Hal waited at the foot of the stairs, under the pretense of catching her breath.
There was something she didn’t like about that staircase—perhaps it was the narrowness of it, or the lack of natural light, for there were no windows, not even a skylight, or perhaps it was the way that it seemed to be shut away from the rest of the house, the door at the bottom hiding its very existence. But she swallowed, and pushing the door as wide as she could, she hitched up her case and followed Mrs. Warren up the final flight.
“Is this where the servants used to sleep?” she asked, hearing her voice echo in the confined space.
“No,” Mrs. Warren said shortly, without turning back. Hal felt snubbed, but when they reached the landing, Mrs. Warren stopped and looked at her, and seemed to relent a little. “Not anymore. They moved the servants’ quarters over the kitchen when they rebuilt,” she said. “Of course, they’re all shut up now, there’s only me left and I sleep downstairs, next to Mrs. Westaway’s room, in case she needed me in the night.”
“I see,” Hal said humbly. She shivered. She had never felt more out of place, in her draggled wet coat, her laddered tights, her short black hair drying into spikes from the rain. “She was lucky to have you.”
“She was,” Mrs. Warren said. Her mouth was a thin line of pinched disapproval. “God knows the family cared little enough for her comfort, though I see you’re all happy enough to come down picking like magpies over the spoils now.”
“I—I didn’t—” Hal started, nettled, but then stopped as Mrs. Warren turned away and hobbled down a short, unlit corridor towards a closed door, rattling the knob with her gnarled hand. What could she say? It was true, after all, at least as far as she herself was concerned. She let her mouth fall shut and waited as Mrs. Warren struggled with the stiff knob, her cane clamped under her arm.
“Damp,” Mrs. Warren said shortly over her shoulder, as she tugged at the knob. “Frame swells.”
“Can I—” Hal began, but it was too late—as the words left her mouth, the door gave suddenly, and a flood of cold light illuminated the landing.
Mrs. Warren stood back and let Hal pass through. Inside was a narrow little room, painfully bare, with a metal bedstead in one corner, a washstand in the other, and a barred nursery window overlooking the garden. There was no carpet, only bare boards, and a tiny knotted rug by the head of the bed. There was also no radiator, just a small grate filled with coal and kindling already laid out.
The bars gave Hal a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, though she could not have said why. Perhaps it was the incongruity of finding them up here, in the attic. On the ground floor they might have been needed to keep out intruders. But up here there was only one explanation: these were bars not to keep someone out—but in. Only . . . this was not a nursery room, where the bars might be needed to safeguard a clambering toddler. It was a maid’s room, far from the rest of the house, totally impractical for a small child.
What kind of person needed to stop their maids from escaping?
“Well, here you are,” Mrs. Warren said irritably. “There’s matches on the mantelpiece, but we’re short of coal, so don’t be thinking you can have a fire willy-nilly, now. There’s no money to burn. I’ll leave you to unpack.”
“Th-thank you,” Hal said. The little room was extremely cold, and her teeth chattered, though she tried to keep her jaw clenched tight to stop it. “Wh-when should I c-come down?”
“The others aren’t here yet,” Mrs. Warren said, seeming to answer her question without quite doing so. “No doubt they went around by the coast road, it’s always bad this time of year with the storms.”
And she turned, before Hal could ask any more questions, and stumped off down the narrow stairs. Hal waited, and heard the door at the bottom slam smartly shut, and then she sank down on the little bed and took in her surroundings.
The room was barely a couple of meters side to side, and the barred window gave it the feeling of a cell, even with the door open. It was also achingly cold. As the air settled around her, Hal realized that she could see her breath if she huffed hard enough. There was a mint-green eiderdown on the bed, and Hal pulled it off the mattress and wrapped it around her shoulders. The fragile satin pulled beneath her fingers so that she was afraid the fabric might disintegrate in her grip, but she was too cold to sit without some kind of warmth.
She thought about lighting the fire, but it seemed pointless when she would have to go downstairs to face the family. And just the thought of asking the disapproving Mrs. Warren for another scuttle of coal made Hal quail, remembering her thinned lips and grim expression.
Did Mrs. Warren dislike all the family this much, or was it just Hal? she wondered. Perhaps it was because of the short notice of her arrival—though Mrs. Warren hadn’t seemed exactly surprised. Perhaps it was Hal’s bedraggled dress and shoes. Or could it be . . . did she suspect something? There had been something Hal couldn’t quite pin down in her expression, when she saw Hal, a kind of wary . . . calculation. It was the look, Hal suddenly thought, of a child who sees a cat appear among a flock of pigeons, and stands back to watch the slaughter. What did it mean?
Hal shivered again, in spite of the eiderdown, and then, remembering her vow on the journey over, she pulled her phone out of her bag and opened up the search screen. Her fingers, as she typed the words in the search box, were stiff and reluctant, and not only with cold, and she paused for a long moment before she hit the search button.
Maud Westaway St. Piran missing dead
Then she pressed ENTER.
The little icon whirred for a long time, long enough for Hal to look doubtfully at the coverage bars in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Two out of five. Not great . . . but it should be enough to get some kind of Internet, surely?
At last the results flashed up on the screen, and Hal felt her stomach flip, for there, right at the top of the list, was the piece she had known would come up. It was a newspaper link about her mother’s death.
Maud Westaway St. Piran missing dead said the grayed-out text beneath the link, showing that it didn’t tick all the search boxes, but that, nonetheless, this piece was the best match.
Hal didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The information she needed didn’t lie in this piece, with its lurid details and sorrowful tone. Self-styled psychic practitioner, Hal remembered, and familiar local figure in her characterful dress, as though her mother were one step away from a medicated stay in a secure facility, rather than a cheerful, down-to-earth woman making a living for herself and her child in the best way she could.
Great loss to the pier community, though, that was true.
Hal still remembered the way they had gathered round her when she returned to her mother’s booth, the mute sympathy on their faces, the way she had found that for months and months afterwards, cups of hot tea would be left quietly outside her kiosk on cold days, how the mistakes in the change at the fish-and-chips stand were somehow always in her favor.
Now she blinked as she scrolled past the links about the crash, her vision blurring as she tried to make out the text in the other pieces. She clicked through to a few, but none of them were related. There was a missing West Highland terrier in St. Piran, and a slew of totally irrelevant links from baby name websites and the St. Piran tourist board.
At last, she shut down the screen, drew the eiderdown around her shoulders, and simply sat, looking out of the little barred window across the rain-spattered garden.
Whoever Maud Westaway had been, whatever had happened to her, she seemed to have gone without a trace.
CHAPTER 12
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