Thomasina stood back, trying to summon the resolve to open the doors. Logic dictated that Simon was dead–that he had been dead when she dragged him in here. Supposing he was not? But it had been three days now and he had been in there without food–more importantly, without water. Surely he could not have survived? She would open the doors and satisfy herself that there was nothing to worry about. Then she would go home and leave somebody else to discover Simon’s body.
She set her candle down on the ground and remembered about finding a wedge to hold the door open. It would be the worst of all ironies if she got herself shut in. She wondered if she should have some kind of weapon to hand, but she dismissed this notion as ridiculous and grasping the handle of the left-hand door, began to drag it open. It moved more easily than it had that first time, but the screeching of the old hinges filled the tunnels exactly as it had done before. As the door swung slowly back there was a faint gusting of dry stale air in her face, and then the room was open.
Thomasina pushed the wedge into place, reached for the candle and held the flickering light up. For a moment she thought the room was empty, and she wondered wildly if the events of three days ago had been a grotesque dream or even a delusion. Perhaps Simon had secretly fed her opium as well as Maud.
And then she saw the room was not empty after all. Near the brick chimney, where once Twygrist’s fires had burned to dry the grain overhead, was a huddled shape. In the dimness it looked like a bundle of rags. Now she was a little nearer, and now the candle was burning up a little more strongly in the dry air, she could see the tumble of hair and an arm protruding from the bundle, the hand turned palm upwards in a terrible gesture of entreaty, the nails broken and crusted with blood.
Thomasina’s knees suddenly felt as if they could not support her, and for a truly appalling moment there was the watery quiver in her bowels she had experienced earlier that morning. She took several deep breaths and after a moment was able to take several steps towards the prone shape. Simon’s distinctive hair had fallen forward over his brow–he had always worn his hair slightly longer than most men–and Thomasina had to repress a ridiculous urge to bend down and smooth it back, and whisper how sorry she was that it had come to this. Because after all, Simon had been the closest thing she had to a brother–all those holidays at Quire, all those shared memories.
This is the mill that Joe built
This is the man who blackmailed and drank
Who died in the mill that Joe built.
But Simon’s son would live. He would grow up at Quire, and Thomasina would make sure he did not know that his father had been a weak blackmailing drunkard.
This is the boy conceived in the night
Who will inherit the mill that Joe built.
She was just turning to go when the flung-out beseeching hand moved and snaked its fingers around her ankle.
In a thread of a voice, Simon said, ‘Help me, you bitch…’
Thomasina recoiled, and tried to back away to the door. She was shaking so much the candle was in danger of going out, and she had no idea what to do.
‘Help me, you bitch…’
It came again, like the dry rustling of old bones scraping together, like the brittle tapping of fleshless fingers against a night windowpane.
‘Harder to kill–than you–think–Thomasina…’
‘I didn’t intend to kill you,’ said Thomasina, recovering her wits slightly. ‘Only to teach you a lesson.’
‘Liar…It’s been too long.’
‘No. You’re delirious. I miscalculated.’ But oh God, what do I do? Do I strike him over the head again? I can’t. I can’t. And he’s nearly dead as it is–how did he survive this long?
Playing for time, she said, ‘Can you get back upstairs if I support you?’
‘No…Too weak to walk, old girl. Kept alive by…drinking own urine. Cupped hands…’ And, as Thomasina made a gesture of distaste, the dreadful voice said, ‘Soldier’s trick–in desert.’
‘I’ll get you out,’ said Thomasina, not moving.
Simon made a feeble movement, and then fell back against the bricks. His voice, when he spoke again, was thin and weak, ‘You’ve found out, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve come back.’
‘Found out?’ Thomasina’s mind snapped onto a different course.
‘About Maud.’ said Simon. ‘You know that I–lied…’