Page 25 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

Five minutes later and Edward was ducking under a low lintel into Maude’s small parlour, surprised how cosy the interior was, despite the smoke and unpleasant smell of cheap rush lighting.

He’d expected mess and chaos, to reflect the neglected nature of the exterior.

The priority of a drunkard, after all, was the next drink, not the cleanliness of their home.

‘I thought you didn’t let strangers in.’

‘You’re no longer a stranger, Mr Blackmore. And despite everything, I feel I can trust you.’

‘Because you can now blackmail me?’

‘I’ve no interest in extracting money from you. I manage on what I earn from combing the beach, and can afford to purchase what I need to get by.’

Yes, mainly gin, he wanted to reply, but bit his tongue.

The pine-like smell of juniper berries was apparent even now, as she lowered him onto the stark wooden bench near her open fire.

She collected two small pieces of driftwood from a basket on the hearth and slid them into the flames.

They crackled and spat, but he could feel the warmth begin to thaw his frozen extremities and it was a comfort.

‘I have some strips of cotton I can boil as bandages, and gin in the pantry to clean the wound. A stronger spirit, like whisky, would be more effective but it’ll have to do.

And a nip of it might also take the edge off the pain.

It won’t take long to make a poultice from the root of the marshmallow.

Watch the kettle whilst I dip outside and harvest some. ’

She slipped through the low door and Edward was left alone.

All he could think of in the ensuing silence was the promise of gin and how it might alleviate his suffering.

After a few minutes he rose from the bench and walked over to what he assumed to be the pantry.

He usually drank absinthe – the choice of artists and intellectuals – but anything that would numb the pain was welcome. Even the cheap gin of an alcoholic.

He pulled back the door and his face crumpled into a frown, because in the tiny room, neatly stacked on the shelves, were rows and rows of dark green, rectangular gin bottles, and they all appeared full…

‘How dare you pry into my cupboards!’

Her angry rebuke startled him. He spun back to face her, as she stood in the doorway, the pale, thin roots of the marshmallow in her hands.

‘I don’t understand.’ He gestured to the bottles.

Maude placed the roots on her small, scrubbed table, bolted the front door and stomped over to him.

She dipped into the pantry and brought out one of the bottles, firmly closing the door behind her, her nostrils flaring in her indignation, as she thumped it down on the table.

Her fingers anxiously clenched and unclenched, as she looked around for the things she needed to tend to his injury.

‘I invited you into my home because I thought I could trust you. I didn’t invite you in so you could go snooping around the second my back was turned.’

‘Sorry. The pain… I was trying to help.’ He felt embarrassed and confused. A room full of untouched alcohol didn’t make sense in the home of someone notorious for her drinking but he shouldn’t have invaded her privacy.

Still silent, she poured him a measure of neat gin.

Her eyes narrowed as she handed him the tumbler, and he didn’t blame her for being cross.

He downed it quickly, spluttering a cough at the bitterness of the liquor.

It burned a fierce pathway down his gullet, the heat of it like fire, but it quickly started to numb the pain.

Feeling like a reprimanded schoolboy, he watched as she took a folded piece of cotton from a small drawer on the dresser. She proceeded to rip it into strips, which she placed in a chipped ceramic mixing bowl. Then she lifted the kettle from the pot hook and poured boiling water on the rags.

Edward returned to the bench as Maude began angrily scrubbing at the roots, before chopping them up and grinding them into the mortar with a wooden pestle.

After a while, she returned to the fireplace, with everything she needed to tend to him gathered together on a tray.

She brushed her skirts to one side and perched on a rough-hewn milking stool.

Their eyes met and held. She was waiting, he realised, and began to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it from his shoulders. As she washed the wound, he watched her focused expression, determined not to make a fuss.

Finally, she spoke. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I haven’t touched a drop of liquor since my husband left me,’ she said, in reference to the contents of the pantry.

Edward raised an eyebrow.

‘But I’ve seen you, clutching half-drunk bottles by their necks. And, no offence, but there’s often the distinctive smell of stale alcohol about your person.’ Even now, he thought to himself.

‘I dribble it on my clothes and still buy it to maintain the pretence that I drink, but I don’t.’ Maude shrugged, and dabbed some of the neat gin on the deep gash.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. God, but it stung. Another whole minute passed in silence, with only the sounds of spitting wood from the fire.

‘I woke up in a pool of my own vomit on an unbearably hot July morning four years ago, remembering nothing of how I got there. I’d also soiled myself and was running a terrible fever.

The stench was unbearable and, had I anything left in my stomach, I’d have emptied it all over the floor again.

Instead, I staggered to the door and threw it open to the most beautiful day – a day that made me thankful to be alive.

A cloudless azure-blue sky and the fresh salty sea breeze.

The birds were chattering away and dots of colour from the meadow flowers made the whole scene look like something out of a picture book.

’ She gave a sour laugh. ‘But my overriding feeling was the disgust I felt at myself for the situation I was in.’

She laid a bandage across the wound, lifting up his arm to thread it behind and then bringing it back under the other arm. Her hands were cold but her touch was gentle. Edward didn’t interrupt her tale.

‘I took myself down to the shore, stripped off every stitch I had on and threw myself into the sea. As I’m sure you know, even on a warm summer’s day, it’s a shock to the system, but it was also a clarion call. I had to change my ways.’

Why the thought of a naked Maude in the sea should cause Edward to blush, he wasn’t sure, but it was an image he held on to for longer than he should. She wasn’t so old that she’d ceased to be attractive, especially now that she wasn’t scowling at him.

‘If you’ve not touched the gin in all these years, why would you want people to think you were still reliant on it?’

‘The villagers have long since made their minds up about me and wouldn’t understand that I’d had an epiphany, bobbing about in the North Sea.

I suffered a few days of sweats and suchlike as my body adjusted to my sobriety but when I walked into the village to beg fresh milk, I was still whispered about.

People turned to get out of my path, not wanting to meet my eyes, and called me everything from a sot to a whore – even though there’s no basis in truth for the last accusation.

Ha.’ She laughed to herself, but it had a bitter edge. ‘If only.’

He sucked in a sharp breath as she tucked in the loose end of the dressing and accidentally brushed against the wound.

‘But Thistlewick Tye is full of such godly people. They pride themselves on their forgiveness and compassion. Wouldn’t the congregation welcome a repentant sinner?’

She snorted at that. ‘And yet, I rather think they like having a local pariah. Mothers pointing at me and warning their children about the consequences of their actions. Look at what happens when the demon liquor gets a hold. It’s easier to let people believe what they want, not least because they generally stay out of my way.

Let’s not forget, I used to beat my husband and know that I don’t deserve forgiveness or compassion.

I once overheard a woman say that when I was at my most intoxicated, I hit him over the head with a chair and nearly killed him.

Can’t say I recall the incident, but I certainly don’t blame him for running off. ’

She shrugged, as though it was just one of those things, but her sobriety explained why the tiny cottage was so neat inside. Driven to the edge by her addiction, she’d given up the drink and mended her ways.

‘So let them point and call me names because sometimes it’s better to draw people’s attention to one thing, to distract them from another.’

She sighed, and he understood completely. Wasn’t it exactly what he was doing with his colourful clothes and dramatic appearance?

‘I’m not a believer in God, Mr Blackmore; he’s done little for me in my lifetime.

To be welcomed back into the fold holds no appeal.

I’m answerable to no man and enjoy my simple life.

I eat well enough – the sea offers up its bounty, if you know where to look – and I’ve a few vegetables growing out the back, not seen from the path.

What I find washed up on the beach makes me enough to get by.

Every morning I stand on the cliffs and am grateful for the stunning view and fresh air.

And the best part of it is that the chirping birds flitting about in my hawthorn hedge and the rabbits grazing on the short grass across from my gate don’t judge me. ’

For a man who’d spent so much of his life in the pursuit of wealth, he was beginning to appreciate her point of view.

Wasn’t the natural beauty of the countryside as stunning as the fine architecture of the city?

And that wholesome air – he was constantly pulled to the beach.

The savage nature of the sea and the sweeping winds so refreshing after the city smog.

‘Why did you attack me that first day? You went at me like a wildcat and I’d done nothing to you.’

She shrugged. ‘You were a stranger and I didn’t want you prying into my business.’

‘So, if I keep your secret, will you keep mine?’ he asked. She’d said nothing of what she’d seen beneath his shirt but he could see her eyes were drawn to his chest, even now that the wound was dressed, and knew she was wondering the truth of it all, so decided her honesty deserved his.

He put his hand to his jet-black hair. The dramatic contrast between that and his pale skin was an image he’d long manipulated to his advantage – because a man who looked as though he’d risen from the dead was surely best placed to contact the spirits of the departed.

With one sharp tug, he slipped off the wig and revealed the close crop of snow-white hair that covered his head and matched the hair across his body.

For Edward Shaw had been a bitter disappointment and brought everlasting shame to his father.

Edward Shaw had been born albino.

Edward Shaw was a freak.