Free The Poisoned House by Michael Ford Page A

not mice,’ said Rob. ‘I saw a rat the other day. Big as my foot, he was.’
    ‘Well then,’ said Cook. ‘Get some poison down, lad. There’s some in the cellar, I think.’
    Greave Hall had been erected over the remains of another building, so my mother said, and there was another room below the kitchen and the scullery. It was enclosed within the foundations and lined by timber beams, with sagging walls. It was just a box, really, with no lights, and barely five feet high. The wine was kept down there, together with ice if we had any – and, as I now discovered, rat poison. I hadn’t known about that till now.
    Rob stood up from the table and went over to the hatch. It was opened by an old iron ring that was set into the floor. He looped a finger into the ring and gave a sharp tug. The hatch opened, bringing up a blast of damp air.
    ‘Pass me a light, will you, Abi?’
    I lit a candle with a spill from the fire in the range and carried it over.
    I didn’t like to go down in the cellar at all, and thankfully there was seldom need to. When I was just seven, I’d hidden beneath the hatch in a game of hide-and-seek with Samuel, and had somehow become trapped. It took him over an hour to find me, and all that time I was in the pitch darkness, feeling the cobwebs tickle my face.
    From above I saw Rob searching. I made out a pile of rope, some broken furniture and some old pans. There were a couple of lengths of piping too, though they looked rusted in the orange light and good for nothing.
    After some rummaging, Rob came up with a tin. He handed it to me together with the candle while he climbed back up the stepladder. Then he closed the hatch again, dusted himself down and returned to the table, placing the tin beside him.
    ‘Mind you don’t get that mixed up with the suet, Miss McMahon,’ he said.
    Cook’s eyes flashed. ‘And what would you be meaning by that?’ she said.
    Rob, who had been laughing, stopped. ‘Nothing, ma’am, of course. It was just a little jest, is all.’
    ‘Well, kindly keep such humour to yourself,’ she said.
    An uncomfortable silence settled over the table, with the only sounds the scraping of cutlery and Mr Lock’s toothless slurping on his soup.
    My mother had barely eaten anything after she fell ill, and what she had consumed seemed to pass straight through her racked body or be vomited up again. But Cook had prepared it all and, of course, everything she had eaten before her illness.
    I shot a sideways glance at the great, red-faced woman. She was sucking the marrow from a bone. Her lips glistened and her eyes were screwed shut.
    Soon after, Rob stood up. ‘Well, I must be seeing to Lancelot’s feed,’ he said.
    Cook grunted something and began to collect up the plates.
    I was left to wash the pans and dinner plates while Cook cleaned the hearth. In the reflection of a copper pot, I saw her reach inside her apron and sneak a sip from her bottle. We all knew she drank, of course, and that much of her wages went on the worst sort of gin, but none of us pried. I think even Mrs Cotton must have known.
    Mr Lock came in to collect the last of the china and lock it in the closet, safe for the night. ‘Will they be wanting coffee?’ Cook asked.
    ‘Just for Mrs Cotton,’ said Mr Lock. ‘His Lordship has retired for the night.’
    ‘Abi,’ said Cook, ‘make the coffee, would you, and take it in.’
    I did as I was asked, taking water from the range and pouring it over the ground beans. The rich and bitter smell wafted to my nostrils. I placed the filter in the pot and set it on a tray along with a jug of milk and bowl of sugar.
    The rat poison, I noticed, was still on the table. What would happen, I wondered, if I put a little of it in the steaming pot? Cook was in the scullery and wouldn’t know. The coffee would surely mask the taste.
    The bell rang from the drawing room, shaking me from my idle thoughts. That’s quite enough of that, I told myself.
    I carried the tray