Read Online The Taxidermist's Daughter by Kate Mosse - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Mosse
Ads: Link
and matches. Plain cream writing paper, of adequate quality, nothing distinctive about it. Black cursive letters.
Holding the remains between her thumb and forefinger, she blew off the warm ash. She could make out only six letters: d r a c r o . There was no way of knowing if it was a name or part of the address, or what came before or after. There appeared to be a small space between the third and fourth letters, but she couldn’t be sure.
The only word that was clear, at the top right-hand corner of the piece of paper, was ASYLUM . Had the letter come from Graylingwell? If so, from whom? He had no contact with the place, so far as Connie knew. She had never once heard him mention it.
Time seemed to slow. The familiar sense of everything darkening, fading to black. Connie fought it. She would not let herself be pulled under. She would not let her father down; whatever he had done or wherever he was, she had to keep her head.
She sat heavily down on the bed and tried to focus on the scrap of paper.
Chapter 8
Gifford raised his head from the ground, tasting dirt, straw and blood in his mouth. He felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with Jack Johnson. His knuckles were cracked, his lips too. When he tried to blink, he realised his left eye was swollen shut.
A few moments passed, then, gingerly, he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He managed it, but the effort left him gasping for breath. He slumped back against the wall, his chest tight and his ribs sore.
After a few moments, he got himself more comfortable on the tiles, legs straight out in front of him, and tried to remember what had happened. For years, he had been waiting, one day knowing he would be called to account. Finally, that day had come.
His sins had caught up with him.
At first, he’d stayed in his room to avoid Connie, not wanting to lie to her. Trying not to drink, failing. Knowing that his loosened tongue was dangerous. Connie always could see through him in any case, sharp as a tack, even when she was little. Used to call him Gifford from time to time, made the customers laugh. And hadn’t he noticed in the last few days the different way she looked at him, when she thought he wasn’t watching? He knew she was trying to remember. He wished he could tell her why it was safest to forget.
It was the one thing he feared more than anything. Because then, like a crack in the sea wall, once her memories came flooding back, who could say where it would end?
What had he given away earlier in the afternoon? In his drunken meanderings? They had talked, that he remembered. But as to what had been said, it was a blank. She had made him talk and say things he should not have said. He felt cold with fear. What secrets had he betrayed?
He felt bad, bruised from top to toe. He should have stayed in his room, only he hadn’t been able to bear it any longer, cooped up with only his accusing thoughts for company, and his grieving heart.
Ten years. He’d been living with the consequences ever since. No harm in it, so he’d thought. Four fine gentlemen looking for a special night. A night to remember.
Gifford covered his face with his hands.
All these years and he hadn’t talked. All these years, he’d taken their money and used it well. Used it right. They had no cause to come after him, had they? He stopped, the effort of remembering making his head throb.
That glimpse of chestnut hair in the water.
Not possible. In the churchyard, not possible. She was dead. He’d had a letter telling him so.
The Eve of St Mark, a night of ghosts.
*
Gifford didn’t know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness; he wasn’t certain. Only that when he next woke, his senses were a little sharper. A smell of damp bricks and dust. Feathers. He ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the scratch of several days’ stubble. He wondered what had happened to his hat. He was wearing his coat.
Filled with a sudden panic, he
Holding the remains between her thumb and forefinger, she blew off the warm ash. She could make out only six letters: d r a c r o . There was no way of knowing if it was a name or part of the address, or what came before or after. There appeared to be a small space between the third and fourth letters, but she couldn’t be sure.
The only word that was clear, at the top right-hand corner of the piece of paper, was ASYLUM . Had the letter come from Graylingwell? If so, from whom? He had no contact with the place, so far as Connie knew. She had never once heard him mention it.
Time seemed to slow. The familiar sense of everything darkening, fading to black. Connie fought it. She would not let herself be pulled under. She would not let her father down; whatever he had done or wherever he was, she had to keep her head.
She sat heavily down on the bed and tried to focus on the scrap of paper.
Chapter 8
Gifford raised his head from the ground, tasting dirt, straw and blood in his mouth. He felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with Jack Johnson. His knuckles were cracked, his lips too. When he tried to blink, he realised his left eye was swollen shut.
A few moments passed, then, gingerly, he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He managed it, but the effort left him gasping for breath. He slumped back against the wall, his chest tight and his ribs sore.
After a few moments, he got himself more comfortable on the tiles, legs straight out in front of him, and tried to remember what had happened. For years, he had been waiting, one day knowing he would be called to account. Finally, that day had come.
His sins had caught up with him.
At first, he’d stayed in his room to avoid Connie, not wanting to lie to her. Trying not to drink, failing. Knowing that his loosened tongue was dangerous. Connie always could see through him in any case, sharp as a tack, even when she was little. Used to call him Gifford from time to time, made the customers laugh. And hadn’t he noticed in the last few days the different way she looked at him, when she thought he wasn’t watching? He knew she was trying to remember. He wished he could tell her why it was safest to forget.
It was the one thing he feared more than anything. Because then, like a crack in the sea wall, once her memories came flooding back, who could say where it would end?
What had he given away earlier in the afternoon? In his drunken meanderings? They had talked, that he remembered. But as to what had been said, it was a blank. She had made him talk and say things he should not have said. He felt cold with fear. What secrets had he betrayed?
He felt bad, bruised from top to toe. He should have stayed in his room, only he hadn’t been able to bear it any longer, cooped up with only his accusing thoughts for company, and his grieving heart.
Ten years. He’d been living with the consequences ever since. No harm in it, so he’d thought. Four fine gentlemen looking for a special night. A night to remember.
Gifford covered his face with his hands.
All these years and he hadn’t talked. All these years, he’d taken their money and used it well. Used it right. They had no cause to come after him, had they? He stopped, the effort of remembering making his head throb.
That glimpse of chestnut hair in the water.
Not possible. In the churchyard, not possible. She was dead. He’d had a letter telling him so.
The Eve of St Mark, a night of ghosts.
*
Gifford didn’t know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness; he wasn’t certain. Only that when he next woke, his senses were a little sharper. A smell of damp bricks and dust. Feathers. He ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the scratch of several days’ stubble. He wondered what had happened to his hat. He was wearing his coat.
Filled with a sudden panic, he
Similar Books
Don Tarquinio: A Kataleptic Phantasmatic Romance (Valancourt eClassics)
Barón Corvo, Frederick Rolfe, Fr. Rolfe
