Ah, but you’ve never killed a man before, have you? said Twygrist’s soft voice inside her mind. You didn’t know what it would feel like, did you?
Thomasina pushed the whispers away, got briskly to her feet, and held the candle up so she could examine Simon’s face. Was he dead? He certainly looked it: that glassy stare, the dead-weight feeling of his whole body. She felt for a heartbeat, and thought there was the faintest flutter in his chest. Or was there? Her hands were shaking so badly she could not be sure. She took several deep breaths, and tried again. No, there was nothing; it must have been her imagination. She kept her hand across the left side of his chest for another minute, but it was absolutely still and silent. He was dead.
And really, she must be more disturbed by the atmosphere than she had thought, because she could still hear the hoarse creaking voice of the mill all around her.
Does it matter if he’s dead or not, Thomasina? You know what you’re going to do next, so it really doesn’t matter if he’s dead or alive. You don’t need to care.
‘I don’t care,’ said Thomasina angrily to the voices, and standing up she brushed the dust from her skirt. Simon was dead–of course he was, and a very good riddance to him–and she must get on with the next part of the plan.
If she had been able to drag Simon’s body as far as the reservoir, or out to the Amber River, she would have tipped his body into the water and trusted to luck that he would not be found. But she did not think she could manage it. Simon was too heavy for her, and there was also the risk of someone seeing them. She was taking no chances about this; Simon’s death must look like an accident.
She relit her candle and the one Simon had been carrying which had rolled into a corner and snuffed itself out, and positioned them both on the ground at intervals along the tunnels.
Beacon lamps to light the way to a man’s tomb, Thomasina?
No, just to show me where I’m going.
Hooking her hands under Simon’s arms, she dragged him towards the kiln room. It took longer than she anticipated, because she had to keep stopping and moving the candles along with her to see her way, but eventually she got him to the steel doors, thankfully released her grip, and straightened up.
The kiln-room doors were shut, of course: when Twygrist was empty they always were shut to contain any fire that might break out from a spark kindling in the brick grate. But they were also kept shut to prevent people wandering into the kiln room and being trapped if the doors closed. George Lincoln had explained this to Thomasina and Simon, and had impressed on them that they must never go down there by themselves. Dangerous, he said solemnly. The doors were constructed so they would swing inwards at the lightest touch, and if that should happen, Thomasina and Simon might be imprisoned and might not be found for a very long time.
Thomasina grasped the handle on the left-hand door and pulled hard. At first the door refused to budge–it was solid steel and there seemed to be some kind of track that sloped down into the room itself, so that opening the door was almost like pulling it uphill. But eventually there was a screech of protesting hinges and she was able to force it all the way back and wedge it against the wall with the iron bar she had used on Simon. Only when she was satisfied that it could not swing shut and trap her, did she drag Simon inside.
Even though it was years since fires had burned down here, the air felt dry and raw and Thomasina found herself disliking the place very much. After a moment’s thought she arranged Simon’s body just inside the door, half-propped against the right-hand side. When he was eventually found–which might be quite a long time–it would appear that he had accidentally shut himself in and been trying to get out.
And the blows to the head? What if they’re noticed, Thomasina?