His eyes narrowed and took a moment before nodding his head. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Revenge.’
Chapter Eight
8th October 1911, Brighton, East Sussex
Nothing. She could see nothing at all. Grace stopped, cursing her right leg, weakened significantly by the police attack eight months ago. She reached down and rubbed her calf, discovering as she did an abundance of fresh scratches. The tips of her fingers met with the syrupy wetness of fresh blood. Her long coat and dress had been torn and ruined by the indomitable knots and tendrils of bramble that reached across to block the path in front of her. But there was no path, that was the trouble: she was fighting her way through dense woodland; private woodland.
She looked up again and inwardly cursed, failing to locate any trace of the moon through the oak canopy above. A solid ceiling of elephant-grey cloud had wrapped and concealed what should have been a full moon. It was a truly imprudent night to undertake what she was about to do, but what choice did she have, now? Having already been postponed for the past two nights owing to biblical proportions of rain saturating the county, the family would be arriving back from their week’s pheasant-shooting trip tomorrow. It was tonight or not at all.
She picked the bag up very carefully. Mrs Paine, the chemist’s wife who had supplied the nitro-glycerine, had warned that the oily liquid slushing around in the three tins was liable to explode from exposure to heat, flame or shock. She continued picking a path through the almost-impenetrable ground foliage until, after what seemed an age, she finally reached the low stone wall that demarcated the boundary of Linden Grove. She climbed it and was relieved to finally step down onto a well-kept lawn. As she did so, the clouds tore apart and the moon illuminated the house, like the opening scene of a stage play.
She gasped as she took in the enormity of the place, and an uncontrollable shudder nipped down the length of her spine. It was bigger than she recalled. So much bigger.
As expected, the dozen windows on this western side of the building were in darkness. The rooms were empty, the curtains drawn.
Grace swallowed hard against the peculiar sensation that seemed to be rising from the pit of her stomach and stinging the back of her throat. It was, she realised, as she began towards the house, an uncomfortable fusion of past and present. Traces of a forgotten life flashed like a photographer’s bulb into her mind—images so short and nebulous as to defy firm definition.
The house was close now.
She stepped onto the gravel path that edged the house.
‘You took your time,’ a voice whispered from the shadows.
Grace flinched but quickly calmed when Cecil stepped forward. Behind him was the open door to the kitchens, scantly lit by a lone candle.
‘Come in, quickly,’ he said in an unnecessarily low voice.
‘There’s nobody home, is there?’ Grace asked, following his instruction.
‘Just me, but even so,’ he replied. He closed the door then reached for Grace’s hand. ‘Listen, are you sure about this?’
‘Very,’ Grace answered, holding up the bag. She caught the reluctance in his eyes. ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this, Cecil. I do. I know I haven’t told you everything but believe me, I need to go through with this. I’m being sincere when I say that you can leave now—I’ll think no less of you—truthfully. It won’t affect our…closeness.’
Cecil gazed at the door through which she had just entered, as if deliberating his options. He looked back at Grace. ‘But what if you get caught?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Back to prison.’
‘It means that much to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m with you,’ he assured her. ‘I believe you must have your reasons and I want to help you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, touching his hand.
‘Have you got everything you need?’ Cecil asked.
‘Yes. Mrs Paine has given me three tins’ worth—enough to take down the Brighton Dome, she said.’
‘My goodness. Where are you going to put them?’
‘Mr Wild’s bedroom,’ she declared. ‘Let’s go.’
Cecil picked up the candlestick and led them out of the room, along a dark low-ceilinged servants’ corridor to a narrow circular staircase.
The groaning echo of the wooden steps, coupled with the ethereal dance of the shadows created by the candlelight, gave rise to a rash of goosebumps on Grace’s limbs. The air was stale and damp-smelling. She suddenly felt cold and pulled her coat more tightly around herself. She would have done it alone, without Cecil’s help, but the truth of the matter was that she was glad that he was there.
They reached the top of the stairs. Grace stretched out for Cecil’s free hand, as she took in the magnificence of the hallway. A vaulted, ornately decorated ceiling rose a good forty feet above them, the centre of which was dominated by an opulent chandelier. On the walls lavish Turkish rugs were interspersed with oil portraits of Linden Grove’s long-dead residents.
Another lightbulb flash of recognition, as vagueness became replaced by certainty when she turned to see the staircase. It was stunning, mahogany, winding its way elegantly to the first floor. She recalled with clarity descending those very stairs. Voices from behind her, encouraging her down, praising her.
The memory was amorphous and its haziness left Grace feeling hollow and empty, as she placed her right foot down on the first step.
‘Are you all right?’ Cecil asked, squeezing her hand.
Grace nodded, taking another step in the shadow of her past.
They crept up the stairs, as though they were trying not to wake the entire house.
‘It’s this way,’
