Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

brandy, you understand? Since you’ve been under this roof, you’ve done little else but drink yourself into stupors.’

      Grace couldn’t hear any response, but the new master continued as if there had been one.

      ‘See that it finds its way into the right hands. It must be given to the town hag in good faith – she must suspect nothing. I can’t so much as touch it. Do you think I’d entrust this task to a rancid sot like you if I could?’

      There was a pause. Whoever he was talking to spoke in such a low whisper it was impossible to hear.

      ‘You’d better be, else I’ll cut off those great ears of yours and choke you with them. Now sleep it off – you reek like the floor of an alehouse privy.’

      Grace heard the door of his own bedchamber open and close and the light was quenched. On the landing there was a crash as the side table was kicked over in a temper.

      ‘Who’s down there?’ she murmured, closing her own door again and returning to bed where she hugged her knees and waited.

      The night deepened and Bagdale Old Hall eventually sank into complete silence.

      When she thought enough time had elapsed, Grace fumbled in the dark along her bedside shelf. She had taken some thick slices of ham, a wedge of pork pie and an apple from the kitchen and wrapped them in a handkerchief. Her plan was to creep downstairs and place them beside the young master’s bed. If Mrs Axmill was withholding his meals, she wouldn’t be able to stop him enjoying this little feast when he discovered it.

      Clasping the bundle in one hand, she eased her door open and, in her bare feet, stepped silently past Mrs Paddock’s room, which resonated with the chuffing of the cook’s steam-engine-like snores.

      At the top of the stairs Grace hesitated. If she was caught doing this she would lose her position, but she would almost welcome that. However, having to face the new master’s temper was a different matter; that really was something to be afraid of. Long moments passed as she pushed aside the dread of that encounter. It was the thought of young Verne going hungry which spurred her on.

      Hardly daring to breathe, she descended, taking extra care as she passed the master’s room. No sound at all came from there, not even the gentlest of snores. That unnerved Grace more than ever. He must sleep like the dead, or perhaps he was still awake, although no light was showing under the door.

      The first-floor landing was black as the grave. She had been here countless times during the day, but in this blind darkness it was alarmingly unfamiliar and she groped for the wall to guide her. The still, warm air smelled faintly of brandy and she recalled the one-sided conversation she had overheard. Where was that unknown person the marquess had been speaking to? Before her thoughts could dwell on that, she struck her shin so hard she dropped the food bundle and let out a sharp yelp.

      Her voice shattered the profound silence and she cursed the object she had blundered into. Crouching, she reached out and discovered it was the overturned side table. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited to see if her clumsiness had attracted attention. Those anxious moments seemed endless, but there was no other sound in the house.

      Grace bowed her head as relief flooded through her knotted muscles and she rubbed her painful shin. Then she frantically searched the darkness, hunting for the dropped bundle. Fortunately it hadn’t rolled far. Snatching it up, she navigated around the table and cautiously edged towards the blue bedroom.

      Locating the door, she delicately patted her hand over it to find the brass handle. Then she froze. Behind her, the lock of the red bedroom clicked. A waft of cool air blew on to her neck and a flickering stripe of dim yellow light appeared on the wall beside her.

      Her heart thudding, she turned slowly. The door of the forbidden room, where that mystery creature was kept hidden, was now ajar and, as she stared in mounting dread, it opened wider – seemingly by itself.

      ‘Mrs Axmill?’ she ventured fearfully. ‘Is that you? I was . . . I thought . . .’

      But she couldn’t think of an excuse to justify her presence here at this ungodly hour.

      The expected scornful censure never came, just more silence. Unnerved, Grace peered into the room. She couldn’t see anyone within. On the large table, beside the cage, an oil lamp was burning. Mustering all her courage, she put the food bundle down and stepped forward.

      ‘Mrs Axmill?’ she repeated. ‘You in there? Or . . . or is it you, my lord?’

      Still no answer.

      Grace’s curiosity began to master her fear. Reaching the doorway, she hesitated on the threshold, frowning at the shadow-filled corners. Were they dark enough to conceal someone? Her sharp eyes detected no lurking figure, but they drank in other details.

      The rugs had been rolled up and empty bottles littered the room. It looked as if the unknown drinker had guzzled half the wine cellar. Most of them were crowded round an untidy heap of blankets that someone had been using as a bed, the real one having been dismantled and stacked against the wall. But marks of savagery were everywhere. Were they the result of drunken rages? No, it was more than that. Propped against the panelling, the mattress had been slashed to tatters, the horsehair stuffing spilled out in tangled clumps and the floorboards were gouged with deep scratches. To Grace’s astonishment the vicious scoring continued up the walls. In several places the wainscoting was nothing but splinters. With a shock she saw that even the ceiling had not escaped the frenzied attacks, and laths were jutting through the clawed plaster. But how did any creature get up there?

      The girl turned her attention to the only other feature in that ruined space. Made from ornate ironwork, in the shape of a classical Greek temple with gilded details, was the largest cage she had ever seen. It was easily big enough to hold a lion. Standing on the central table it reared above her, the dome almost reaching the ravaged ceiling.

      A fringed cloth was draped over the near side, concealing the beast within. Grace’s imagination raced. What was in there? She couldn’t hear any breathing.

      Edging closer, she squeezed her hands together to stop them shaking and warily drew back the cloth. The cage was empty.

      The shock made her jump. Picking up the oil lamp, she saw that the metal gate was open and for one horrible moment thought the animal was loose in the room with her. Then she realised where the draught was coming from.

      ‘It climbed out the window,’ she whispered. ‘Or . . . or flew out.’

      Grace shrank back. She had to get away from Bagdale Hall. There was an overwhelming presence of evil here. But who would believe her?

      ‘Nannie Burdon,’ she whispered. ‘She will. She’ll know what to do. I’ll go see her.’

      Replacing the lamp on the table, she noticed for the first time an object that resembled a large hat. Bringing the light closer she realised it was a plate, and a dark cloth covered the bulky object on it. A sharp knife nearby and the smell of blood told Grace that this was the meat Mrs Axmill had been feeding to the creature earlier. Unable to stop herself, she reached for the edge of the cloth and raised it. The lamplight shone over what lay beneath.

      A strangled shriek scratched out of the girl’s throat.

      ‘Esme!’

      Reeling from the grisly horror she had unveiled, Grace stumbled out of the room and on to the landing, where she saw that the side table was now upright. The handkerchief bundle was on top of it, untied, and a large bite had been taken from the pork pie. An uncorked bottle of brandy slid across the table on its own and a filthy laugh mocked her from thin air.

      Grace screamed and fled down the dark stairs.

      Flinging herself across the hall she wrenched at the front door, but it was secured by three large iron bolts.

      ‘Save and protect me!’ she prayed aloud, reaching up to drag the topmost across. ‘Please Lord, help me!