Antonia was glad he had stopped avoiding the issue. She said, ‘Either of those things, Inspector. Or maybe both of them.’
‘I’m just being concerned for you, Dr Weston. Is there anyone you could call to come up to stay with you?’
‘A friend’s coming up tomorrow as a matter of fact.’
‘Good. But for tonight, won’t you take even a couple of paracetamol?’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Antonia again. ‘If this sewer rat comes back I don’t want to be too zonked by pills to deal with him.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
George Lincoln had not taken laudanum to help him sleep for years–not, in fact, since Maud’s mother had died. He did not like doing so, but since the dreadful night when he had decided to put Maud into Latchkill he had used it several times. It made him feel dull and frowsty the next morning, but it was the only way to avoid lying awake thinking of Maud in that bleak little room with the narrow bed and the squalid, lidded-bucket contraption in one corner.
He had visited her, of course, but he had not dared visit too often, in case people wondered why he was spending so much time at Latchkill visiting a young lady. George could easily imagine them sniggering behind their hands, speculating as to whether the lady in question could be an illegitimate daughter or a mistress. One would be as bad as the other, but neither would be as bad as people knowing that Maud was inside Latchkill to keep her out of the law’s reach in case she had murdered Thomasina Forrester.
He was a little concerned about this question of Maud’s room, though, and he had a word about that with Matron Prout. Maud had told him she did not spend her days in the room with the flowered bed-cover and the nice chairs, he said. What had she meant? He hoped his instructions had been clear; Maud was to have every comfort possible while she was in Latchkill. He was paying quite highly for that as Mrs Prout very well knew.
Mrs Prout was reassuring. Of course Maud spent her days in that room, she said, and it was one of their very nicest rooms. She had chosen it herself for the child. Dear goodness, what on earth was being suggested? The truth was that Maud became confused at times–most likely because of the sedation they were giving her. Mr Lincoln must not worry; Freda could promise him that the money he was paying was being properly spent on Maud’s comfort.
George felt a little better after this; he felt he had indicated to the Prout woman that he was not a man to be duped, although it would not hurt to keep watch on things.
But behind all these worries, was the memory of how Maud had crouched in Twygrist’s shadow that night, the dreadful sly look on her face like a mask, whispering about people being buried alive…Saying that fingerbones made good hammers–and saying it in such an ordinary conversational tone that George’s skin prickled to remember it. Maud had stared at Twygrist, in exactly the same way her mother used to stare at Latchkill. Louisa had hated and feared Latchkill, but she had been unable to resist going back to it, over and over again.
‘Because once you have seen what crouches inside the spider light, you can never afterwards forget…’
George had always tried to tell himself that Louisa had been entirely normal in the early years. He held on to the conviction that there had been ordinary, happy times. The birth of Maud had been as normal as anyone could wish, and George had loved Maud from the very first; he had thought he would do anything for this dear exquisite child. But hadn’t Louisa been a little–well, a little odd, even then? What about those afternoon walks? Nothing should be more normal than a mother taking her small daughter for an afternoon walk, but Louisa had always taken Maud to Latchkill, and Maud had been frightened.