I found the edge of the skirts on the tailor’s dummy and crawled underneath. A broken crinoline cage had been tied onto it, and I was able to fit underneath it in a ball and pull the skirts over me. I buried my face into my knees and realised I’d left the knife in Mrs Wiggs. I thought of the keys she’d have had on her waistband. Such an idiot. I was trapped in the attic with two men blocking my escape and the dead body of my housekeeper stuffed in a cupboard in the kitchen.
My heart thumped as their voices got ever louder. The attic stairs creaked under their weight. Then came silence, followed by the metallic clank of a key in a lock and everything – heartbeat, breathing, sweating – stopped. My hand gripped the key so tight, I could have made another from the mould it left in my palm. I twisted my lips together with my other hand and tried to breathe steadily and silently.
‘What? No gaslight?’ said Dr Shivershev. He sounded agitated; I was glad to have inconvenienced him.
‘Wait here,’ said Thomas.
When he came back with a candle, I realised the skirt I was hiding under had a tear in it. There was a sheer petticoat beneath it. I could see vague outlines through it, but I was pretty sure the petticoat would mask my eyes from the other side. Thomas came towards the dummy. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him. He held the candle high and swept it from left to right. Dr Shivershev trudged behind him in his black coat and billycock; he was carrying his medical bag.
‘Robert, if she’s escaped, we’re all going to be done for. I’m telling you now,’ said Thomas.
‘What exactly did you tell her?’ said Dr Shivershev.
‘Nothing, specifically, but believe it or not, she’s not stupid.’
‘Why say anything at all? You’ve put everyone in this house in danger.’
‘You try living with her! I had to tell her something – she was on my back constantly.’
‘One might have acquired an imagination – or simply come home on occasion,’ said Dr Shivershev drily. ‘Who else lives here?’
‘No one. The servants are all gone, there is only Mrs Wiggs, and I don’t know where she is either. Oh God, it’s such a mess. What shall we do? What shall we do, Robert? She’s a nightmare.’
‘First things first, Thomas, why don’t you put that candle down on that desk. We must remain calm. The most important thing is, of course, not to panic.’ Dr Shivershev sounded the same as he did when he examined my tongue.
He set down his bag, opened it with black-gloved hands, pulled out what looked like a length of rope or thick cord, then lunged forward. It was an explosion of energy. I heard a frantic struggle, the scrape of boot heels against the floor, energy spending itself to the point of exhaustion. I tried to look through the tear, but the fight came too close and the dummy wobbled. I had to hold it steady. At one point, Thomas’s feet reached under the skirts and he nearly kicked me.
There was a hissing sound, and then choking. After an age of this came complete silence, then Dr Shivershev let Thomas drop to the floor with a dull thud. Just like that, my troublesome monster of a husband was dead. I was shaking so violently, I was sure the whole dummy must be quivering.
Dr Shivershev fumbled in his bag. Next thing I saw was Thomas being hoisted up like a flag in clumsy jerks, until his feet were dangling in the air. His polished black shoes swung side to side mere feet from my face. Dr Shivershev was panting like an old dog. He dragged one of the attic chairs to a spot on the floor in front of Thomas, sat down on it, leaned forward over his knees, let out a huge sigh and wiped his forehead. He stayed like that for a few minutes until his breathing had calmed.
‘It would be best if you were to come out now, Mrs Lancaster.’
*
‘You left footprints,’ he said, as if I should remember my mistake for next time. ‘Like deer prints, leading all the way up here. Are you hurt?’
He glanced around the attic. The pigeons cooed, unperturbed by their new housemate swinging from the rafters. One of them dropped faeces on a redundant chest of drawers and we both watched them land with an undignified splat.
‘Charming place you have,’ said Dr Shivershev.
His breathing had steadied, and he leaned forward and reached into his bag again. There was no one else in the house, so whatever came out of the bag was going to be for me. He pulled out a long silver knife and cleaned it, although it already gleamed in the candlelight.
I sat on the floor with my knees up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. Dr Shivershev remained on the chair, his eyes shining like Vauxhall glass. I knew I had the time it took for him to compose himself to bargain for my life. I had to maintain this focus. Meanwhile, my dead husband’s feet swung between us like a metronome, a useful reminder that my time was finite.
‘Are you here to kill me?’ I asked.
He nodded, and said in a sympathetic voice, as if he were informing me of the death of a beloved pet, ‘I can do it quickly. It won’t hurt.’
I fell apart. I shook and trembled. I couldn’t breathe. I cried without pride or dignity. I begged him not to do it as he looked over my head and into the distance. I had
