It was Cormac who pulled out the silver flask, and said, in a sharp firm voice, ‘Maud, your father is right and you’re unwell. Drink this now for me–Oh yes, you will, there’s to be no argument about it. And then we’ll walk along to Toft House.’
That’ll never work, thought George, but incredibly, it did. Maud drew in a deep shuddering breath. She stopped crying, and looked at Sullivan for a moment, then took the flask and tilted it to her lips. She gasped as the spirit–George supposed it was brandy–went down, but after a moment it seemed to kick her back to some form of sanity.
The fit, whatever it was, seemed to have passed. When they took her arms again, she walked between them with a docility that upset George far more than anything else that had happened tonight. To see his dearest Maud in this condition–crying and screaming, talking about macabre things–it was more than he could bear. It was more than any man should be expected to bear. And to think she had run here, to the very place where her mother…
But if he allowed himself to think about Maud’s mother, George knew he would break down altogether. He turned his whole attention to the task of getting Maud back to Toft House.
If it had been an odd experience to steal along the dark lanes in company with Cormac Sullivan, it was even odder to sit with him in Toft House’s drawing room.
Maud had been safely tucked into bed–George had roused Mrs Plumtree, telling her that Maud had succumbed to a sudden fever, and so in Miss Thomasina’s absence they had brought her home. Mrs Plumtree had administered a tiny measure of laudanum, and that, probably along with the contents of Cormac Sullivan’s flask, had sent Maud into a sound sleep. She’s all right, thought George determinedly. A nerve storm, that’s all it was.
He poured whisky into two glasses, handed one to Sullivan, and thanked him for what he had done. A great help. He did not know how he would have coped on his own.
‘Oh, daughters are the very devil,’ said Cormac. He was seated near the fireplace and he looked entirely at his ease, which was vaguely irritating of him. A man of Sullivan’s morals and reputation ought not to be so at ease in a house of this kind.
He frowned, and said, ‘Here’s the thing, Lincoln. We need to take a look inside the mill.’
‘Why?’ said George at once. The word came out sharply, but beneath it he was aware of a churning panic.
‘Because Thomasina and Simon Forrester are both absent without explanation,’ said Cormac. ‘And because Maud was talking about somebody–and it sounded like more than one somebody–being buried alive inside Twygrist.’
As George started to make a protest, Sullivan said, half to himself, ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it, that however much you think you’re modern and without superstition, the primeval fears still grab you by the throat. Buried alive, that’s what she kept saying. Down there in the dark, hammering on the walls to get out–Jesus God, I hope we’re wrong about this, but we need to make sure, and we need to make sure tonight. If you’re not up to it, Lincoln, say so, and I’ll haul out Daniel Glass to come with me.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said George.
‘We’ll cut across the field,’ said Cormac, when they reached Scraptoft Lane. ‘It’ll bring us out just below the reservoir and that’ll save time. It’s a short cut I often use,’ he said offhandedly, and George glanced at him, and thought: I bet you do!
The underground rooms of Twygrist were dismal and dank and it was necessary to walk cautiously to avoid tripping over bits of broken or discarded machinery littering the floor. The oil lamp George had brought created grotesque shadows on the walls, and there was a faint drip of water from somewhere. Twygrist was probably leaking like a sieve; George had known that for years, though. It was one of the reasons the place had been closed down. As for the other reason–his mind shuddered away from that, and he concentrated on what they must now do.