CHAPTER 10.
I never made that butter chicken. Mr. Anson, as caretaker and de facto steward of Briarwood Hall, made it his personal duty to inquire about the weekly grocery bill. I later learned this was not an uncommon practice. Had I known, I never would have purchased spices I couldn’t afford. He was livid when the shopkeeper gave him a copy of the receipt and demanded to know where I’d stashed the items.
“Where are they, Miss Gibson?” he demanded, flying through the kitchen in a rage. He reminded me of a hysterical bat. “Where are the spices?”
Mrs. Hutchins had the day off, so I was alone in dealing with the manly storm. “I purchased them with my money,” I stated calmly, not caring for the deranged look in his eyes. “I bought them with the money I made,” I added in case he hadn’t heard me. “It is of no concern of yours what I do with my salary.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure, young lady.” He whirled about, arms akimbo. “Where are they?” he practically shouted, making me wince. “Do not tell me those… vile witch’s ingredients are in this kitchen!”
“They are not.”
“Then where are they? I know what you purchased and when. I want them.”
“No.”
He smiled, and a chill slithered up my spine. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘no’, you may not have them.”
“Let’s try this again,” he said slowly, inching closer to where I stood near the stove. “Where are the spices?”
Something in his demeanor set off warning bells. I quickly made up a logical reason for the purchase. “I meant to send the spices to my aunt,” I lied, quite shamelessly. “I simply haven’t found time to wrap them.”
Mr. Anson looked suspicious. “Then you did not purchase the items for… yourself?”
“I needed sewing thread and needles. And I am fond of cashews. But no. I did not purchase the spices for myself.” I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. “And I needed the salt, pepper, and dry mustard for the Colonel’s macaroni and cheese. He’s quite fond of the dish.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Give me your aunt’s address. I shall wrap and post the items for you.”
Oh, she’d love that.
“There is no need,” I said, deciding to send the spices to Eileen instead. She might grow fond of butter chicken. I’d just have to explain the recipe. “Mrs. Hutchins said she would post them for me the next time she goes shopping.” I turned to taste the chicken stew she’d left for supper. I took a taste and added another dash of salt. “But I’d appreciate a box and some paper if you have any.”
Mr. Anson muttered something about what he’d like to do with that paper and left. Shaken by the incident, I pulled up a stool and tried to quell my trembling. “All of that for butter chicken?” I flung at a presence I knew was there. The spirit had been watching me for days, opening and slamming cupboards, and generally making itself a nuisance. “He’d never let me past the stove.”
A word popped into my head.
“Coward?” I repeated doubtfully. “No. Just… prudent. I still have not saved enough for the passage home. If you would like to contribute, then say so. If not…”
I was being silly. There was nothing there.
Of course, the spirit did not care about my nonchalance. She, because I knew it was a ‘she’, began a campaign of terror that was alarming in its malicious spite. Doors would slam shut on their own. Once, I nearly toppled down the cellar stairs after the door slammed behind me. Candles flickered and snuffed out soon after lighting their wicks. All the running water turned brown with a foul-smelling sludge, and we were forced to use the pump.
Try carrying pails of water up three flights of stairs.
The dumbwaiter’s rope broke under the weight.
Rocking chairs moved and gas lights dimmed. Hallways would be chillingly cold in one area, while boiling hot in another. I’d have to wear a shawl on my way through the gallery, even though summer was nearly upon us. Items would suddenly disappear or show up in another part of the house. Colonel Havelock’s collection of antique pistols fired one night even though they weren’t loaded.
Mr. Anson didn’t say a word.
I knew for a fact he had witnessed several incidents and urged him to say something. Anything. He snapped at me to keep my mouth shut. “You didn’t see a thing!” he hissed angrily after a disturbing incident in which he was shoved down the remaining flight of stairs leading to the wine cellar. I was there, having been sent my Colonel Havelock to fetch his favorite Bordeaux for supper.
“Are you hurt, sir?” I cried, helping him to his feet.
“Get away from me!” he hurled at my head, shoving me aside.
Mrs. Hutchins was skeptical but agreed something had probably shoved him down the stairs. “Maybe she doesn’t like uppity manservants,” she quipped. “I know I don’t.”
“He could have broken his neck,” I sighed, handing her another dish to dry. Mrs. Hutchins volunteered to stay late after I mentioned I was afraid of being alone. “She’s already shoved me.”
“And how do we know it’s a ‘she’?”
“Don’t ask me how I know,” I said, scrubbing furiously at a speck of baked-on chicken. “I just know. And she doesn’t enjoy being ignored.”
“Who’s ignoring her? I just want to know if it’s safe to fetch a jar of pickles.” Mrs. Hutchins glanced anxiously around the kitchen. We had just scrubbed the place from top to bottom and were up to our armpits in dishes. That night’s menu had included a cassoulet. Colonel Havelock preferred the beans and not much else. There was so much leftover, Mrs. Hutchins packed it up to take home. “I say live and let live. If she leaves me alone, then I’m inclined to do the same.”
“I don’t think she’ll bother you, Mrs. Hutchins.” I handed her another plate. “For some reason, she is drawn to the colonel and, by default, me.” My hands felt around in the sink. I let out a startled cry, quickly bringing my left hand to the surface. Blood dripped into the dishwater.
I’d cut myself.
“What happened?” Mrs. Hutchins cried. She found the culprit and held it up the knife. “How did that get in there? We washed all the silverware.”
“Maybe she wanted to send me a message,” I grumbled, fearing I might need stitches. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. No matter how much pressure I placed on my finger, the tide would not ebb. I soon grew lightheaded. “Um… would you drive me to the village?” I said, feeling dizzy. “I need medical… assistance.”
Mrs. Hutchins bundled me into the wagon and shouted at an irate Mr. Anson to keep his mouth shut.
He wisely obeyed.
* * *
“How did you manage to do this to yourself?” the doctor asked. Since Dr. Bellamy resided in London, and only made the trip when Colonel Havelock requested he do so, Mrs. Hutchins drove me to the next town over where a retired physician gladly offered his services to those who couldn’t afford a highly trained surgeon. “This cut is deep, near to the bone. You’ll need several stitches.”
“That’s fine,” I gulped, downing brandy like mad. “Just do what you need to do.”
He laid out his instruments and threaded a needle. “I won’t lie, child. This is going to hurt.”
I didn’t cry.
I waited until I was outside to scream.
* * *
After that, I stopped talking to the spirit. I tried to rationalize and thought of her as a spoiled child who had nothing to do but slice unsuspecting fingers with butcher knives. I focused instead on making enough money to leave Briarwood. I nagged Mr. Anson to no end about finding a replacement. His response was to brush me off like a speck of lint on his jacket. “When I have procured a replacement,” he announced one morning at breakfast, “you will be the first to know.”
“Have you written to them?” I inquired, wincing at my bandaged finger. The wound refused to close, forcing me to undergo another tortuous procedure. The doctor said if the stitches didn’t take, I’d have to go to a hospital. I thought that would be a perfect opportunity to get out of this prison and hoped the digit would get infected. “Perhaps I should make the inquiries.”
“Miss Gibson,” Mr. Anson said with one of those smiles that did not quite reach his eyes. “I have sent out as many inquiries as my weary fingers can write. Give them time.”
I don’t know why, but I didn’t believe him.
But I let it go, consumed with preparing a baked fish supper for Colonel Havelock. He surprised me by asking if I knew how to prepare cod. I was to use no spices, only salt and pepper. Rice would be allowed only if I added salted butter. He also wanted an apple tart for dessert.
So much for cold dishes.
“Well,” I said lightly, adding butter to the rice. “Do let me know when you receive an answer.”
He shot me a deathly glare and left.
“Good riddance,” I muttered, deciding the rice could use more salt. Thankfully, the spirit let me work, and I prepared the tray. I’d have to carry it as the dumbwaiter had yet to be repaired. It wasn’t too heavy, but my finger protested loudly all the way. I knocked on the colonel’s door. “Colonel? I’ve brought your supper.”
When he didn’t answer, I pressed my ear against the door and heard him muttering to himself again. This conversation was different from the others. He seemed to be talking about something that happened the year his brother died. “Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “I don’t want to speak of it!”
I heard a ghostly whisper but could not make it out.
“Me…?” he cried, his voice growing agitated. “You blame me? What about him? It wasn’t my fault! I’m glad he’s dead! Do you hear? I’m glad!”
The spirit let out a wail of anguish; the cry echoing throughout the house. Frightened, I pounded on the door. “Colonel? Are you all right? Let me in!” The door was again locked. I’d brought the skeleton key, just in case, but it wouldn’t budge. “Colonel Havelock!”
He wouldn’t answer.
I stood in horrified fascination, listening to the colonel try to reason with a disembodied spirit. It would ask a question and he would refuse to give her the answer she sought. Soon, her anger turned to his room. I flinched as glass broke and furniture thumped against floors. “Colonel! Answer me!”
Whatever it was she wanted, he stubbornly refused to give.
“Get away from me!” he shouted. Then he began shouting for me. “Miss Gibson!”
“Colonel? The key doesn’t work!”
His next cry was abruptly cut off as I bent, trying to see through the keyhole. I could barely see but spied the colonel with his face buried in his hands. He was… weeping. Weeping for the thing to leave him be. “She’s dead!” he cried brokenly. “She’s dead!”
“Colonel…?” I tried the key again and sliced my hand open. Blood spurted from the wound and onto the floor. I backed away, turned, and fled downstairs. I didn’t know what I was looking for. All I knew was I had to get the door open. I ransacked the kitchen for a hammer and chisel and ran back. “Colonel?”
“Miss Gibson!”
He sounded terrified.
“I’m coming, sir!” I shouted back, using the hammer and chisel on the bolts securing the hinges. Blood ran down my arm and my stitches broke, making the handles slippery. I got one bolt and worked on the other. When both were on the floor, I shoved the door out of my way. To my amazement, Colonel Havelock was sitting in his chair as if nothing had happened. He frowned at the door and splintered wood.
“Why did you break my door?” he asked in a dreamy voice. “That door was there the day he brought her home. Why did you break it?”
“But, sir,” I huffed, stepping into a room full of broken glass and shattered figurines. The colonel was unscathed, save for a minor scratch on his cheek. “How did you get that?” I had trimmed his nails the day before. “Did she scratch you?”
“‘She’?” he repeated faintly. “She doesn’t scratch.” He began to laugh, a high-pitched giggling that curdled my blood. “She used to though.”
“Sir—”
He tilted his head to one side. “Could you go to the attic? I want my jacket.”
“The attic, sir?” I wheezed, my hands throbbing. “My stitches broke, Colonel…”
“Did they?” His voice trailed off as he began rocking back and forth. “The attic, dear. My regimental jacket is up there. If you can’t find it, bring me my father’s. It’s red, you know.”
“A red jacket?” I repeated, growing numb with the pain. “And where do I look? Mr. Anson said I wasn’t supposed to go up there.”
“Never mind him! I want my jacket.”
“Jacket,” I repeated to myself as I stumbled downstairs in a daze to tend my wounds. I’d clean up later. I bandaged the finger and wrapped my hand, knowing I was long overdue for an infection. Both chisel and hammer had been riddled with rust. I walked past Colonel Havelock’s room, and found him still rocking gently to and fro, singing a song in a language I suspected was Hindustani.
I finally reached the staircase leading to the attic, wondering if Mr. Anson could be bothered to leave his claret long enough to help me, and somehow knowing that when I set foot up there, I would never be the same.
