Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [9]
Mrs Pritchard, the night housekeeper, moved forward from the shadows to survey her staff. The night’s duties were already clear in her mind. There were no scrawled messages from the day housekeeper, a simple-minded woman who was partly literate and to whom Mrs Pritchard was forced to entrust the care of her precious charge for the duration of daylight hours. The house was therefore in order.
Mrs Grose was paid enough not to question her daily instructions. The evening meal would be prepared and cooking in the kitchen. Those areas of the house which were not locked to the day staff would have been dusted and polished. It remained only to await the arrival of tonight’s guest.
Mrs Pritchard’s night staff silently awaited their mistress’s orders, yet something was out of place: something that the housekeeper could not quite define was already at odds with her immaculate roster.
It was then she noticed the strange coat on the hatstand.
At the same time the doors across the hall swung wide and the Reverend Ernest Matthews emerged from the drawing room. Immediately identifying Mrs Pritchard as a servant with some degree of authority, he began to give vent to his irritation.
‘Are you aware that I have been ringing for attention since before six o’clock? I demand to see your master immediately.’
The maids, ranged up the length of the staircase, turned their heads in one concerted movement to observe the intruder. But Ernest, the battle light of the crusader in his eyes, was too preoccupied to notice the substantially different nature of this grim breed of servants. Instead, he met the stony gaze of the black-dressed, gaunt figure across the hall with a suitably withering look of his own. This housekeeper, if that was her station, was a haughty creature who clearly had ideas above her rank. He disliked intensely the way she surveyed him: a piercing glare from beneath leaden eyelids. He positively objected to the way she slowly drew nearer without any response to his demands. This insolence had gone far enough!
‘Be warned, madam. Mr Smith will regret the consequences if I leave now. I am not without influence in the highest scientific circles. The condemnation of the Royal Society can be ruinous!’
Mrs Pritchard’s slow approach never faltered. The maids began to descend the stairs, gathering in behind their mistress.
Ernest stood his ground. He caught a musty scent like stale camphor that reminded him of things stored away for too long. There was still no reply.
So be it, thought Ernest, Josiah Smith’s fate was sealed.
Ernest would have turned to leave, but his eye was held.
He would not be overruled by this ghastly apparition; she must be shown her place. All consuming outrage at the housekeeper’s extraordinary audacity blinded him against her resemblance to a snake about to strike. She loomed over him, her maids clustered in her wake like impassive neophytes at a blood sacrifice. Slowly she raised her head.
‘Reverend Matthews?’
A musical female voice cut into the confrontation. Mrs Pritchard stood frozen, betraying no trace of thwarted satisfaction, as Ernest turned to behold an angel emerging from one of the corridors. A young lady of no more than eighteen years was approaching, her tiny figure dressed in white and her hair pinned up, allowing only a few dark curls to frame her pale elfin face. Her eyes, even bluer than Ernest remembered, were the colour of cornflowers.
‘You must forgive us for keeping you waiting, sir,’ said the angel. ‘I am Mr Smith’s ward.’
For her age, the young lady had a very forward manner, but Ernest’s venerable bones were so charmed that he was not taken back by the lack of a formal introduction.
‘You are Gwendoline, are you not?’ he ventured.
‘Why, yes sir.’ She seemed delighted. ‘But please be assured, my guardian will join us shortly.’
Ernest moved closer, drawn by her presence. ‘I fear that much of my discourse with him will not be pleasing to a young lady such as you.’
‘But