Blackened Cottage Page 18

  “Then help me,” I urge, “help us. Find the key, or make a run for it and bring back help. Do you know the way to Grousehill?”

  “Yes, but not in the dark.”

  I hesitate, “Then where does he think he has put the key?”

  A long pause.

  “I can see the key. It is on the table,” she says quietly.

  I want to scream at her, but contain my frustration, “Please Clara, do this one small thing for me. I promise I will get you to safety. Please, just pick up the key and unlock this door.”

  She says nothing.

  “Are you doing it?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  The key enters the lock. Clatters to the ground. Her hands must be shaking too much.

  The cottage door opens. Mortimer’s heavy footsteps announce his return. I freeze, paralysed with fear for Clara’s safety.

  “Rabbit for supper tonight,” grunts Mortimer, “light the fire and spit it now Clara. I am as hungry as a horse.”

  I listen carefully. Perhaps Clara plucked the keys off the floor and placed them back on the table before he entered the cottage. For her sake, I fervently hope she did.

  Two hours pass, two tortuous hours in which I lie there listening to the whistling wind and the occasional outbursts of Mortimer. I cannot imagine living as Morna was forced to live. I would rather die than suffer at the hands of that insane man.

  The lock rattles and the bedroom door opens.

  I tense, preparing to fight, but it is only Clara bringing in a small plate of food. Avoiding my gaze, she kneels and places the plate in my hands. A purple bruise stains her cheek. I want to grab her wrist, whisper words of comfort in her ear, but she hastily moves away, shuts the door and locks it.

  Reluctantly I nibble at the cold meat. It tastes like dust but I eat half, aware of how important it is to maintain my strength. My thoughts wander to when Mortimer will come to claim me. Appetite gone, I lie back on the mattress and try to stay awake.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  We have arrived at Blackened Cottage. I asked Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo to rest here, but they politely refused, preferring to sleep at a friend’s house in Grousehill tonight.

  Night has fallen. I am desperate to begin searching, but Jean-Bernard persuaded me to wait for daylight.

  I know I shall not sleep tonight. I am shattered but my mind will not cease its morbid exploration; what is she suffering; where is she; is she hurt; does she remember the truth; does she love me once again? Is my Lisbeth back? Has the girl I married returned?

  Anger simmers beneath my sorrow. I do not know what I would do if I saw Cordwell. Visions of my hands around his neck flash behind my eyes. Perhaps there is good to be said for a soul parched by years of torment, because I know that I could kill this man with ease. My moral compass is not as full as it once was.

  Jean-Bernard sleeps upstairs in the big room, the master bedroom, the room that, if Lisbeth returned and if she recalled everything, we would share. The room in which we would make love and delight in each other and soothe away the pain of loss. But there are too many ‘ifs’. I am grasping at strands of hope. If we do not find Lisbeth, I do not know how I will cope.

  Oh let the night come and go in a blink! Oh let the day come so that our search may begin!

  C.C

  CHAPTER 24

  MORTIMER GODFREY

  Mortimer does not visit me all night. Somehow I stayed awake, and now I am suffering a head fog that is turning my thoughts to slush. My wrists are stinging from their binds and my stomach is roiling like a thing possessed.

  As the sun tips its head over the land and the birds begin their joyous symphony, the bedroom door opens and Mortimer, eyes bright, enters the room, wearing russet trousers and a dirty shirt open to the waist.

  I stare in disgust at the immense amount of grey hair curling over his chest, the fat gut and the large, pus-filled spots spattering his neckline. Thick, coarse stubble lines his jaw. Even at a distance, his smell reaches me; foul, putrid, the stench of rotten cabbage.

  I push myself to my feet, squaring my shoulders. He smiles that rotten smile and holds his hands up in supplication.

  “Do not panic, my darling. I have come only with the intention of inviting you to join me for breakfast.”

  He stands aside and holds the door open for me. I hesitate. Is this some sort of trick? Why has he not yet tried to claim me?

  As if reading my thoughts, he says throatily, “I shall come to you tonight, after we have spent a day together becoming better acquainted with one another’s ways.”

  He smiles almost kindly as if he is doing me a great service.

  Nodding tersely, I hurry out of the room.

  Clara is sitting in her dark corner knitting. She does not look up.

  “Please, sit down, help yourself,” says Mortimer coming up behind me and trailing a hand across my shoulders.

  I bristle and clench my fists, battling the desire to bolt for the door.

  On the table, sits a pot of tea and a huge bowl of berries rife with ants. I feel my stomach shift in revulsion.

  Sitting down, I show him my wrists, “How can I eat like this?”

  Unfortunately, this prompts Mortimer to take hold of my wrists. His hands are hot and moist. I squirm, repulsed by the intimacy with which he strokes the back of my hands.

  Staring darkly into my eyes he murmurs, “I want you to swear under the eyes of God that you will not try to leave this cottage. Swear and I shall untie you. My greatest desire is that we may live in perfect harmony together, you and I, that we may explore one another’s minds and bodies with a mutual passion and live out the rest of our days together.”

  I stare back at him maintaining complete eye contact, “I swear it.”

  He sighs and grins, “Then I shall untie you. Darling Lisbeth, you may have resisted my advances at first, but I can tell that you are coming to your senses and it is truly a beautiful transition to behold.”

  Planting wet kisses onto the palms of my hands, eyes never veering from mine, ever so slowly he unties the rope. He stares down at the sore, red rings around my wrists and his breath hitches with excitement, “These rings mark you as mine. They are shining symbols of the full life that we shall live together. From this night onward, we shall become one, forever.”

  I look away, hiding my frown. This is all too strange. I simply cannot believe this is happening. Tears threaten. Gritting my teeth, hands trembling, I force myself to sip some tea that tastes of stale water.

  A sudden, terrifying vision of him lying on top of me brings bile into my throat. Swallowing thickly, I glance around the room. The front door is the only exit.

  In the grate, the fire is fading.

  “Go and fetch more logs,” Mortimer barks.

  Obediently, Clara rises, lifts a rounded willow basket and quietly leaves the cottage.

  I find myself willing her to run, but I know she will not. Her mind is trapped into submission. To go against years of control would be like a miracle coming to pass.

  Alone together, Mortimer snatches up a chunk of bread, tears at it with his teeth. I can hear the slobbery, crunching sound of him chewing. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him, my body tensed in anticipation of attack, but he appears preoccupied for the time being.

  The door is not far from my back. In five strides I could reach it. Slowly, so as not to alarm Mortimer to any wrongdoing, I reach for the bowl of berries, lifting it with my right hand and bringing it back towards my plate. My breathing accelerates and my body grows hot. Shall I risk it, shall I make a move? The bowl is made of china. It is heavy and could certainly render someone unconscious if applied with a good amount of force. I weigh the bowl in my hand, thinking, daring myself to do something, aware that if I fail, his wrath will be explosive.

  “Bread, darling one?” he says spraying crumbs and spittle onto my lips.

  I shake my head.

  “How do you fancy your new abode?” he say
s.

  I shrug, “It is nice.”

  I try to keep my response as bland as possible; anything to avoid provoking his anger.

  “Good, good,” he says chewing slowly, “are there any additions you would like to make to the cottage?”

  I peer around the room. No pictures or ornaments adorn the walls or surfaces. A pile of books sits in one corner. A dead plant emanating mould rests in a white china pot on a shelf along with several plates and bowls. The place is not too dirty. Perhaps it is Clara’s job to keep the cottage clean.

  “A plant might look good,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on my empty plate.

  He nods approvingly, “Of course! What a splendid idea. I shall send Clara to pick one today.”

  I seize upon his statement, glancing up at him with a forced smile, “May I go with her to choose? Please, Mortimer?”

  His hand freezes, the bread suspended halfway between his mouth and the table, his eyes fixing on mine; grey, soulless, absent yet present.

  “You wish me to allow you to roam the woods alone with Clara?”

  I nod, sensing danger.

  His eyes narrow, “Can I trust you, Lisbeth?”

  I nod again, meeting his eyes, “Yes. I promise with all of my heart that I shall return.”

  He drops the bread and swivels suddenly, grabbing my damaged wrists so fiercely that I gasp. Pulling me onto his lap, he seizes the hair at the nape of my neck and yanks my head backwards. With his other hand he holds my wrists, staring at me, his eyes burning with anger and lust. His chest rises and falls quickly. I can smell him; feel his rising heat beneath me. I force myself to remain still, to play along.

  “Please, Mort,” I whisper.

  He gives a sharp intake of breath at my use of his preferred name and licks his lips. Abruptly, with savage force, he grabs my jaw, twisting my face so that we are nose to nose. Fear spears my spine. I swallow dryly, wishing I had never spoken.

  “I shall give your request some thought,” he breathes, “for now, a little kiss?”

  Though voiced as a question, he gives me no chance to respond; crushing his lips against mine, he claims my mouth, searching and probing with his vile tongue. I try not to pull away, but I cannot breathe. I am overwhelmed. Panic blooms, making my heart flutter strangely. Pushing his chest against mine, trapping my hands, his nails scrape across my scalp, digging into my skull, holding my lips against his so that I am powerless to resist. A guttural groan escapes his throat.

  The sound of the door opening breaks his passion. With a growl he shoves me back onto my chair and stands up.

  I turn as he strides towards Clara, grabs her wrist and tears the log basket out of her hand. Placing it on the floor, he slaps her hard around the face. She cries out and throws her arms up.

  “Will you ever learn to knock?” he spits, pushing her so roughly that she stumbles back and smashes painfully into the front door.

  “I am sorry Father,” she splutters, but he has already turned away.

  “I am so sorry my darling,” he murmurs softly to me.

  Gently, he pulls me to stand and guides me back into my room.

  “Will you think on my request?” I whisper, trying to hide my horror.

  His eyes torch mine with their dark intensity. A smirk flashes across his face. Without a word, he closes and locks the door.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  It is midday and we have already searched half of Grousehill. People are very accommodating. Indeed, one family has lost their eldest daughter Emma in the last year and their thoughts and hopes are with us. The fact that this family have never found Emma, dead or alive, is incredibly disturbing. At every house we have described Cordwell’s appearance, but nobody seems to recognise his description. Still, I will not give up until I have searched every house, back yard, shed and barn. Sometimes, fear threatens to break my resolve, but Jean-Bernard is an ever-present voice of optimism urging me on and on.

  The good Reverend and his son have gone to the church upon hearing that the local vicar was attacked late last night. I doubt there is a connection, but every lead must be followed.

  Hearing of our loss, a few villagers have volunteered to search the woods. I am touched by their kindness, but suspicious also; perhaps one of these men is friends with Cordwell?

  I must go.

  C.C

  *

  An hour later, I hear a loud banging coming from the front of the cottage. Curious, I move away from the mattress and put my ear to the bedroom door. I can hear men’s voices, raised and insistent. I make out two words: ‘search’ and ‘woman’. One voice sounds a little like Charles’. My heart pangs with longing and hope.

  I think quickly: should I scream, shout, hammer on the door? What would Mortimer do to me or the men at the door if he hears me? I have seen a shotgun leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. An image of Mortimer aiming the gun in Charles’ face forces me to give my next action more thought. If I scream they will know I am here, but Mortimer will be exposed and he may hurt them. However, they could also have guns, in which case perhaps they could get past Mortimer uninjured. Of course, if I do not scream, they may not realise I am here and all shall be lost.

  The key rattles in the door and Mortimer strides in, shoves one hand over my mouth and the other around my neck, forces me over to the window, bends down and tugs a rug back to reveal a trap door. Grabbing a filthy handkerchief out of his pocket, he gags me and makes me step down into a hole the size and shape of a coffin, if not smaller.

  “Lie down on your arms,” he whispers sharply.

  He waves a large knife at me, “If you make a sound, I will slice them up and then I will come for you.”

  I lie down obediently, knowing there is nothing more I can do. All I can hope is that whoever is searching the house is vigilant, strong and in possession of a weapon.

  I hear Mortimer’s retreating footsteps, the bang of the bedroom door as it shuts. I wait in absolute darkness, feeling the dried mud beneath my palms, smelling the musty air. The hole is so small that I cannot move at all. Thankfully, claustrophobia is not an ailment from which I suffer otherwise I would be at death’s door right now. How long the oxygen will last, however, I know not.

  The bedroom door opens. Footsteps belonging to two, possibly three, pairs of feet creak across the floorboards, sending dust shattering down into my eyes and nostrils. My nose tickles and I just manage to contain a sneeze.

  Mortimer says loudly, “As you can see, no-one else resides in this cottage other than myself and my daughter. May I ask who led you on this wild goose chase?”

  A man responds shortly, “I am afraid I cannot disclose that information.” His voice booms even though he is not shouting and I know immediately to whom this remarkable voice belongs: Reverend Pettigrew! It is he, my dear friend. My protector. He has come all the way back to Grousehill to find me, but alas, he does not know I am here beneath the very floor upon which he stands. I wonder if Jojo is also in the room, standing above me, his dark eyes scrutinising the small space. My guardian angel.

  To hear Charles’ voice is a joy I cannot find relief in at this present moment. He is not here. He has not come to find me. Does he look for me still or is he finally beyond caring? Tears spill down my cheeks, silent and hot and full of regret, yet I beg that some sixth sense will inform the good Reverend that I am here. Please let him feel my energy, my need to be found. Please God, give him a sign!

  But my pleas have no effect. The Reverend is leaving as quickly as he came. Footsteps fade across the floorboards. The door opens and closes. I groan, tears stinging, flowing hotly down my cheeks.

  CHAPTER 25

  CAT AND MICE

  “May I join you?” asks Mortimer politely.

  He holds a tray of bread and jam. A knife sits in a slab of butter.

  Clara freed me from the hole an hour ago. Reverend Pettigrew is long gone, any hope of being rescued shrivelling like a fallen apple beneath the fieriest sun.


  I eye the knife closely as Mortimer sits on the mattress beside me, his thigh touching mine. A move that I can tell is intentional.

  “Of course,” I murmur, subtly shifting my weight onto my other hip so that I am further away from him.

  “How are you feeling, darling? I must admit, you do look rather pale today.”

  I almost laugh at the absurdity of his remark. Given what he has put me through - the kidnapping, threatening, locking and tying up, gagging and hurting – is it so surprising that I am not on top form?

  Swallowing the caustic response that rises to my lips, I quietly say, “I am feeling a little unwell I suppose. Perhaps some fresh air would do me some good.”

  Ignoring my hint, he spreads jam on some bread and brings it to my mouth.

  “One of my greatest pleasures in life is watching you eat,” he says huskily.

  I take a small bite, closing my nose to the cabbage smell of his fingers. The bread is stale, the jam extremely sweet, but I had nothing to eat at breakfast so my stomach is thankful. A splodge of jam drops onto my chin and I go to wipe it, but Mortimer stays my hand with his.

  “Allow me,” he whispers.

  Leaning in, he slowly sucks the jam off my chin, “Umm. My oh my, you taste delicious,” he groans, closing his eyes.

  Cringing, I take the opportunity to edge away and am reminded of when I edged away from Jean-Bernard. How confused I was back then compared to now. If only Charles and Jean-Bernard could know that I am back, that I am me again. I picture myself walking towards Charles, running towards him, throwing my arms about his neck, smelling him, kissing him, relieving him of years of misery.

  “Tell me your thoughts,” says Mortimer.

  He is staring at me.

  “I was merely thinking how good the jam tasted,” I say.

  He smiles, “More?”

  I nod and he feeds me again. This time I am extra careful not to spill any on myself.