The Quickening
- eBook
- Audiobook
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
'If you like gothic mystery, buckle up! This atmospheric read has it all'
Woman magazine
'An historical novel dripping with menace'
Shari Lapena, author of The End of Her
***********
England, 1925. Louisa Drew lost her husband in the First World War and her six-year-old twin sons in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. Newly re-married and seven months pregnant, Louisa is asked by her employer to travel to Clewer Hall in Sussex where she is to photograph the contents of the house for auction.
She learns Clewer Hall was host to an infamous séance in 1896, and that the lady of the house has asked those who gathered back then to come together once more to recreate the evening.
When a mysterious child appears on the grounds, Louisa finds herself compelled to investigate and becomes embroiled in the strange happenings of the house. Gradually, she unravels the long-held secrets of the inhabitants and what really happened thirty years before... and discovers her own fate is entwined with that of Clewer Hall's.
For fans of The Silent Companions, The Little Stranger and The Familiars, an exquisitely crafted and compelling mystery that invites the reader in to the crumbling Clewer Hall to help unlock its secrets.
**********
'Utterly brilliant... full of secrets and deliciously creepy'
Lisa Hall, author of The Perfect Couple
'A spooky treat, which had me turning the pages faster and faster'
Cass Green, author of In a Cottage in a Wood
Release date: August 20, 2020
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Print pages: 336
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
The Quickening
Rhiannon Ward
Kentish Town, 1925
January mornings are the worst times to greet the living when you’d rather be amongst the departed. My fractured night hadn’t helped. I dreamt I was still pregnant with Hugh and Philip. One of them was kicking my ribs, a reminder that he’d soon be bursting out into the world. I was swollen to massive proportions and Bertie, his hand on my stomach, was teasing me that I was delivering an elephant. How had we not noticed there were two? Afterwards, in the maternity hospital, Bertie, stiff and shy in his unfamiliar uniform, had promised to return unscathed to me and the children. Standing at the ward window I watched him go, though I’d been warned not to leave my bed. My breath frosted the square panes of glass as he crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the world beyond the hush of the hospital.
I dreamt on, alert to the monstrous deception and the knowledge that, when I awoke, I’d find myself alone in the desolate bed. A second kick brought me to my senses and into the room with its thin, floral curtains barely hiding the winter morning light. The sheets smelt of human warmth, fusty and sour, and I swallowed down the familiar rush of nausea. This new, strange child inhabiting my body kicked once more and settled.
Edwin was moving around downstairs, preparing his tea. If he was in a good mood, which was rare, he’d bring me up a cup, allowing me a few more minutes in bed before I had to face the cold house. Otherwise, he’d leave without saying goodbye, with the tea cooling and the fire in the living room unlit. I pulled back the covers when I heard the front door shut with a click and, thirsty from my dreams, went downstairs. My feet slapped on the bare stair boards, the air so icy that my soles stuck to the wood, leaving faint, tacky imprints.
In the kitchen, I threw the damp tea leaves into the sink and put the kettle on the range, listening to the hiss of the water. The day spread out, dull and empty. Edwin’s mother had promised to call and would bring provisions with her. It would save me the trouble of deciding what to cook for the weekend, worrying if the remaining housekeeping money would stretch to the cost of food. Glancing in the mirror hanging on the window above the sink, I barely recognised my grey features and defeated expression in the glass.
As the kettle began to whistle, there was a tentative rap on the front door. Not expecting anyone so early, I ignored it until a more insistent knock shook the frame.
‘Telegram for Louisa Drew!’
At the sight of the uniformed messenger boy, his brass buttons glinting in the winter sun, I took a step back. No one who has lived through the war is able to receive a telegram without fearing what tragedy it might contain. My hands trembled as I ripped open the envelope, although, in fact, I had no one left to lose.
REQUIRED AT MARSHAM AND CLIVE OFFICES 9AM TODAY LEO
‘Any reply?’ The boy was impatient to leave, his hands already grasping the handlebars of his bike.
I shook my head and shut the door, reading again the unexpected message. In the distance, I could hear the clock ticking in the living room, telling me to hurry if I was to make the appointment. Instead of brewing tea, I used the hot water to wash and even the act of passing the steaming flannel up and down my arms lifted my mood. Afterwards, I put on the only decent dress which still fitted. It was the one I’d bought for my wedding to Edwin, its modern lines forgiving to my swollen stomach. I took two pennies from the housekeeping tin which would pay for the bus into town and paused, weighing up whether to leave a note. Edwin occasionally came home for his lunch and might wonder where I’d gone. In the end, I left the telegram in the middle of the table for him to see. I checked my camera case and tripod were still at the back of the broom cupboard. During an argument, Edwin had threatened to pawn the tools of my trade and I’d hidden them, first in the loft and then, noticing my husband relax as my work dried up, behind the brushes and dustpans.
The morning was dry enough for me to sit on the open deck of the bus and I had the level to myself. Office workers, keen to keep their clothes pristine, were enjoying the comfort of the lower floor, which was hot and steamy in the cold day. The fresh air kept at bay the nausea still plaguing my mornings. It hadn’t lasted nearly as long with the twins, but the doctor assured me that every confinement was different. I looked at my watch and, realising I was early, got off at Shaftesbury Avenue to walk the rest of the way. London was waking up, although, in the distance, I could hear the sounds of the barrow boys at Covent Garden calling to each other, their own day nearly done. At Seven Dials, I passed a coffee seller and hurried past the aroma, sickly to me, watching the ground for patches of ice at my feet.
Patty, Leo Marsham’s secretary, was climbing the stairs in front of me as I arrived at the studio. Leo’s office was high above the bustle of the photography work below, but nothing went on in the business that he didn’t get to hear of. Patty turned and raised a pencilled eyebrow at my presence, her make-up imitating the faces of the celluloid heroines she worshipped every evening at the picture house. I followed her rayon-stockinged legs up the steps into the reception where my former employer, perched on a desk, was waiting for me.
‘Ah, Louisa, you’re here. Come through into my room.’
He pulled out a chair, his gallantry immediately putting me on my guard. Leo had made a point of warning me that work would be scarce, probably non-existent for a woman in my condition – and yet, here I was, being made comfortable in a space usually reserved for select clients. He coughed and pulled out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket to blow his nose.
‘We have a rather unusual commission,’ he said at last, picking up a photograph from his untidy desk and placing it in front of me. ‘I’ve been asked if you’d be willing to go down to a house in Sussex. The family are selling up and moving abroad, to India, I think. The house and its contents will be going to auction and they want someone to photograph the rooms and the items for sale.’
I glanced down at the image, recognising it as a Victorian print. Not bad, but with a gritty quality which I could easily improve on.
‘The client is . . .?’
‘The auction house, naturally.’
‘And they asked for me?’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
‘No, not them.’ He took off his jacket, sweating slightly despite the meagre fire in the grate which was failing to heat the room. ‘It was the family who requested you. They were quite insistent, I believe. Do you know a Colonel Felix Clewer? Or perhaps his wife, Helene?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve never heard of them. They know of my work?’
‘They must, as they specifically asked for you. I’m sure you’ll be able to find out more from the family yourself if you accept the commission.’
I was hardly well known outside the photographic world. My images had made it into newspapers and journals, but I’d had no exhibition to make my mark on society. A mystery, then, why they wanted me, but as I’d been requested, perhaps the fee would be decent. I wondered if it was a little early to bring up the subject of money . . .
‘How long do you think it will take me?’
‘About a week. You should be home by next weekend.’
I looked out of the window at the gloom of the morning. Even getting up early, I would only have five hours of good daylight to take my photographs. Less, if the days remained overcast. I turned back to Leo, his expression an unfamiliar blend of appeal and embarrassment.
‘Can you do it?’ He had his eyes on my stomach. Leo was a Victorian in age and attitude and I remembered the fight I’d had to secure my original position in his business.
‘When would you want me to leave?’
‘Later today would be ideal. Tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Where’s the house exactly?’
‘Around ten miles from Brighton. Clewer Hall – perhaps you recognise the name?’ He searched my face, looking for a response. His manner struck me as false, his usual expansive cheerfulness sounding forced.
Puzzled, I picked up the photo and looked at it more closely. The house was an austere red-brick building, dominated by a row of tall chimneys. A five-sided wooden turret, topped by a weathervane, was just visible at the back. I could feel my mood dropping as I gazed at the angular, forbidding home. Although the picture had been taken in summer – I could tell by the froths of wisteria hanging from creeping tendrils – part of the house was shrouded in darkness. Perhaps it was the photographer’s ineptitude, but I wasn’t so sure. An underexposed image shouldn’t be dark at a single point. I pulled up the collar of my coat to mask the chill which was creeping over me.
‘So, what do you think? The auction house is prepared to pay well. There must be items of value in the collection, given the size of the commission.’
‘The fee is?’
Leo placed in front of me a sheet of paper, headed with the name of J.C. Stephens, an auctioneer who’d once commissioned me to photograph a butterfly taxidermy collection. He pointed to a figure quoted in the second paragraph and I peered closer to check I wasn’t mistaken. It was a sizeable amount. Three years ago, I’d have taken the commission in a heartbeat. Now, I had a new husband to consider, a man made short-tempered and needy by his experiences in Kitchener’s Army. Edwin would be furious when he discovered I’d be gone for over a week. I had so little to do at home but my presence in the silent house was taken for granted.
Then there was the baby. I had taken photographs while expecting the twins, but these had been small jobs, easily completed in an afternoon. I was twelve years older now and this was likely to be a significant commission, judging by the sum of money on offer. Perhaps I should just accept and be damned. The thought of retrieving my camera equipment from the cupboard and inhaling again the sharp tang of my developing chemicals was intoxicating. I took a deep breath.
‘I’ll be glad of the assignment.’
As I looked up, I caught an expression of worry cross Leo’s face. He hid it at once and made another effort at joviality. ‘A bit of a change from Kentish Town, as you can see.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Alas, no. I’ve heard of Clewer Hall, of course. The family were well known at one time but it’s a different era now, as my children keep telling me.’
‘Well known for what in particular?’
Leo frowned. ‘Helene Clewer was a renowned hostess at the turn of the century. Her soirées were often featured in the society pages. Before your time, obviously. Her husband, Felix, was a collector of curios and antiques. If I recall correctly, he had a collection of marble hands which caused quite a stir at the time.’
‘Marble hands? Sounds very Victorian.’
‘Doesn’t it just?’ Leo was making an effort to relax as he leant back in his chair. ‘They’re presumably part of the sale. I have some papers to give you so you can see what the auction house is keen to have recorded.’
Leo’s unnatural demeanour had put me on edge and I rubbed the grooved arms of my chair, trying to make sense of his manner.
‘There’s nothing untoward with the commission, is there? Something else I should know about the family?’
He laughed, avoiding my eye, and pulled open a drawer, taking out a sheaf of paper. ‘Nothing to worry about. I shall send a telegram to tell the family to expect your arrival. The house is much changed, I believe.’
‘Changed?’
‘And the family, come to that. They lost all three sons in the war. I can rely on you for your tact and understanding in relation to this.’
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘There’s a train at two. Is that too early?’
‘I’ll be on it.’
‘Wonderful. I can give you some glass plates to take with you for your camera but you’ll need to stop at a pharmacy to purchase the necessary chemicals.’ He stopped, his gaze sliding away from mine. ‘There are plenty of stories attached to the family. Don’t . . .’
‘Don’t what?’ I couldn’t fathom what the matter with Leo was. He wasn’t a man to hold back, usually.
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
As I left the building and stepped out into the crowded street, Leo’s altered manner and cryptic farewell left me uneasy. I pushed my concerns to one side. Leo had his failings but I was sure he wouldn’t send me on an assignment where I might be compromised in any way. On the bus home, I plotted my escape and the best way to avoid Edwin’s fury. In the end, I took the coward’s way out and was waiting in the hall in my travelling coat when his mother came to call, carrying a basket full of pies which Edwin adored.
‘I called in at the—’ She stopped dead when she saw me. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m sorry, Dorothy, but I have to go away for a week or so. I’ve been given an assignment and I can’t turn it down.’
‘You’re working?’
Her incredulity only made me more determined to leave immediately. I picked up my case.
‘We need the money, Dorothy. How else am I to pay for the baby things? I’ve bought nothing yet.’
She opened her mouth and closed it. For a moment, I thought she was going to berate me for not keeping the items from when my boys were babies, but she stayed silent. She tried another tack.
‘You can’t leave Edwin here on his own for a week. He needs you.’
He does not, I thought. My husband was the most self-sufficient man I had ever met.
‘He’ll have you, Dorothy – and, as I said, we need the money. I’ll write when I get to Clewer Hall. I can’t wait for Edwin to come home, I need to catch the two o’clock tra—.’ I faltered at the sight of her face. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’re going to that den of heathens?’ Her voice oozed scorn.
‘You mean the Hall? I heard there were once a lot of parties.’
I followed her retreating back into the kitchen where she began to unpack her basket. ‘It’s not parties I’m referring to. I go to parties with the church and suchlike. I’ve nothing against people enjoying themselves. It’s the other stuff.’
‘What other stuff?’
But she wouldn’t say. Her round face was red with indignation as she pulled out a chair and opened her copy of the Daily Mirror.
‘You’ll tell Edwin for me, then? And let him know the fee will keep us going until the baby is weaned.’
‘I’ll wait here until he gets home.’ Her mouth settled in a line as she made a show of putting on her glasses to read the inside page.
A prickle of disquiet began to creep over me as I remembered Leo’s manner. ‘Is there something I need to know before I go to the Hall, Dorothy?’
She looked up at me, her birdlike brown eyes holding mine. We’d never been close, in spite of our common experience of grief and loss, or perhaps because of it. Tragedy, I found, didn’t necessarily bring people together.
‘You’re a good girl, Louisa, but the artistic type, so you’re probably easily led. This is a Christian household. There are some things which went on in the Hall that were the devil’s work. Take your photos and come home again.’
Chapter Two
As the train sped through the Sussex countryside, my nausea was replaced by a knot of apprehension as I tried to make sense of both Leo’s and my mother-in-law’s reaction to Clewer Hall. I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to the rocking of the train, and the image of the house I’d seen in the photo appeared for a moment, its stern facade brooding over the lush garden.
I sat up as the train groaned on its approach to Brighton station, its wheels squealing against the iron rails, and I used my gloved hand to wipe away the dripping condensation from the window. Peering onto the brightly lit platform, I gaped at the flurry of activity visible through the glass. I’d naively assumed I’d be deposited in a parochial backwater with plenty of people on hand to assist me, but the bustle of the station rivalled that of Paddington. Engines hissed and doors slammed, and I felt some of the tightness in my chest loosen at the familiar sounds as I pulled at the window.
‘Porter. Porter!’
My shouts were swallowed up into the clatter which echoed around the arched roof and a pair of uniformed employees rushed past, hurrying towards the first-class carriage. I dragged my cases, camera and tripod from the compartment and caught the eye of another porter, who made to move on, then, I thought, took pity on my plight. We fought our way to the entrance where, together, we looked for a car which might be for me. It was the chauffeur who spotted us first, tapping me on the shoulder.
‘This way, miss.’ I followed his limping figure to an ageing Wolseley, where I drew envious glances as I was deposited in the back with a blanket over my legs.
It was a miserable day near the coast, warmer than London but with a sky full of slate-coloured clouds stretching out as far as the eye could see. The car bumped along through the countryside which became a blur of high hedgerows and tiny lanes. We passed through a village consisting of a cluster of houses, a small garage with a shop attached and a post office, outside which a huddle of women stood talking. I envied their camaraderie, even though they turned to stare at me as we went by, continuing to follow our progress as we slowed and passed through a gap in a row of tall conifers.
Away from the open road, the day darkened in the overgrown foliage and I was glad of the blanket which I pulled tighter around me. Tentacles of wild dogwood crept underneath the car’s hood, jabbing at my arms and straining for my face, and I suppressed the urge to cry out. The driver appeared not to notice my distress, concentrating on the engine which had begun to sputter as we climbed the lane. The house had not yet come into view, but as we navigated the driveway, pockmarked with puddles and fissures, I felt the same chill I’d first experienced in Leo’s office. The sensation of a cold finger on my heart, and heavy hands pressing on my head as my ears roared at the drop in pressure. The baby responded to my unease, squirming in protest until I shifted my weight so I was leaning on one hip as the car lurched from side to side.
Finally, Clewer Hall appeared and I drew back into the hood, hiding my face in case anyone was watching for my arrival. I was glad of the privacy as I took in the house. Leo had warned me I would find it changed from the photograph, but the once austerely imposing Hall had become a wreck of itself. The bare bones were still there – the angular design, the tall chimneys and the long, imposing windows reflecting back my gaze. Through the drizzle, though, I could see where mortar had fallen away from around the bricks, encouraging seeping damp which stained the orange-red walls. The roof was missing some of its slates, which had been left to lie shattered where they’d fallen onto the gravelled path. Even the wisteria had failed to survive the march of time. All that remained was a web of veins where the suckers had once clung to the walls.
I counted three storeys. The ground floor, with four large bay windows bulging out onto the path; an upper level, where one of the rooms in the east wing was clearly the former nursery, complete with rusted iron bars to protect the family’s young; and a row of mean, small glass panes sunk into the roof indicating the servants’ sleeping quarters. The kitchen and other working rooms must be at the back of the house, hidden from visitors. The gardens had once had money spent on them. I could make out the traces of extensive landscaping and a network of formal planting made indistinct by neglect and the passage of time. I was distracted from my inspection by a rustle in the scrubby, overgrown lawn. A fox, making its way through the long grass, stopped for a moment to watch our progress before disappearing out of sight.
Although we’d left the overhanging shrubbery behind us, the day was still dark, and I saw, as in the photo, that part of the house was in shadow. I looked up to see what was throwing its shade onto the Hall but saw only the watery sun hanging low in the sky, straining to lighten the day. I could see nothing which would explain the outline darkening the eastern wing which cast such a gloomy pall. Frowning, I leant forward and the image dissipated, leaving me with just the ruin to contemplate. I rubbed a hand over my face, wondering if a migraine was imminent.
The driver pulled up outside the front door which opened immediately and a tall, elderly man in a black dress coat gestured for the car to continue along the drive. His eyes, coal-black pebbles in a lined face dominated by an oversized nose, met mine.
‘I don’t think he wants me to enter through the front door.’
I felt a wave of hysteria rise up in my chest. Once, Bertie and I would have laughed at such old-fashioned sentiments in the life we were making for ourselves. We were proud to be neither gentry nor servant class but working people, beholden to no one. Now, with my nerves stretched, I was afraid to laugh, unsure that if I started, I’d be able to stop.
I caught the driver looking at me in the side mirror. Mistaking my mood, he winked. ‘Not to worry. You’ll get a better welcome round the back.’
The wheels of the car slipped along the gravel as we continued round the side of the house. The driver stopped at a door which, judging by the lingering smell of cooking vegetables, led through into the kitchen. I hoped the interior of the house wouldn’t be as unwelcoming as the facade. My feet were frozen and the sleeves of my coat damp. What I needed was a warm fire and to change my clothes.
The driver didn’t get out but continued to look at me in the mirror. I saw concern in his expression and guessed this was my only opportunity to arm myself against what might await me inside. I leant forward.
‘Is this house well known? My mother-in-law knew of it but couldn’t remember why.’ A white lie, and I felt a flush creeping up my face as I spoke.
‘She probably meant the séance, miss. Years ago now, but it was attended by Mr Conan Doyle. You know, the detective writer? Caused quite a stir at the time – it even made it into the London papers.’
‘Why was it so famous?’
I saw him hesitate. ‘A gentleman wrote down every word so the details were there, plain to see, in the newspaper. Tales of long-dead friends and relatives come back to communicate with the living. None of us liked it below stairs but some people don’t have any sense.’
He switched off the engine and turned to me. I saw, for the first time, the scar which ran from the top of his temple, down past his ear and under his collar. It was puckered in places, inexpertly sewn in the trenches, I assumed, like the wounds of so many others.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, miss. You’d be best off staying away from all that. There’s some things not to be tampered with.’
Chapter Three
I sat thinking as the driver padded around the car to open my door. A famous séance. So that was what had so upset Dorothy. Well, I can’t say I was surprised. She and her church friends were hardly likely to approve of communicating with the dead. The devil’s work, she’d called it. It didn’t explain Leo’s reaction, though, nor the warning the driver had been at pains to convey. The Victorian liking for séances was well known and hardly newsworthy. My mother had attended a couple, I remembered, when I was a child. I’d awaited her return with bated breath, watching through the bannisters from my spot on the landing, but she’d come back from the evenings laughing at the absurdity of it all. Séances were not to be feared. There must be something more.
I took a deep. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...