The gates were ahead of her at last: they were like black jutting teeth in the darkness. They would be locked and guarded by the lodge keeper, but people must come and go through those gates: delivery carts with provisions, the nurses going on or off duty. In the dim light, with the dark blue Latchkill cloak around her shoulders Maud might pass as one of the nurses. But supposing the lodge keeper knew them all? He would certainly know the times they came and went. Maud thought about this, and then remembered the cheerful voice that had called out about only another hour before going off-duty. St Michael’s church clock was just chiming nine, so it was a reasonably safe guess that the changeover to the night staff would happen at ten. Very well, she would wait until ten. It was quite a cold night, but not icily so, and the ground was perfectly dry. She would trust to luck that her escape would not be discovered in the next hour, and she could slip out with the nurses going off-duty. She wrapped the cloak around her, and sat down in the thickest part of the shrubbery.
Memories came flooding in, all the way back to that last morning with mamma. The morning that was the tangled bloodied part of memory–the long-ago morning when the spider light had lain thickly over Amberwood.
It had been her eighth birthday, and Maud had understood by then that mamma lived in her own room, and did not go out. It did not seem odd; it was just what mammas did. She was taken to see her each evening by Mrs Plumtree, after she had had her milk and biscuits, and sometimes mamma said quite ordinary, quite happy things, like, ‘Oh, there’s my dearest girl,’ and, ‘What have you been doing today, my precious one?’ But sometimes she said things Maud did not understand, and that were quite scary. ‘Child of fear,’ she said. ‘That’s what you are, my dear.’ And as Maud’s birthday got nearer, she said, ‘They think I forget the date, but I don’t.’ Maud thought this must mean her birthday, and that mamma was not going to forget it, but later she heard mamma say to papa, ‘It’s the anniversary. One day he should know what he did. He should be made to pay.’ Maud did not know who he was, but in reply, papa only coughed in the nervous way he had when he did not know what to say. But the next morning, he had said to Mrs Plumtree that the mistress was restless again. He dared say it would pass, but in the meantime, perhaps Mrs Plumtree would keep a close watch. Mrs Plumtree had said she would, trust her for that, sir, and was Miss Maud to be taken in as usual?
‘Oh yes,’ papa had said, after a moment. ‘I think that’s perfectly safe.’
And then, early on the very morning of her eighth birthday, mamma had come into Maud’s bedroom, and had said Maud was to be very quiet and to do exactly as she was told, because there was a secret. The secret meant that Maud had to get up at once, get dressed and go with mamma. They had to be mouse-quiet, said mamma, because it was important not to wake papa or Mrs Plumtree.
It was a bit strange for mamma to be out of her room, but Maud had thought it might be something to do with her birthday–it might be that they were going to see a puppy or a kitten. But wherever they were going, Maud almost had to run to keep up with mamma, and mamma kept looking back over her shoulder as if she was worried about somebody seeing them. Once she stopped and tightened her hold on Maud’s hand, and peered into the hedges on the side of the road. Now that Maud was a bit more awake she saw that mamma looked strange: her hair was not coiled up into a neat bun as usual; it was wispy and straggly, and the buttons of her gown were not properly done up–her chemise showed through. Maud hoped they would not meet anyone, because it would be embarrassing for people to see mamma like this. She tried to ask where they were going, but mamma said, ‘I told you, it’s a secret.’
Maud had not exactly been frightened, but she was no longer used to being with mamma like this–it was a long time since they had taken their afternoon walks together. She started to feel cold and shivery inside, and wondered if mamma would be angry if she let go of her hand and ran back home.
When they came to Latchkill’s gates, mamma had stopped, and said, ‘That’s where we’re going.’ Maud looked up in astonishment, because it was still spider light time–there had been a huge scuttly spider on the marble washstand in her bedroom yesterday morning–and mamma had always said you must never be caught near to Latchkill at that time. Spider light was when the bad things happened.
But the spider light did not seem to matter today because mamma was tugging on an iron rope. A bell jangled and a man ran out of the little house at the side of the gates, and said, ‘Good morning madam, and little miss, and what can I do for you?’