The Spider: Chapter 12

The man at the door

Chapter 1-4| Chapters 5-6| Chapters 7-8|Chapters 9-11

I decided to hold back and publish just one chapter this week as the final episode of part 1 is a stonker, and I want it to be on its own. Part one ends next Sunday! What is going on here?

12

The very next morning, Frances busied herself with emptying the wardrobe of the clothes she didn’t want, and set to work altering the less extravagant items that she did want to keep. Mrs Mckinnon, as instructed, arranged for the gowns to be sold to a dressmaker on the high street, and left a copy of the dressmaker’s brochure on the coffee table. Frances gasped at the prices and refused to order anything, much to her husband’s disappointment. 

“It’ll take you months to make your own, Fan. Do you not even want one?” He had had his eye on a drawing of a beautiful satin gown with a deep v cut at the front and the back. Frances had liked it too, but wouldn’t agree to order it. 

“I will be able to make my own, just you watch,” she said. 

He clicked his tongue and sighed, “I’ll make the next dinner reservation when hell freezes over, then.” 

She slammed her sewing down on her lap. “What else do you think I’ll be doing for the next three months? You won’t be here and I’ll have nothing else to do. I can do it, John.” She surprised herself at the irritation in her voice and softened. “Please, I want to do this. I’ve asked Mrs Mckinnon to fetch me some more fabric from the market. There was something about those dresses… they were—”

“Haunted?” he smirked and widened his eyes comically. “I suppose the house could be haunted,” he began, “perhaps you were possessed last night. Haven’t seen you like that before.” 

She reddened and resumed her sewing. “You laugh but… my mother thinks the house is haunted.” 

“You’re joking?” he rolled his eyes.

“John, deny it all you want but you saw something last night. It wasn’t just me.” 

“I saw nothing. It was a shadow, if that. Could have been anything.” 

“You were afraid,” she said quietly. He bristled as her eyes met his. 

“Everything was fine, woman. We’re not sitting here mithering over nothing.” 

“That’s three of us, now. My mother—”

 “It’s just nit-picking’!” He ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “There was always going to be something wrong with it, seen as it belongs to me, eh?” He shrugged. “That good for nothing you married can’t even pick a decent house.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked at her again. “That woman has aged me, Frances. Not Australia and the hard graft– that woman.” He pointed to the wall, which Frances had surmised must have been in the direction of West Derby. “I need to just get used to it. That’s my life but dear God, can she not just wind it in? I don’t need her turning this house into the next sensation.” Frances was bent over her work, looking annoyed. Knowing better than to continue with his rant, he sighed. “All right, you want to talk about it some more. You’re not joking?”

“No,” she shook her head fervently. “She not only informed me that she believes this house to be haunted but she told me that the postman is a medium. You remember Mr Kingsley? The postman?” 

“Ha!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Not Mr Kingsley?” 

“The very same. Apparently he helps people rid their homes of ghosts.” 

“I see.” 

She placed the chemise she was working on on her lap and dropped her shoulders. “It’s going to be interesting having her around for a couple of months. You’re getting a lucky escape.” A faint flicker of amusement lifted the corners of her mouth. 

“I’m sure you’ll have a ball,” he said, opening his newspaper. “I’ll be so sorry to have missed it.” 

---

Later that afternoon, Elsie was sitting on her father’s bouncing knee as he sang half-remembered nursery rhymes to her. Frances smiled and shook her head every time he misremembered a word or a name. 

“Daddy, it’s not that,” Elsie said. 

“Isn’t it? I thought you go to Charing cross to see a white baby upon a white horse?” 

“Lady, Daddy. Lay-dee!” 

“Oh yes that’s it. With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes…” 

“She will have music, wherever she goes!” Elsie added with a proud smile. “Daddy?” 

“Yes?” 

“What’s Charing Cross?” 

“It’s the middle of London.” 

“Oh.” Elsie’s mouth turned downward. 

“What did you think it was?” 

“A burnt bun.” 

Realising that she meant a hot cross bun. Frances and John locked eyes and erupted with laughter. “That’s charring, darling. Bless your heart.” John lifted her and placed her on the floor, handing her one of her dolls. 

“Are you off out?” asked Frances.

“Yes. I need some more cigars.” 

“You’ve run out already?” 

He nodded gravely. He wouldn’t say as much, but Frances felt he hadn’t been the same since the incident in the hallway. Something troubled him. It troubled them both. When she’d told him of her dream, he laughed and said, “I’d never speak to you like that, you madwoman.” She thought that maybe she was a madwoman, and should keep her thoughts to herself. Who would believe her if she said the red dress had somehow managed to take itself out of the wardrobe and languish on the bed? She shuddered at the thought, trying to maintain focus on her work. The sewing helped, but it didn’t block her unwanted thoughts completely. 

“You’d better go and get some then,” she said, pulling some ivory thread through the eye of her needle. 

“I won’t be long.” He bent down and kissed Elsie on the head and crossed the room to do the same to his wife. Her eyes followed him until he left the room, passing Sarah, who came into the drawing room to find Elsie. “Elsie, it’s time to tidy the nursery, young lady. Those dollies have been running amok up there.”

“That wasn’t me,” Elsie said, stroking Blissy’s hair. 

“Elsie, don’t tell lies,” her mother added sternly. “There are no lies in this house. Now go and do as Sarah says.”

“It wasn’t me, Mummy,” she said again, turning her gaze to Frances. “It was Mary. She’s upset.” 

Frances, distracted by the mention of Mary’s name, stabbed herself in the thumb with her needle. She brought it away from the cream fabric and into her mouth. “Go and do it, Elsie!” she snapped, stemming the blood from the pricked thumb with her tongue. 

Elsie flinched and looked down at the floor. 

“Come on, Elsie. Do as your mother says,” Sarah folded her arms and waited until Elsie left the room, dragging her feet as she did so. Sarah followed, leaving Frances to work in silence. 

According to the drawing room window, the weather outside was damp and grey, lining the windows with a fine drizzle. Frances turned in her seat to try and get more light on her work, but as she turned her head away, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of someone entering the room. She turned her head sharply to look behind her and saw nothing. The sideboard on the wall behind her was as it had always been. There was nobody there. “You’re imagining things,” she muttered to herself. 

---

After half an hour of failing to effectively sew a straight line, Frances placed her sewing back in the basket beside the chair and walked out into the hallway, pacing up and down the black and white tiles with her hands on her hips. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the outline of John in the painted glass around the front door. “What is he doing?” she whispered to herself. He had his back turned to her, and from what she could make out, he wasn’t wearing his hat or his jacket. She walked towards the door and wrestled with the surprisingly stiff handle to let him in. The door was locked. “I just need to unlock it,” she said, bringing her face close to the glass. Frances turned and rummaged through the drawer of the side table for the key. When she checked over her shoulder to see if he was still there, she saw him slowly moving away. “John, it’s locked!” she called. “Where’s your key?” His silhouette grew smaller as she picked up the right key and inserted it into the lock. By the time she had opened the door, the doorstep was empty. She looked out left and right of the garden path. “What in the—?” She stepped down into the front garden and looked around again, trying the side gate. It was also locked. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Mrs Mckinnon called as she approached the front gate. “I have your fabrics!” She proudly lifted up a generously sized bundle, “they had everything you asked for.”

“Mrs Mckinnon, was my husband here?” 

She looked around at the street, “no, ma’am. Are you expecting him?” 

Frances shook her head, bewildered. “No. I thought he was—” she turned and pointed to the open front door. “Never mind.” 

Mrs Mckinnon followed her into the house and closed the door. “Where do you want me to keep the fabrics, ma’am?” 

“The sideboard in there, please.” 

Mrs Mckinnon bustled into the drawing room with her bundle. “It’s a bit dreich out there, ma’am. Would you like a cup of tea when I’ve folded these away?” 

Frances, not listening, looked at the glass around the door one more time. She wondered if she was losing her mind after all.

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