Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

Mix the ingredients for a Gugelhupf cake. Water, dry yeast, milk, butter, sugar, flour, salt, eggs, golden raisins, ground orange peel and crushed almonds. Pour the batter into the mold. Place the mold into the oven. Start to work on the bread. Take the cake out of the oven at the right time and place it on the cooling rack. Put the bread on a tray and place the tray into the oven. Start to work on the chocolate cake while Gugelhupf cake cools. Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, sugar, milk, water…

Shirley did all these actions mechanically, trying to focus on the work and not think of the black band she wore around her arm now, or whom that black band represented. When she had first started working as a maid, one of the maids she had worked with had said that when she was upset, she should bake, if only to get her mind off of whatever was making her upset. “That, and it’ll put you on the master’s good side,” she had said. “Nobody can resist a good cake or tart, mark my words.”

Shirley did not get upset often, at least not as upset that she needed something to take her mind off her misery. But the few times she had become that upset, baking had proved helpful in calming her mood and giving her an outlet to channel her feelings.

Until now, that was. Until last night.

The doctor from the Closer Village had been summoned, but he could offer nothing for Nellie. The matter of her broken limbs aside, he could find no explanation for either the sores appearing over her body or why she was vomiting blood. In the end, all he could do was prescribe morphine for the pain and tell Shirley and Mrs. Preston to make Nellie as comfortable as possible.

So, they had waited, bandaged up the sores as best as possible, and tried to make her more comfortable. As the sun had begun to set, Lucinda had arrived home and, after having been informed by Griffin of what had happened, had rushed down to Nellie’s room in the basement to hold vigil with Shirley and Mrs. Preston.

But what really broke Shirley’s heart, more than anything else, was that Nellie actually woke up and became lucid for a minute. Shirley had not noticed the poor girl stirring, but Lucinda had. She had jumped up from her kneeling position next to the bed and had almost grabbed Nellie’s hand before remembering that the arm the hand was attached to was broken. Instead, she grabbed and squeezed Shirley’s hand and asked, “How are you feeling?”

For a moment, the only sound Nellie made was a moaning noise, the kind an invalid made when trying to gather the energy to speak. Finally, she whispered, “You’re both here. I’m glad.”

The sound of her voice was almost too much for Shirley, and she squeezed Lucinda’s hand back. “Nellie, what happened to you?” she asked. “Why did you fall out the window? Why are you…why are you—?”

She could not bring herself to finish that sentence, however, and instead settled for holding back her tears and taking the hand that was unbroken in her free one. The fingers that encircled her own were weak and fragile, with none of the strength belonging to a maid used to hard work from sunup to well past sundown. Nellie made that horrible moaning noise again and whispered, “I was waiting for you both to be here. I was waiting…for my friends.”

Tears fell down Lucinda’s face and landed on the blankets. “What do you mean? Why were you waiting for us?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her every breath a gasp for more oxygen. “I wish we could have had ice cream together again.”

Nellie closed her eyes and lay back against the pillow. The fingers holding Shirley’s hand went limp. And, even as her mind tried to deny reality, Shirley let the tears flow. Beside her, Lucinda wailed.

That had been the night before. Nellie’s funeral would be in three days, once a coffin had been built and a hole dug for it in the Closer Village’s graveyard. Sir Joseph had been charitable enough to offer to pay for everything and to let Nellie’s family stay in the Lodge when they arrived in two days hence. He had actually come out of the laboratory this morning, looking quite haggard after being sealed off in the laboratory this whole time, to make that announcement. Shirley had been so touched by the baronet’s thoughtful gesture, she had nearly hugged him right there and then in the dining room. The only thing that had kept her from doing so had not been any sort of propriety between employer and employee, but the desire not to give the rest of the staff a reason to gossip.

Still, Sir Joseph’s gesture did not lessen any of her pain. Nor did baking all these cakes and breads and treats. She had baked enough pastries to fill the shelves of a bakery, but she was in more pain than she had ever been in her life, in more pain than when her mother had died. Shirley had loved Nellie. The girl had been like a younger sister to her, and now she was gone. She was gone, and what was the point of baking all these sweets? They would all go to waste, they would not lessen anyone’s grief, let alone her own. She—!

“What the hell?” Griffin exclaimed as he walked into the kitchen. He had arrived just in time to see Shirley throw a bowl of flour at the wall. The flour went everywhere as the bowl clattered on the ground. He then turned his attention to her, and before Shirley could stop him, had wrapped her in his embrace. She wanted to struggle out of his grip, but then the tears began again, and she accepted the gesture.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I know you two were close.”

“We were both close to her,” she said. “Lucinda and I.”

“I know,” Griffin replied. “She’s been grieving hard for Nellie as well. I think even Uncle Joseph is trying to help her. He even invited her into his laboratory to talk.”

“Sir Joseph did that?” Despite her pain, Shirley managed a small smile. “He does care for you both, it seems.”

“It would seem so. I did not think it was possible, but maybe he feels something for us beyond family responsibility.”

They stood in silence for a while. When Shirley’s tears had dried up, she coughed and said, “You can let me go. I’m fine now.”

“No, you’re not,” he replied. “You’re not fine.”

“Well, you should stop holding me,” Shirley reminded him. “Someone might see us and make a strange assumption. And when you’re trying to find an acceptable bride—”

“Shirley, haven’t you realized it by now?” Griffin interrupted. “Yesterday’s meeting with Victoria was the final nail. I am no longer acceptable amongst upper-class families. I no longer have to force myself to court them just because society says I must.”

Shirley glanced up at his face, confused. “What?”

“I said my position in society is no longer too high for you,” Griffin explained. “I’m just the son of the deceased president of a drill company. Someone who was unable to hold onto his father’s company and who has only a meager sum left in the bank. Nothing more, nothing less.”

At once, Shirley understood the importance of what he was saying. Of what Griffin was implying could now be possible for them. At once, a million thoughts and emotions swept through her, each fighting for dominance as she tried to figure out how to respond. In the end, it was the wise and practiced voice of her practical mind that won out.

“If you think that’s going to get me to marry you, you have another think coming,” she replied. “I refuse to marry anyone who cannot provide an income for me. And you said it yourself, your funds are meager.”

Griffin opened his mouth to reply. But before he could get a word out, a new, heavy, rasping breath scuttled forth through the kitchen.

“Did I hear that right, Griffin? Are you lowering yourself for the likes of her?”

Griffin and Shirley started and broke apart, searching the room for the source of the voice. At the same time, all the electric lights in the kitchen went out, save for one in the far back. It let out a soft halo of light, beyond which was complete and total darkness. The hairs on the back of Shirley’s neck rose as she realized what was happening. “Oh no,” she whispered. Then louder, “Griffin, into the light!”

Even as she said it, however, Griffin was backing under the sconce with her. From the other end of the kitchen came shuffling footsteps.

“Griffin, you stupid, stupid boy,” said the raspy voice. “I raised you for more than this. I raised you to be more than what I was. I raised you to reach for the highest tiers of society. And you want to lower yourself to some strumpet maid? A drunk’s bastard whelp from Whitechapel with an ugly eye?”

Something about that voice sounded familiar to Shirley. She glanced at Griffin and observed how wide and terrified his eyes were. “You cannot be here,” he said, his voice weak and trembling. “I saw you into the ground! I saw you lowered myself!”

“Griffin, I may be dead, but I am not gone,” said the voice. A figure stepped forward, just beyond the edge of the light, and glared at them. “I’m your father, boy. I will always be with you.”

Shirley inhaled. It was no wonder she had recognized that voice. She had worked for the owner of that voice for almost a year.

Mr. Avondale stepped into the light. While he had been a reasonably handsome man in life, now he appeared before them in death with gray skin covering a twisted and broken body, his head cocked at an unnatural angle on his neck. One eye was missing from its orb and the other focused on them with hatred and contempt.

“I sacrificed so much for you,” said the revenant. “I worked myself to the bone! And you squandered every opportunity I gave you. You failed me at Eton! You deferred from Oxford! And now you want to give up any chance of advancement just to have your way with this slut! You know she’s sleeping with your uncle!”

“Don’t you dare talk about her like that!” Griffin roared, suddenly angry. “You don’t know her! Not like I do!”

“You don’t know her!” The revenant yelled, leaping forward and bridging the distance between them. With a gnarled hand, he reached out and grabbed Griffin by the throat, lifting him into the air. “You don’t know what strumpets like her will do. What they will say and do for a bit of coin! I’d rather see you join me in the grave before you waste your life on her!”

“Let him go!” Shirley yelled. She pulled her arm back to punch him, but then a hand grabbed her fist and spun her around. There, his eyes wild with rage and insanity, stood Thomas Hayne Cutbush, covered in the blood of Mary Jane Kelly. Shirley’s insides went cold as he pulled her towards him, his strength monstrous.

“Am I hearing that right, girl?” he growled, his breath rancid. It filled her nostrils along with the scent of blood, hot and coppery. Shirley gagged and whimpered; once again, she was ten years old and unable to escape from the monster in human form as he turned what had once been a living woman into a grotesque piece of art dedicated to his own delusions. “Are you poisoning that boy? Making him want you so you can do as you please to him? Well, we can’t have that.”

With his free hand, Cutbush reached into his coat and pulled out a butcher’s knife covered in dried blood. Shirley screamed, only to cry out as she was pushed with terrific force into the wall. Laughing cruelly, Cutbush pressed the knife against her throat. She flinched at its cold touch.

“I’ll have to rip you up, little girl,” Cutbush informed her. “I warned you this would happen. But you didn’t listen!”

Shirley cried out as the knife dug a little into her neck and blood dribbled out. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she gazed at Cutbush’s face. So, this is how I end, she thought sorrowfully. As Jack the Ripper’s sixth victim. She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

There was a loud, high-pitched war-cry from the darkness. Shirley opened her eyelids just in time to see a frying pan whizz through the air towards Cutbush’s head. Yet even as it made contact, Cutbush’s head dissolved, followed by the rest of his body. The knife he was holding fell to the ground, clattered against the tile, and then blew apart like dust.

Like holy ash.

Shirley glanced from where the knife had fallen to the frying pan and saw Mrs. Preston holding it and pulling back for another strike, this time for Mr. Avondale. The revenant, however, reached up and grabbed the pan in his free hand on the downward strike. It laughed as Mrs. Preston’s eyes went from furious to fearful.

Acting on instinct, Shirley rushed forward and punched Mr. Avondale in the neck. It must have been a stronger tap than she had thought, because he released both Griffin and the frying pan and wheeled back, clutching his throat in his hands and making a strange, choking noise. A moment later, however, he lowered his hands and balled them into fists.

“You little wench!” he hissed. “I’ll make you regret that!”

The Mr. Avondale-revenant rushed forward with a guttural roar. Shirley yelped and braced for the impact of a fist.

“Don’t you touch her!” Griffin yelled. Bounding forward, he bent low and tackled his father around the waist. Mr. Avondale uttered a squawk of surprise before he was slammed into a rack of pots and pans. Several utensils fell from the rack, landing on and around them. Griffin grabbed one of them before it hit the ground, a steak mallet, and brought it swinging upwards into the revenant’s temple.

There was a squelching noise as the mallet passed through the rotting skin and into Mr. Avondale’s skull. The corpse’s mouth dropped open in surprise and it let out a sound like a death rattle. Then it began to dissolve, starting from the wound the steak mallet had made and spreading outward. A moment later, Griffin was pinning nothing but empty air as motes of ash wheeled through the air.

With the destruction of the Mr. Avondale revenant, the rest of the lights flickered back on. All three of them blinked as their eyes adjusted. When they could see again, Mrs. Preston sighed and placed the pan on the island before saying in her thickest Midlands accent, “I guess you two now know about the stranger problems of the Hunting Lodge. Is this your first time experiencing them, or have you known for a while?”