There were only a few sheets left in the parcel, and they all looked somewhat official and a bit dry. The first page was simply a medical report by the doctor who had attended Douglas Wilger.
Statement made by Doctor Ian Maguire, General Practitioner of Medicine.
I was called to Salamander House by Mr John Hurst, to tend to Douglas Wilger, who had, I was told, slipped, and fallen partly into the open kiln. When I arrived the boy was in great pain and in deep shock. The lower side of his face had suffered moderate burns, but the cause for real concern came from the other injuries. Almost the entire left half of his upper trunk was severely burned. It was not possible to determine the thickness of the burns, but they were extreme. The housekeeper had applied soda bicarbonate paste to the affected areas at once, which had afforded some slight relief. However, I used a solution of picric acid, which is a recognized cure for burns, and is sovereign in the reducing of pain and infection. Properly applied, and covered with gauze, it then allows for the formation of a scab, under which healing can take place.
Sad to report, when removing the boy’s dressings three days later, as I feared, the burns had been too deep to respond well to the treatment. There is severe shrinkage of tissue on the chest wall, which has drawn the flesh of the chest inwards, and in time will pull one, and possibly both, shoulders forward. This process will be progressive and is already discernible. Eventually it will result in what will be virtually a hunchback stature – although the hunching will be due to contraction of flesh and muscle, rather than deformity of bone.
The boy’s lungs are also damaged, and I think it unlikely they will heal. Coupled with the shrinkage of the upper trunk, he finds it difficult to draw in very deep breaths. Consequently, he is unable walk more than a few paces at a time.
Sadly, the lower left side of his face is somewhat disfigured from the burns. About that I can do nothing, although by God’s good grace, the burns missed his eyes.
Michael reread the last couple of paragraphs. ‘Shrinkage of tissue on the chest wall, which has drawn the flesh of the chest inwards, and in time will pull one, and possibly both, shoulders forward … Will result in what will be virtually a hunchback stature …’
Was this the misshapen shadow he had seen in Deadlight Hall? A lingering memory of a sad little ghost, its body maimed, its life probably spoiled? You poor wretched little creature, he thought, then turned to the next page.
Conclusions by Sir George Buckle:
While my fellow committee members and myself are sure that Mr Breadspear’s glass manufactory is run on proper and humane lines, in order to alleviate concern in the minds of several local people, a full and official inspection will be made of Salamander House.
I would make the point that such inspections are intended to bring about a moral climate of observance, rather than to supervise the general running of any industry. It is believed – indeed, it is recommended – that inspectors should not take from employers the ultimate responsibility for operating decent establishments.
Across the foot of this last page, in what Michael thought was the unknown Rosa’s handwriting, were the words: ‘What a cruel and unpleasant bunch of people! I am ashamed to think I have an ancestor among them!’
He wondered briefly which of the players in the long-ago drama had been Rosa’s ancestor, but could not see that it mattered. He reached for the other package, disentangled the string, and began to read the contents. The first was a letter from the ubiquitous Maria.
Deadlight Hall
November 1882
My dear Mr Breadspear
I was very glad to hear from you that the inspection of Salamander House concluded that no blame could be attached to you. I was also pleased to hear that the inspectors enjoyed the lunch you arranged for them. I dare say such people do not often have the chance of sampling grouse, and it was generous of you to serve your best wines, as well.
It cannot be easy for you to arrange such occasions in your house, after the terrible tragedy, and I am glad to think that much of the unpleasantness about that is dying down. Perhaps ‘unpleasantness’ is rather a mild word to use, but you will know what I mean.
What is not dying down, however, is the annoyance caused to me by that man, John Hurst, with his visits to the Hall and the books he brings for the children. I always look at the books very sharply before allowing them into the house, for on his own shelves at Willow Bank Farm, Mr Hurst has a number of very questionable volumes (some are even in French), which he brazenly says are great literature. There are paintings on the walls of the farm which Hurst calls Art, but which to my mind are nothing better than shameful flaunting hussies. During the lunch he gave for the ladies of St Bertelin’s Church charitable committee I did not know where to look. The lunch itself was what I can only call ostentatious.
It is a pity that the likes of Sir George Buckle take such notice of Mr Hurst’s opinions, although I dare say Hurst’s contributions to the Parish coffers will have much to do with that. But then Sir George seldom knows what goes on in his own household, never mind the wider world beyond. I know for a fact that one of his maidservants has regular assignations with young men whom she meets in the buttery at Buckle House, and is acquiring a very undesirable reputation among the drinkers at the King’s Head. Sir George would be shocked to his toes if he knew he was employing such a hussy in his house, although he will probably find out eventually, on account of it becoming common gossip not only in the King’s Head, but also the Coach and Horses. Not that I have ever frequented either place.
I dare say you will recompense me for the cost of sending the carrier to Salamander House to bring Douglas Wilger back to Deadlight Hall after the accident in your kiln room. A matter of one shilling and sixpence, which I feel is not excessive since the carter lifted the boy on and off. I am sending the note of fee with this letter.
Respectfully yours,
Maria Porringer (Mrs)
Deadlight Hall
November 1882
My dear Mr Breadspear
Regarding your enquiry about Douglas Wilger’s injuries, he is recovering, although his behaviour leaves much to be desired. I have pointed out to him how fortunate he is to have been saved a worse fate, and how he might well have lost an eye in the accident, but he is disobedient and ill-mannered. The two Mabbley girls are his constant companions. I do not care for particular friendships at Deadlight Hall as these can lead to all kinds of trouble among the older ones (I will not give further details of the kind of troubles these might be, being one as was brought up to consider reference to such things indelicate, but you will take my meaning). However, at least Rosie and Daisy Mabbley push Wilger’s wheeled chair around, which is fortunate, since I have no time for it.
I intend to send the Mabbley girls to you, as Wilger’s replacement in the kiln room. It will separate those three, and it is high time those girls started to earn their keep. I must warn you that both have a rebellious streak and will need a firm hand.
Very truly yours,
Maria Porringer.
Deadlight Hall
December 1882
Dear Mr Breadspear,
During the last few days, the children have been behaving rather strangely, and I am becoming somewhat uneasy. I will write to you with more details, being a touch hurried at the present, since the kitchens are awaiting a delivery of dried goods, and I like to oversee such things. Mr Porringer always held that a good master (in this case mistress) ensures honesty at all levels of the establishment, and most especially in the consignment of supplies. To my mind this is true whether it is laudanum and mercury for the apothecary’s shelves, or lentils and pudding rice for the larder.
Very truly yours,
Maria Porringer.
Deadlight Hall
December 1882
Dear Mr Breadspear
The children’s behaviour is becoming very worrying indeed. I hesitate to use the word sinister, but it is the word that comes to my mind. They have taken to gathering in small groups, in the darker corners of the Hall, whispering together. I have tried to overhear what they are saying, but so far I have not managed it.
Last night I was wakeful, which is not a thing as normally happens to me, having a clear conscience and a healthy mind, not to mention a very good draught which was Mr Porringer’s own mixture, and which I usually take on retiring. I heard some of the children tiptoe past my room and go quietly down the stairs, so I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and crept out to see what they were about. There they were, huddled together in the hall below. The Wilger boy was with them, of course – he would have been carried down by two of the other boys, since he is no longer able to walk up or down stairs for himself.
Now, I am not a great believer in poetry and such – although Mr Porringer sometimes read a volume of poems and was inclined to quote a verse over supper if one had taken his attention – but seeing those children last night brought back the line I had heard John Hurst read – you may remember I wrote to you about it. Milton’s Paradise Lost, so I believe. The line stayed with me, and I thought of it, seeing the children:
‘When night darkens the streets, then wander forth the Sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine …’
There was no wine involved, of course, but insolence – my word, there was insolence in those children’s manner, and there was sly, cunning devilry in their faces. A terrible thing it was, and very frightening, to see such bitter hatred in the faces of children. Indeed, it was so strong that this morning I can almost believe the hatred still lies on the air like greasy smoke.
I shall lock my bedroom door each night, and I keep a large bread knife to hand during the daytime. If you could come to the Hall as soon as possible to discuss this, I should take that very kindly.
Yours very truly,
Maria Porringer.
Michael sat down for a moment, slightly puzzled, because it was surprising to find Maria Porringer – surely a severe and even a cruel woman – had been so frightened by a group of children whispering in a dark old house.
But whatever else she was, it had to be said that the old girl had a fine line in rhetoric when she got going, while as for John Hurst, Michael was inclined to think kindly of a man who had tried to teach Shakespeare and Milton to orphans.
He delved into the package again, to see what else it might contain, and drew out what looked like a local newspaper cutting of around the same date.
MYSTERY AT DEADLIGHT HALL: Disappearance of two girls.
Police were yesterday called to Deadlight Hall, the local Orphanage and Apprentice House owned and run by the Deadlight Hall Trust (Chairman Mr Augustus Breadspear), to investigate the whereabouts of two of the girls, Rosie and Daisy Mabbley.
The girls, who are sisters and have been in the care of the Hall for most of their lives, were discovered to be missing by Mr John Hurst of Willow Bank Farm, who visited Deadlight Hall to give his weekly reading and writing lesson to the younger children.
[Readers will be aware that Mr Hurst, something of a local philanthropist and benefactor, was active in creating the local school a few years ago.]
Mr Hurst told us that as a rule there were around eight children at his Saturday afternoon classes at the Hall, with the Mabbley sisters always present.
‘They enjoyed the lessons and were keen to learn,’ he said. ‘I was interesting them in poetry and plays – in fact we were planning to stage a small nativity play as part of the Christmas celebrations at St Bertelin’s Church. The Mabbley girls were enjoying that, very much, so the fact that they were not there that afternoon and that no explanation could be found for their absence caused me considerable concern.’
Mr Hurst had asked Mrs Maria Porringer, Deadlight Hall’s superintendent, to assist him in a search of the house and the grounds. When no trace of the sisters could be found, Mr Hurst reported the girls’ absence to local police and then to our newspaper, asking if we would advertise their disappearance. This, of course, we are very pleased to do, for it is a shocking thing if some tragedy has befallen two young girls, particularly so near to Christmas.
[We draw readers’ attention to our weather report on Page 6, which gives a doomful warning of thick snow and blizzards over Christmas.]
Mrs Maria Porringer also spoke to our reporter when he called at Deadlight Hall, and expressed herself as very concerned for Rosie and Daisy’s whereabouts.
‘A very thorough search I made of the Hall,’ she said. ‘Mr John Hurst along with two of the older children helped me. Cellars to attics we searched, and between us we looked into every nook and cranny. There was no trace of the girls anywhere. And after Mr Hurst left, the police came in, and a young police constable helped me to go over the house again. A most helpful young man he was.’
Asked about Rosie and Daisy, she told our reporter they were very well-behaved girls.
‘And only two weeks ago I was able to find them places in the employment of Mr Augustus Breadspear at Salamander House. It was a good place for them; they would have learned a trade, and also been able to work together, which I thought a very fortunate circumstance.’ Here, Mrs Porringer had to break off, being overcome with emotion.
She revived sufficiently, however, to tell our reporter that the girls had seemed to like the work in Salamander House’s kiln room, and had been keen to do well.
‘They went off on Tuesday morning, exactly as usual,’ she said. ‘After eating a good breakfast, of course, for it’s always been my pride to send my young people out to their work with good nourishing food inside them, particularly of a cold winter’s morning. I watched them go myself, from the front door of this very house.’
This time Mrs Porringer succumbed completely to distress, and was unable to continue the interview.
Mr Augustus Breadspear admitted he had been annoyed when the girls had failed to appear on Tuesday morning. He had thought there might be some illness, and it was only much later that he had been told they had vanished.
‘I am very concerned for them,’ he said.
Anyone having any information that might assist in the search for the girls is asked to go at once to the local police station or come to our offices.
Rosie and Daisy Mabbley are ten and eight respectively, but are both of small build so could be taken for younger. Both have long chestnut hair. It is likely they are wearing the cotton frocks issued to all Deadlight Hall children, which are bluish grey.
Deadlight Hall
December 1882
My dear Mr Breadspear
You will have read the local newspaper, I am sure, so you will know what I have told the reporters about the Mabbley girls.
The Hall has been searched twice – once by myself and John Hurst, and a second time by a local police constable. You will be relieved to know that on both occasions I was able to arrange things so that I was the one who appeared to be searching the upper floors – and that I did so alone. I gave you my word at the outset that no one but myself would ever go up to that part of the Hall, and I have kept that promise.
I made the real search early in the morning of the following day, since I do not care to go up to those upper floors after dark. I will admit that I was anxious about what I might find up there – I suppose the same anxiety was in your mind, as well. It is a terrible secret we share.
It was a difficult search to make, but it had to be done, and without the children knowing. I made my way there at daybreak, and in the cold, bleak December light everywhere was shrouded in a clinging greyness. That is a light I dislike very much, as do you yourself. We both remember what happened in another cold cruel daybreak.
Suffice it to say that I found no trace of the missing Mabbley girls.
Since having made the search, I am no longer disposed to be very concerned about them. They are sharp girls, who know how to look after themselves. Wherever they have gone, it is not to their mother, for I visited the shameless hussy’s cottage myself. A ramshackle place it is, disgracefully unkempt, and the woman herself no better. She was a kitchen maid in Sir George Buckle’s house, and one who did not learn by her misfortune, but returned to sinning like the sow that was washed will wallow again in the mire. She later became notorious in the taproom of the King’s Head – which is to say the kitchen maid became notorious, not the sow. It is a pity that Sir George does not take more care in the hiring of his maidservants.
However, whatever the children were plotting may now vanish. Rosie and Daisy were certainly at the heart of that, if not the actual ringleaders. Douglas Wilger I can deal with – he is too frail to pose any real threat.
As you know, I do my best to run the Hall properly, but lately it has been very difficult. The money allowed for the upkeep of the place is no longer sufficient, especially if there is to be all this conniving and contriving. I do not care to deceive the police, and I hope I shall not have to do so again. With that in mind, perhaps you will look into the current level of payments, with a view to increasing them.
Very truly yours,
Maria Porringer (Mrs).