The ear-piercing scream filled Aysgarth House. Clara sat bolt upright. In her sleepy state she vaguely wondered whether Mrs Preston had seen a mouse again. But the scream grew in volume and intensity and turned into hysterical babbling. Clara quickly dressed and went out onto the landing. Looking down into the hall, she saw Mrs Preston being comforted by her mother. Her father was standing at the kitchen door with Hopkins close behind him.
‘Who is she?’ Mrs Preston was managing to say in between her sobs. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s no one,’ replied Mrs Tiltman. ‘She’s no one.’
Clara stepped onto the stairs. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘Clara, go back to your bedroom at once,’ barked her father. He spun around and closed the door, but not quickly enough to prevent Clara seeing that the kitchen floor was stained with a dark, red liquid. ‘Clara, do as I say this minute,’ ordered Mr Tiltman.
Clara was not used to hearing her father speak in such a way. He looked at her as though daring her to contradict him. She turned and went back to her room but, once she was out of sight, slammed the door shut from the outside and sat down on the landing so she could still hear.
‘Hopkins, go to the police station and fetch an officer,’ said her father.
‘Should I not remove the body first, sir?’ he replied.
‘The police will take care of such matters,’ said Mr Tiltman.
‘But, what about your breakfast, sir?’ said Hopkins.
‘Good God, man, that hardly matters at this point,’ stated Mr Tiltman.
‘But who is she?’ asked Mrs Preston who, in her hysterical state, appeared unable to say anything else.
‘Please take Mrs Preston into the drawing room,’ said Mr Tiltman to his wife. ‘Hopkins will find a street vendor to buy tea on his way back.’
‘But I don’t understand who she could be,’ said Mrs Preston.
‘The police will deal with these questions,’ said Mr Tiltman.
‘That’s right, Mrs Preston,’ said his wife. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock.’
‘But the door was locked last night,’ continued the cook. ‘How can she have found her way in?’
Mrs Tiltman made no attempt to field these questions as she led the overwrought cook into the drawing room.
‘Now, Hopkins, please make haste,’ said Mr Tiltman. ‘The sooner the police get here, the sooner everything will be well. I am sure this is just a terrible accident.’
Clara lingered outside her door for a moment. The temptation to go downstairs and see for herself the horror that she was now imagining was overwhelming, but her father was still down there and she did not want to re-ignite the fury she had seen so she opened her bedroom door quietly and slipped inside. She pressed her back against the door and closed her eyes.
A body. A dead body found in her kitchen. Clara knew she should have felt sickened and scared by the idea, but she did not. She felt excited. Reporters would come to the house. She had read accounts of such stories. They would name it something like The Gruesome Murder of Aysgarth House.
Clara wondered if there was something wrong with her that she could feel so excited. But it wasn’t just that; something else was different about the house today. The sense of dread had gone. That indefinable, invisible presence that had borne down on her so heavily over the last few days had lifted. The warmth had returned.
There was a dead body in the kitchen and yet, for the first time since Reverend Fallowfield’s exorcism of Lady Aysgarth, Clara felt safe in her house.