom.
‘I shall expect it back shortly.’
As I climbed the stairs with clean water, a plan formed in my mind. If I were to go through with it, I would have to be quick. If I was caught, my punishment would be unspeakable.
Mrs Cotton’s bedroom was immaculate. The bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in, so neat were the sheets. I placed the bucket on the floor beside the window, and began to rub down the glass. It looked out over the road beyond and into the Park. Somewhere out there lived Dr Reinhardt and, unless I was mistaken, somewhere in this room was the key to contacting him. I wiped while casting my eyes around. Apart from the bed, there was a wardrobe built into a recess beside the fireplace, a dressing table and a shelf above the bed which held a single book – her Bible. There was also a bureau.
No, Abi, I said to myself. Don’t do this.
But it was my only chance.
I wrung out the cloth and pricked my ears for the slightest sound. If Mrs Cotton were to come up the stairs, I told myself, I would hear her.
I crossed the room quickly and turned the small key that had been left in the lock of the writing-desk drawer. It opened. Inside was a pad of writing paper, some blotting pads and a collection of spare pen nibs. There was also a book bound in moleskin. I took it out.
It was an address book, the corners of the pages marked with the letters of the alphabet. My mouth was dry and my heart seemed to be thumping somewhere high in my throat as I skipped to R.
There were three entries on the page:
Rathbone, Frederick. 92 Silk Road
Reinhardt, Dr M. 11b Argyle Terrace
Roberts, T. (chimneys and flues). 18 Kent Terrace
11b Argyle Terrace. It didn’t sound like much, certainly not a grand place like Greave Hall. Probably a basement apartment by the sound of it.
My ears caught the faint sound of rattling china. My fingers fumbled as I put the book back and closed the drawer.
The key wouldn’t turn!
I tried again. No. It was jammed.
There were rapid footsteps on the stairs. Steps that could only be Mrs Cotton’s.
I pulled open the drawer and saw that the blotting pad was pushed up against the locking mechanism, so I moved it further inside and closed the drawer again. This time it locked. I scurried quickly back to the window and snatched up the drying cloth. Behind me the door opened.
‘Almost done, I hope,’ said Mrs Cotton.
I didn’t look round for fear she would read my guilt in my face.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Nearly there.’
I felt her watch me for a while, and then, quiet as a fox, she was gone.
My heart took a long time to slow. Outside, the sun was already dipping to the west above the trees. Buckingham Palace was visible just beyond. The sky was awash with streaks of navy and orange. As I wiped back and forth, making sure no streaks remained, I chanted the address, making sure it was indelibly imprinted on my mind.
‘11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace. 11b Argyle Terrace.’
I didn’t know yet what I would do, but I knew one thing for certain: the basement apartment in Argyle Terrace held some answers.
.
Chapter 13
I went downstairs to empty the pail, and found that Cook had left – to find a tavern for the rest of the night, no doubt, as she often did on a Sunday. I needed paper, and it would be easiest to use the pad that Cook and Mr Lock used to write out her
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