Free The Poisoned House by Michael Ford Page B

quickly upstairs. The house was quiet now, and the windows were all dark. The clock chimed nine. I was looking forward to sinking into bed.
    I balanced the tray on one hand and knocked on the drawing-room door. Mrs Cotton’s voice bade me enter. She was sitting at one end of a chaise longue, wearing a blue dress with a navy cardigan over the top. Around her neck hung a string of pearls, which presumably had once belonged to her sister. I set down the tray in front of her.
    ‘Would you like me to pour?’ I asked.
    ‘And risk spilling on the carpet?’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘I think not.’
    ‘Will there be anything else, ma’am?’
    ‘Yes, there will,’ she said. ‘I asked you to clean the windows earlier, did I not?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘I did them all.’
    ‘You’re lying to my face, girl,’ she said. ‘The windows in Master Greave’s room have not been cleaned. In fact, it looks as though you’ve been pawing them with your filthy little hands.’
    I didn’t understand what she was saying. I’d made sure all the glass was spotless, especially that in the library.
    ‘I shall look now, ma’am,’ I said, turning to leave.
    ‘Wait!’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘Let me see your hands.’
    I held them out, turning them slowly so the housekeeper could see both sides. I had just been washing in the sink, so they were red raw but spotless. She shot out a hand and gripped my wrist.
    At first I thought she just wanted to look more closely. She pulled my hand towards her so that I had to bend down. Only when I came near the coffee pot did I realise this was something else.
    I tried to pull away, but she held me fast. She was so much stronger than she looked. All the time her fierce eyes held mine. I thought about calling for help, but who would have come? Mrs Cotton made the rules, not me.
    When my hand was an inch from the burning pot, she stopped.
    ‘You hate me, don’t you, Miss Tamper?’ she whispered.
    It was as if she could see into my heart and knew what I had considered doing in the kitchen.
    ‘Answer me,’ she said. ‘Do you wish me dead?’
    Tears welled in my eyes, not from the anticipated pain so much as the humiliation that she could cause them so easily.
    ‘I do,’ I said.
    At that, she smiled and released me. ‘At least you are sometimes honest,’ she said. ‘Now get out of my sight.’
    I rushed from the room.
    Behind the door, I was breathing heavily. Mr Lock passed me, carrying a tray of his own. On it were Lord Greave’s crystal decanter filled with cognac, and a single glass. It rattled as the old butler ascended the main staircase. It was one of the many rituals of the house – His Lordship’s drink before bed. In times gone by Sammy had taken it to him, but now it was left to the old butler.
    I went into the library and lit a candle. I couldn’t understand what Mrs Cotton had said about the window, but as I held the light up to the glass I saw that it was true. Not just one print, but perhaps a dozen were spread across the pane – too many to have been caused by any accident. I fetched a cloth from the downstairs cupboard, wondering who might have done such a thing. Perhaps Lizzy, in anger at our cross words over Henry.
    I set to wiping. The marks came off easily, but I was troubled. It seemed so trivial, so petty – not like Lizzy at all. As for Mrs Cotton, she could have dreamt up a thousand worse privations to torment me. There was one print that wouldn’t come off: a full hand, stretched out as if it had been pressed against the glass. I wiped over it twice, but it didn’t even smear. I spat on the cloth and tried again. Still it remained.
    My heart quickened as I realised why. It was on the outside.
    I stepped back from the window, staring into the blackness of the garden beyond. It had not been there earlier, I was sure, but somehow someone had left their mark on both the inside and the outside. The window was locked.
    I crept forward slowly and put my nose to the