It was a routine that suited him very nicely, although since Maud had been in Latchkill it was no longer a comfortable one. Every time he thought about Maud, George could still scarcely believe what he had done, but in the days following the discovery of the two bodies in the mill, he was aware of a certain relief. The police had questioned everyone about Thomasina and Simon Forrester’s deaths–who had seen them, and when and where, and why they might have been in Twygrist in the first place–and George was thankful that Maud was safely out of their reach. He thought the sergeant asking the various questions had barely even realized that George had a daughter.
George himself told the sergeant that Miss Thomasina had mentioned to him the possibility of starting Twygrist up again. He had been careful to say this as if it was something he had only just remembered, and he thought this had helped tip the balance to the verdict of accidental death. Clearly, said the coroner presiding over the inquest which was held at the nearby Rose and Crown, these two unfortunate people had gone out to the mill to take a look at its condition, and become trapped in the kiln room. He was not a local man, and appeared to have thought up for himself a happy little picture of two cousins–he made no doubt they had been good friends and childhood companions–going off on their little expedition to see if their family’s business might be revived. On a sterner note, he added a little homily about the proper securing of old and potentially unsafe buildings, although, as a number of people said afterwards, Twygrist had belonged to Miss Thomasina anyway, and she of all people ought to have known the dangers of the kiln room.
Now the funeral was over, the shock and speculation were dying down. No one had given Maud a thought, other than to commiserate with George about the child’s illness. One or two ladies had even pressed little gifts for her onto George, which had made him feel dreadful at deceiving them all. He had put the embroidered handkerchiefs and the lavender water into a drawer in Maud’s bedroom for when she came home, and had thought, guiltily, how kind people could be. Cormac Sullivan had been kindest of them all, of course: when George remembered how Sullivan had behaved that night, he thought he owed the man a debt of gratitude that he might never be able to repay. It was amazing how you could misjudge someone.
But the small gifts for Maud might have to remain in the drawer for a very long time. George was only just now admitting to himself how very disturbed Maud really was. How much of that might be due to her parentage, he did not know. Louisa had unquestionably been unbalanced–those bouts of melancholy, those later years when she had cowered in her room. Had she actually been mad? And what about the man who had been her real father? George loved Maud dearly, and he thought of her as his own daughter, but he had never forgotten Louisa’s description of Maud’s real father–the man who had broken out of Latchkill, and who had laughed as he raped her. What was in the meat came out in the gravy, as the saying went, and George was already wondering if Maud’s stay in Latchkill might have to be a longer one than he had originally thought.
He had also never forgotten what had happened on the morning Louisa died–the morning when he had sent Maud to wait for him, and how he had set about dealing with what was inside Twygrist…
It had still been very early–no one had been about, and mist had been lying thickly on the Twygrist’s reservoir like a shroud. George rather liked autumn, with crunchy leaves underfoot and the scents of bonfires and chrysanthemums, but that morning the scents inside the mill had been those of the spilled blood on Twygrist’s millstone. Dreadful.
Louisa’s body had lain broken and bloodied on the ground, and the millstones themselves had been spattered in blood. George had stared, horrified, and there had been a moment when he thought he might be sick. But then he remembered Maud. He scooped her up in his arms, took her outside, and told her to wait there, to be a good girl for papa.
He went back into the mill, and flung his coat over Louisa’s body. Only when he had done that, had he turned to look at the other occupant of the mill.