‘Good morning, Miss Cavendish. I hope you slept well.’
A man loomed over her. She could see his shoes, Oxford brogues, and the sharp crease in his pinstriped trousers. She lifted her chin off the earth and looked up to his head at the end of a long stretch of black cloth. A black head, glossy, without mouth or eyes.
The man had no eyes.
‘You will no doubt be wondering how you came to be here.’
There was no mouth, yet she heard words. His words. His English words.
‘You are still a little groggy from the sedative my associates gave you last night. But not to worry, the effects will soon wear off. We would like you to be compos mentis when you make your choice.’
The voice again, slightly muffled. She recognised the voice. Who was it? And what was the scratching sound behind him. Every time he spoke it became louder.
She tried to shake her head but her chin scraped along the earth.
The earth? Why was her head so close to the earth?
She tried to move her body to the side and look down, but she couldn’t.
Where was her body? Why couldn’t she see her body?
The voice started speaking again. ‘I can see you are wondering where you are?’
How can he see with no eyes?
‘It’s rather a pleasant place, brings back wonderful memories for me. From the time before I began my work, of course.’
She began to struggle, trying to break free from whatever was holding her.
‘You can’t break free, Miss Cavendish. You won’t know yet but you are buried up to your neck in the ground. We took the precaution of tying your hands and feet before we buried you.’
She struggled once more but all she succeeded in doing was shaking her head; nothing else moved.
‘Good. And now for your choice, Miss Cavendish. We all have to make choices in life. This will be yours.’
He stepped aside to reveal two cages only fifteen feet away. One was full of brown, hairy bodies, scrabbling over each other to get out.
Rats. It was full of rats.
She could see the hair on their whiskers and the pink of their feet. One of them was attempting to gnaw through the wire bars, its teeth white against the steel.
Next to the rats was a larger cage with three dogs in it. None of the dogs was moving, their dark eyes just staring at her, drops of slather dripping from their mouths. With a snarl, one of them shot forward, throwing himself at the cage door. Instinctively, she jerked her head back.
The man was high above her now. The legs stretched ever upwards like two immense skyscrapers, the voice distant, godlike. ‘This is your choice. The dogs or the rats?’
‘What… if… no choice?’ she said through cracked and parched lips.
‘What if you make no choice?’ he repeated. ‘I wouldn’t be so obtuse, Miss Cavendish, Not making a choice is a choice in itself, isn’t it? In that case, you would enjoy the attentions of both the rats and the dogs.’
She struggled to free herself. Her body moved slightly against the compacted earth and her head shook violently, but soon she was exhausted, panting.
‘You will be pleased to hear the rats come from Soochow Creek. They haven’t eaten for two days. If we don’t let them out soon, they will begin to eat each other. The dogs, on the other hand, have been specially bred to attack humans. They use Pavlov’s techniques, you know. A reward when they bite, and a beating if they do not. They soon get the message.’
As if knowing they were being discussed, all three dogs threw themselves at the cage door, scrambling, chewing and clawing at the wire to get at their prey.
She jerked her head back, but it could only move three inches.
‘You will also notice there is a clock above the cages.’
She hadn’t noticed.
She did now.
A large clock, like the type in the waiting room of a railway station. The time showed ten o’clock. She wasn’t certain whether it was morning or evening. A thick black wire ran from the clock, splitting into two above the cages, before attaching itself to the door mechanism.
‘You may be wondering why I have brought you here, Miss Cavendish.’
She stared at the cages, not answering.
‘Even if you are not wondering, I am going to tell you. It’s all about the war…’
‘I was in Shanghai during the war.’
‘I know that. Didn’t you have a suitor, a clerk at one of the Hongs? A man by the name of Turner, James Turner?’
She lifted her head to hear the voice more clearly. What was he saying? ‘I knew a James Turner, but he was killed in the war.’
‘Didn’t you send him a small wooden box with a white feather in it?’
How did he know? Nobody knew. It was my secret. My secret.
He was annoying you, wasn’t he? With his constant attentions and offers of marriage. You thought it was time to get rid of him. Shaming him into joining up worked a treat. A pity he died at Passchendaele. But a lot of good men died in the slime and mud, didn’t they? Were you glad when he died or simply relieved.’
‘It wasn’t me. James wanted to fight, wanted to join up. I didn’t force him.’
‘But you encouraged him, didn’t you? With your little gift being the final persuader.
Her head sunk on to her chest. How did he know after all these years?
‘I will be generous. You have until one o’clock to make your choice. If you don’t, the rats and the dogs will both be released. I hesitate to think what they will do to your face. I’m told rats prefer eating the eyes first. A delicacy for them, I suppose. The dogs prefer biting and gnawing at the nose and ears. To make your choice, simply shout. One of my associates will ensure only one door opens at the appointed time.’
She saw him turn back and check the clock with his own watch.
‘I’m afraid I will miss your choice. I have to greet another guest. Work before pleasure, don’t you know.’
The man walked towards her and she could see his Oxford brogues and the legs stretching upwards and away from her to the ceiling. He knelt and suddenly she felt the hard skin of the mask touching the top of her head, touching her hair.
He was trying to kiss her.
She jerked her head backwards and forwards, trying to escape from his cold touch. But he pressed down, through her hair on to the top of her head. ‘I always wanted to do that, Miss Cavendish. And now, unfortunately, it’s time to do this.’
Then she felt the sharp bite of pain below her ear.
He was cutting her.
The knife sliced into her neck, the blood oozed out. She could feel the drops sliding beneath her shirt.
How will I get the stains out of my silk shirt?
He wiped off the blood with a dirty rag. And she saw the sharp blade of the knife move towards her neck once more. She tried to move her head away, to escape the sharp point, but she couldn’t move.
There was no pain now. She couldn’t feel anything any more but she knew he was still cutting, still wiping away blood.
Then he stopped. ‘It’s well executed, even if I do say so myself. The blood has the added advantage of exciting our friends.’
Despite herself, Miss Cavendish focused on the rats and dogs in their cages. They had all stopped moving, their noses raised into the air, sniffing and snorting.
The mask came down and touched the top of her head again.
He was kissing her hair.
There was a smell, a sweet, cloying smell: French violets. She recognised it, knew it from before. But it couldn’t be: he was dead.
‘Inspector Allen,’ she said through her cracked lips.
The man shuffled away from her. She could still see the shoes and the knees as he leant over her.
‘You always were a clever one, Miss Cavendish. Now, you have less than three hours left to enjoy your cleverness. Make the right choice, won’t you?’