Page 8 of Beatrix

Billy nodded at them gratefully, then turned and picked his way back along the uneven road towards his destination. Once at the gate, he stopped and stared up at the house. Could there be kids inside, like the ones in Castel-a-Mare? It looked empty. He wasn’t even sure this was the right house. Then he looked down at the gate, intending to push it open, and there, in small letters, was a plaque confirming he was in exactly the right place. It said: Pounds House and underneath…The Society for the Advancement of Industrious Children was written in fancy letters.

His heart sped up until it thudded uncomfortably in his chest. He took a deep breath to calm himself, before lifting the latch and pushing open the gate. Whether the house was empty or not, the gate was evidently in use. It opened with nary a squeak or a protest, and as he walked slowly towards the imposing, half-glazed front door, it was obvious that the path too had only recently been cleared.

His heart was now slamming against his ribs, and he almost scrammed as he approached the steps up to the covered porch. Almost. After a few seconds, he gritted his teeth and marched up the three steps into the arched porch. He hadn’t come all this bloody way to turn tail at the first sign of trouble. There was a large bell pull hanging next to the door, and, taking another deep breath, he reached out and pulled it.

CHAPTER 5

Once at the end of the garden, Rob stood motionless, staring silently out over the dramatic seascape spread out before him. Finally at length, he shook his head slightly, murmuring, ‘I had no idea it would be so beautiful.’

‘It’s certainly something to behold,’ Beatrix agreed, pleased that someone who actually lived on the other side of the world might still find Torbay beautiful. After a small hesitation, she stepped closer and pointed out Torquay to the left and Brixham to the right. He nodded without turning his head from the view.

‘Would you like to sit for a while?’ Bea asked at length. Her words brought his eyes around to hers, and her heart skipped a beat as he smiled. ‘I could sit here all day,’ he chuckled, nodding. Seating himself on the bench, he added, ‘Do any of your family paint? I have no skill at all, more’s the pity, but if I did…’ He stopped and looked back at the view while Beatrix carefully seated herself beside him, taking care not to sit too close on the off chance her aunt was watching.

For a few seconds, she said nothing before offering a shy, ‘I do on occasion, though I am certainly no Joseph Turner.’ She gave a self-conscious, slightly breathless laugh, then bit her lip. Self-consciousness was not something Beatrix Shackleford was known for. Indeed, if her twin had been watching, she’d have laughed, then teased her unmercifully.

‘Well, I’m no art critic,’ he responded, ‘but if you’d permit me, I’d love to see them.’

Bea’s face flamed uncontrollably as though he’d just propositioned her. For pity’s sake, she was behaving like a complete nincompoop. After a few seconds, she nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. Fortunately, just as she was praying a hole would open up and swallow her whole, a shout came from the house. It was Peggy informing them that Mr Robert’s bedchamber was now ready.

Hurriedly, she jumped up and muttered, ‘It appears your room is ready, Mr… Robert.’

He smiled again, turning for one last look at the view before climbing slowly to his feet. It suddenly occurred to Bea that he was probably exhausted, and her knotted emotions eased.

With an unsteady smile of her own, she stepped round the bench and led the way back. Her heart was beating as though she’d taken part in a race, and unexpectedly, the thought of her twin meeting Robert Noon turned her stomach into knots…

* * *

The bell rang like a death knell deep in the house, making Billy jump. Shuffling anxiously, he wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his best jacket, thinking absently that his mam would’ve had his hide if she’d been watching. After a few seconds, he leaned closer, trying to see through the window in the top half of the door. Unfortunately, the figured glass defeated him, and after a few seconds, he straightened up, biting his lip in frustration. Was Muriel Pemberton even here? He took an uncertain step back, wondering what to do next. The house was part of a terrace, so there’d be no easy way round the back, but he couldn’t give up yet – Sherlock Holmes would be laughing his bloomin’ head off.

Abruptly a shadow loomed on the other side of the window along with the ominous sound of a bolt being drawn back. Before Billy could react, the door was pulled open, and the very reason he’d come all the way to Bristol stared down at him.

Billy opened his mouth, but words failed to come out of it, and in the event, she beat him to it.

‘Are you telling me that of all the damn people they could have sent, they picked you?’ Her voice, as she looked him up and down, was rasping and clearly incredulous, while the expression on her face was a mixture of disgust and anger, and underlying it all, fear.

For a moment, Billy said nothing as he realised three things…

Firstly, Muriel Pemberton had left her address with the boarding house landlady deliberately expecting the Shacklefords to track her down without too much trouble, while not announcing her whereabouts to other, less sympathetic ears. Secondly, he’d made possibly the biggest mistake of his life in not going to Mr Henry with the information once he had it. And thirdly… belatedly, that Muriel Pemberton was ill. In fact, he very much feared she was likely to snuff it in the next thirty seconds if he didn’t help her sit down.

As she swayed ominously, the boy broke out of his paralysis and jumped through the door to take her arm. She tried weakly to wave him off, but with a cough that sounded to the boy’s panic-stricken ears like a death rattle, she collapsed into a spindly chair.

For a second he thought she’d gone. Her eyes were closed, and her face had a horrible waxy sheen to it, but then, without opening her eyes, she croaked, ‘Shut the deuced door, boy.’

After a slight pause, and a longing glance towards the lane and freedom, Billy did as she asked.

‘Go and fetch my stick, it’s over there.’ She waved a weak hand towards a cane propped up on the other side of the door. Billy realised she’d released her grip on it to open the door to him.

Hurriedly, he grabbed the stick and held it out, just as she opened her eyes. ‘Why the hell did they send you?’ she rasped, staring up at him, her eyes feverishly bright.

Billy desperately sorted through a jumble of thoughts, trying to come up with an explanation that worked. In the end, he told the truth. ‘They don’t know I’m ‘ere,’ he admitted. ‘It were me what found the address you left.’

In the silence that followed his confession, the loud ticking of the clock on the wall sounded to the boy’s ears like a portent of doom. Fury and desperation twisted Muriel Pemberton’s face as she glared up at him. ‘You bloody imbecile,’ she wheezed, her voice trailing off into a hacking cough.

‘I’ll go an’ fetch Mr Henry,’ Billy promised frantically. ‘I swear I’ll get ‘im ‘ere by the mornin’.’

‘I won’t be here by then,’ the former clairvoyant croaked once the coughing finally stopped. The boy looked with horror at the front of her dress, now covered with bright red spittle.

She had the wasting disease, Billy realised. Unconsciously, he shrank back. There had been no sign she had consumption when Miss Alex and Miss Bella confronted her two weeks ago.