Free The Bonehill Curse by Jon Mayhew Page A

grey hair as she approached.
    She spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I was looking for . . .’
    Ness couldn’t finish her sentence. The sight of the chair’s occupant stole the words from her mouth. A burly man with a walrus moustache sat staring into space. His skin was grey, the rims of his eyes red. A look of sheer terror twisted his face and a single line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
    There was no doubt in Ness’s mind that Henry Lumm was dead and that he had met a violent end.

Because we kept an eye on the snake , we forgot the s c orpion.
    T raditional proverb

Chapter Twelve
    W hispers of the D ead
    One hand still held a pen. Ink leeched into the blotter on which it rested and pooled across the lacquered surface of the desk.
    Ness felt cold, her heart thundered against her ribs. I should get help , she thought, but she stood immobile, her hands clutched together.
    Her eyes were drawn to a half-written letter that lay pinned under Henry Lumm’s other hand.
     
    My dearest Olwen,
     
    I fear our past has caught up with us. Grossford is dead. Bonehill and his wife are missing. The fiend is out, I’m sure of it. Hide yourself. Use whatever defences you have. Be certain that he will come for us all . . .
     
    Ness’s head pounded. The fiend? Did he mean the djinn? An envelope lay next to the letter with an address.
     
    Mrs Olwen Quilfy, 4 Badenock Terrace, Kensington, London.
     
    With a grimace, Ness snatched up the letter and envelope. Maybe this Quilfy woman would have some answers. She clearly knew something more than Ness did. Ness turned to go but stopped. I can’t just leave , she thought, glancing back at Lumm. Every fibre of her body wanted to run headlong out of the house but surely the alarm should be raised.
    The house lay silent. Was there anyone about? Ness tiptoed out across the hall and clambered up the first few steps of the staircase.
    ‘Hello?’ she called to the rooms upstairs. Her voice sounded weak and her throat felt dry. ‘Is there anybody there?’
    Nothing.
    Ness bit her lip. She glanced down the hall to where a door stood ajar. Steps led down to the kitchen. The smell of carbolic soap and cooking replaced the polish and cigar smoke of the upper floor as Ness descended the whitewashed steps.
    She peered into the scrubbed kitchen. A tap dripped, the sound deafening in the quiet. The small room looked unremarkable, with its red tiled floor, a sink and a blacked range built into the chimney breast. But a woman lay collapsed over the bleached wooden table. She wore an apron and mob cap, clearly the cook. Ness gave a gasp. The woman’s red-rimmed eyes stared blankly across the room. She was dead. Boils covered her skin. Her hair hung down under the cap, plastered to her blue-tinged face.
    Glancing over her shoulder, Ness could see another body sprawled across the floor into the tiny pantry. A striped trouser leg and shiny boot told her it was a butler or footman of some description. She glimpsed more ulcerated flesh.
    Images of Mollie, Sarah and Hannah gasping for breath fought their way into Ness’s mind. She remembered them wheezing as the sweat drenched their nightclothes. Shaking her head, Ness stumbled back out of the kitchen. No one in this house could help her. She turned and scurried up the steps, her feet sounding like thunder in the deathly hush.
    A crash from the kitchen below brought Ness skidding to a halt on the cool tiles of the hall. At the same time a movement from Lumm’s study caught her eye. Something had lurched from her field of vision.
    Lumm’s chair was empty. A shadow shifted from behind the half-closed door.
    With a cry, Ness threw herself at the front door. Her fingers felt like rubber as she fumbled at the door latch.
    A long, groaning breath hissed out of Lumm’s study followed by a heavy footfall. Below, a chair scraped across the tiles as if someone was standing up.
    She freed the latch and the door swung open. Ness gave a gasp