Free The Poisoned House by Michael Ford

pans.
    At the far end were the cleaning products: the powders and liquids for making the various polishes, ointments and cleaning fluids that were needed in the house. Such things could be bought ready-made, but we used to joke that Mrs Cotton preferred to spend the housekeeping money on herself. One of Lizzy’s most hated jobs was the mixing of ingredients – something I was happy not to be trusted with.
    It struck me that there were things in here that could poison a person: antimony for furniture polish, lead coating for the pipes, sealed flypaper which smelled rancid when left out – what was that covered with? Some sort of toxic chemical, surely. There were other sealed pots with names I couldn’t pronounce. There were bottle of acids too, with dust-covered labels.
    But I couldn’t linger. On top of a small chest was a pile of writing pads. I took a single sheet and a new pencil, tucking them into my apron pouch. Then I bent down to fetch the blacking.
    I must have been blushing as I came out, but Mr Lock didn’t notice. He was sitting at the bottom of the main stairs, his hands resting on his knees. His skin had taken on a curious grey colour, and when he looked up at me, his watery blue eyes were unfocussed.
    ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ I asked.
    He nodded briskly, then rose stiffly, locked the door to the store and walked slowly away. At the foot of the stairs he paused, and put up a hand to steady himself against the frame.
    ‘It’s been a year since your mother went, hasn’t it, Abi?’
    Odd, I thought, because he never used my Christian name.
    ‘It has, sir,’ I replied.
    Mr Lock’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. ‘Time passes quickly, does it not?’
    I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I said it did.
    He took the stairs slowly, as though carrying a great burden.
    I could hear Lizzy in her room, but she didn’t come through to mine. I was grateful, both on account of our falling-out and because I needed peace to write the letter to Dr Reinhardt. I sat over the blank page, wondering how to begin. What could he actually tell me?
    My worst fear was that he’d dismiss me immediately without a thought, so I took care to make my letters neat, and to sound as much like a grown-up as possible.
    .
    Dear Dr Reinhardt,
    I would very much like to engage your services on a delicate matter. My mother died some twelve months ago. It is my sincere belief that her spirit has not properly been laid to rest. Perhaps you could advise in a reply how we might seek to rectify this situation.
    You will understand that I wish to keep this matter private.
    Yours sincerely,
    Miss Abigail Tamper
    I read it back, asking myself what he’d make of such a strange note. There seemed no other option. Either my mother’s ghost was roaming the rooms of Greave Hall or I was losing my mind.
    I folded the paper, and using a lighted candle, dripped wax over the fold. It pooled and hardened, sealing the letter. I wrote Dr Reinhardt’s name and address on the front, but gave no return address.
    I had other plans.

.
    Chapter 14
    The kitchen was still warm from the range as we ate our dinner, which on a Sunday was always better than other days: skins from the potatoes roasted in leftover fat, cuts of meat from Lord Greave and Mrs Cotton’s joint, cabbage and sprouts stewed with cloves. The table was silent as we gorged. Every so often the bell would ring and Mr Lock would go up to tend to the diners’ needs.
    Lizzy had not spoken more than a few words to me since our argument, but below stairs such animosity couldn’t survive for long. Resentments couldn’t be brushed beneath the carpet – they must either be addressed or allowed to fizzle out.
    I asked her how her sister was, for that was where she had been until the evening.
    ‘She’s well,’ said Lizzy. ‘The baby’s good as gold.’
    There was a rustle in the wall.
    ‘Bloody mice,’ said Cook. ‘The sooner Rowena’s up and running, the better.’
    ‘Them’s