Maurice lifted an eyebrow. “You wish to become an actress?”
“That surprises you? I’ve got a good memory, I’ll have you know. I can remember entire passages from Shakespeare. I’ve a boyfriend in Reading who just got a job making theater sets. He promised he would take me. Better than wasting hours in a mad house. I just can’t imagine Aaron Nightingale was any good in bed. The man gives me the creeps. Dead or not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What? About Mr. Nightingale?”
“Why do you say it is a mad house?”
“Oh.” She brought her voice down to a tone that was close to sinister. “Wait and see.”
Before he could protest, she darted near him and brushed her dress against his knee. “What are you reading, there? Let me have a look.” She reached for the cover and tilted the volume so that she could appraise its title. “Did you just help yourself to any books you pleased? Quite the arrogant French, aren’t you? My, The Animal Kingdom. You think you’re quite clever.” She gave him a saucy smile.
“Whatever will help me to understand the mysterious owner of this mad house,” protested Maurice, crossing his legs to avoid bodily contact with Madeleine.
“I tried that trick once. On my second day here, I thought it might be nice to borrow a book. Mrs. Cleary got cross with me first thing once she knew of it. She has eyes called Shannon in the back of her head. I’ve been mostly well-behaved since.”
She glanced again at the book’s cover. “Seventh book from the right, row three,” she quipped.
“What?”
“Seventh book from the right, row three of the bookcase. That’s where you found it, didn’t you? In Mr. Nightingale’s study? That man must have been awfully boring. It didn’t take me any time to remember his entire bookcase. I mean how many science books can one wish to read?”
“You remembered every book’s position in that room?”
She stared back at him. “Try me.”
“I’m astounded. You do have a good memory.”
“Oh, you of little faith.” She leaned over him, two hands on the armrests as Maurice clung to the book across his chest. Her breath was hot on his face. “I know where everything is in this house. If you want it, I can get it for you.”
Maurice met her gaze. “Alright then. What’s in the cellar?”
She tilted her head in a sigh. “Oh. You got me. I’m only human, after all. I’ve seen everything, except the cellar.”
She spun about and returned to her duster, deep in thought. “Still,” she said, “if there’s a key, there’s a way.”
“I am certain there is a key,” replied Maurice, more determined than ever. “But key or not, I will find a way inside.”
Mrs. Cleary’s night
NIGHTFALL brought disquiet to Maurice. The walls seemed to close in around him. He feared being once again locked inside his room.
Ever since Shannon had brought the fountain’s noise to his attention, he thought of little else. He had mentally drawn a plan of the house and made out that the fountain lay downstairs, adjacent the wall to his right. Its sound had gone unnoticed the nights before. Why did he fixate on it now? Try as he had, he could no longer ignore the water’s torrent.
Maurice pondered whether Mrs. Cleary might have deliberately given him this room so that upon suffering numerous poor nights, he might take his leave sooner. He recalled Mrs. Cleary’s smug tone when she had declared that he would have long since returned to France by the time anyone was legally permitted in the cellar. She wanted him gone. But why?
The more unsettled he felt, the louder the sound of the water. Everything flows, the words whirled in his mind like a never-ending rush. How could one sleep through this?
But beyond the fountain, what disturbed him was the fear of being locked in.
He decided to lay awake and speak to Mrs. Cleary once she neared his room to lock it. Despite his attempts at breathing deeply, his heart raced as he listened for the housekeeper.
It must have been about ten o’clock, when he heard her walking up the stairs. Maurice was startled by how agitated she seemed. The housekeeper stomped angrily, the timber groaning underfoot. Was she mad? To Maurice, it felt like the force of every step sent the house shaking.
He knew he had to confront her immediately. He would let her know what he thought of her imprisoning him inside his own room. Maurice leapt from his bed and reached for the door.
When he opened it, he saw Mrs. Cleary’s shadow.
She stood in the far end of the stair landing, hunched, her back turned away from him. She carried a dim gas lamp that had waned. Her long-sleeved nightgown of white linen reached down to her bare feet. She wore a thin lace shawl round her shoulders. The tight bun was gone. Instead her hair fell to her shapeless hips so that strands of silver hung low, all the way down to her bony buttocks.
“Mrs. Cleary…” began Maurice. He thought he had spoken loud enough but the sounds of water deafened him.
The light in Mrs. Cleary’s hand dimmed to nothing. The corridor blackened, streaked in parts by the moonlight seeping through the side window.
She was a grey shape at the top of the stairs. She threw the lamp down with force.
Maurice stepped back, still staring at her from the doorway. The lamp rolled down the stairs, tumbling
