Dear Mr Breadspear,
During the last few days, the children have been behaving rather strangely, and I am becoming somewhat uneasy. I will write to you with more details, being a touch hurried at the present, since the kitchens are awaiting a delivery of dried goods, and I like to oversee such things. Mr Porringer always held that a good master (in this case mistress) ensures honesty at all levels of the establishment, and most especially in the consignment of supplies. To my mind this is true whether it is laudanum and mercury for the apothecary’s shelves, or lentils and pudding rice for the larder.
Very truly yours,
Maria Porringer.
Deadlight Hall
December 1882
Dear Mr Breadspear
The children’s behaviour is becoming very worrying indeed. I hesitate to use the word sinister, but it is the word that comes to my mind. They have taken to gathering in small groups, in the darker corners of the Hall, whispering together. I have tried to overhear what they are saying, but so far I have not managed it.
Last night I was wakeful, which is not a thing as normally happens to me, having a clear conscience and a healthy mind, not to mention a very good draught which was Mr Porringer’s own mixture, and which I usually take on retiring. I heard some of the children tiptoe past my room and go quietly down the stairs, so I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and crept out to see what they were about. There they were, huddled together in the hall below. The Wilger boy was with them, of course – he would have been carried down by two of the other boys, since he is no longer able to walk up or down stairs for himself.
Now, I am not a great believer in poetry and such – although Mr Porringer sometimes read a volume of poems and was inclined to quote a verse over supper if one had taken his attention – but seeing those children last night brought back the line I had heard John Hurst read – you may remember I wrote to you about it. Milton’s Paradise Lost, so I believe. The line stayed with me, and I thought of it, seeing the children:
‘When night darkens the streets, then wander forth the Sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine …’
There was no wine involved, of course, but insolence – my word, there was insolence in those children’s manner, and there was sly, cunning devilry in their faces. A terrible thing it was, and very frightening, to see such bitter hatred in the faces of children. Indeed, it was so strong that this morning I can almost believe the hatred still lies on the air like greasy smoke.
I shall lock my bedroom door each night, and I keep a large bread knife to hand during the daytime. If you could come to the Hall as soon as possible to discuss this, I should take that very kindly.
Yours very truly,
Maria Porringer.
Michael sat down for a moment, slightly puzzled, because it was surprising to find Maria Porringer – surely a severe and even a cruel woman – had been so frightened by a group of children whispering in a dark old house.
But whatever else she was, it had to be said that the old girl had a fine line in rhetoric when she got going, while as for John Hurst, Michael was inclined to think kindly of a man who had tried to teach Shakespeare and Milton to orphans.
He delved into the package again, to see what else it might contain, and drew out what looked like a local newspaper cutting of around the same date.
MYSTERY AT DEADLIGHT HALL: Disappearance of two girls.
Police were yesterday called to Deadlight Hall, the local Orphanage and Apprentice House owned and run by the Deadlight Hall Trust (Chairman Mr Augustus Breadspear), to investigate the whereabouts of two of the girls, Rosie and Daisy Mabbley.