The Spider: Chapters 9-11

A series of strange events

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

9 

It had been Beatrice who had brought the breakfast tray to Frances’ bedside the following morning. “John said you’d been up with nightmares,” she said, placing the tray of breakfast items on the side table. She picked up a pewter mug and turned to face her daughter. 

“Mother, Mrs Mckinnon—” 

“Isn’t your mother. Now sit up and drink some beef tea.” 

Frances did as she was told. She took the tea and blew on it, inhaling the strong, savoury scent.

 “For strength and beauty,” Beatrice said, sitting down on the chair beside the bed. “I’m due to go back after lunch, unless you would like me to stay awhile longer?” 

Frances shook her head. “It was a bad dream and no more.” 

“Have you been saying your prayers before bed?” 

“Always,” Frances said, sipping some beef broth from the mug. Beatrice pursed her lips and looked around the room. “So, have you seen anything that would indicate who this Mary character is?” 

“No.” Frances shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything…”  

Beatrice eyed her suspiciously. “What was the nightmare about? Boggarts? Spring-heeled Jack?” she asked with an eyebrow raised. Frances shrugged. 

“Frances, you’re a terrible liar.” 

“There was blood, all right? It was coming from the ceiling and dripping all over me.” 

Frances was surprised to see that this information did not cause her mother to grimace. Instead, Beatrice leaned in, listening intently. 

“Interesting.” 

“Is it?” 

Beatrice’s eyes lit up. “I know a man, you know. He’s a clairvoyant.” 

“Oh, Mother, really–” 

“No, no, I promise you– he’s a good man. He was the organist at church, you might remember him. Trevor Kingsley. The postman?” 

“Mr Kingsley’s a clairvoyant?” 

Beatrice nodded, “and a very good one at that. He helped Mrs Lindsay find her missing keys. Her husband was a gatekeeper, God rest his soul. He misplaced the only set of keys for the gatehouse on the night he died. Mrs Lindsay managed to find them down a ginnel thanks to Richard.” 

Frances blinked at her mother. Beatrice, as far as Frances had known, believed in God and the Devil but had never, not once in her lifetime, indicated that she believed in ghosts. “I see,” was all she could say, sipping her tea. 

“I know it sounds, well you know… but really, I think we could do a seance here and get to the bottom of it. It’s unusual for such a young house to have spirits rattling around in it. You just never know.” 

“Indeed.” Frances rolled her eyes and reached for a bread roll. “Where’s Elsie?” 

“Oh she’s doing some lessons downstairs with Sarah. Sarah is ever so good, you know.” 

I know, Mother. It was me who appointed her in the first place, after all. “She is,” Frances agreed. Sarah had been the light in the darkest of tunnels, cradling Elsie to sleep in the early days while Frances sobbed into her handkerchief and mourned the absence of her husband, her family and her life as a single woman. Sarah was the sister Frances never had. Nothing was ever too much trouble. At times, Frances felt she was being ridiculous, having a nanny care for her own child, but she remembered that it had been John’s insistence that she had had help at home in the first place. He had no mother or sisters to help and nor did she. “I hope the day never comes when she says she wants to leave,” she said. 

“Well, she is a vicar’s daughter, much like yourself. I’m sure she’ll make a fine governess, just as you would have done.” 

Frances prickled. “School teachers are different, mother.” Frances’ parents had expected her to teach into her mid-twenties, eventually leaving the profession in order to marry someone they deemed suitable for an educated child of a clergyman. Even the mention of schooling was too tender a wound for Frances. “I was never a governess.” 

“Yes, but you know what I mean.” 

“Yes.” Frances tore at her roll and stuffed the chunks of bread into her mouth, chewing them slowly. Beatrice, having finally acknowledged her unsuitable choice of conversation, lifted herself out of the chair and started plumping cushions and making the bed with vigour. Frances, seeing that it was time to get up, reached for her slippers and walked to the wardrobe. “I need to dress, Mother.” 

“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment,” Beatrice said, beating the last of the pillows with a resounding thump. “There. Marvellous– oh? Are these all yours?” she asked, looking over at the wardrobe that Frances had just opened. 

“Yes, I… I think so. They’re new.”

Beatrice walked closer to the wardrobe and slid the hangers to the side one by one, admiring the skirts and embellishments of the gowns. “Well,” she said with thin lips. “There’s a lot of money in gold, it seems.” Frances blushed, not knowing what to do as she watched her mother inspect the clothing, audibly gasping at the silk ribbons. 

“Oh, you’re up and about!” John said, standing in the doorway. Beatrice, as though caught rifling through a stranger’s intimate possessions, bolted upright and tidied her greying gold hair. 

“These are very beautiful dresses, Frances. I’m going downstairs.” She gave a quick nod and slid out of the bedroom past John, quietly offering a ‘good morning’ as she passed. 

“Good morning Beatrice,” he said with a nod. 

“John,” Frances asked, failing to find the words for the rest of her question. 

As though he had read her mind, he smiled, “it’s about the dresses, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Where did you get them?” 

His mouth straightened. “All right… they came with the house.” Frances stared at him as he spoke. “They looked like they were about your size and I thought it would be a pity to throw them out… they look like they’re worth a few bob.”

“They came with the house?” Frances could feel her heart throbbing in her throat. He rushed over and caught her before she fell to the floor. 

“Frances, what’s wrong?” 

“I… I just, I need to sit down.” He helped her to the bed and lifted her legs up onto the mattress. 

“What is it? Don’t you like them? It’s fine, I’ll get shut of them, Christ, why are you so pale?” 

“John, whose dresses are these?” 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody asked for them back so I just assumed that, once the contracts were signed, they belonged to me as they were left here.” 

“John, their previous owner could be dead!” 

“Frances, I’m really struggling to see what the issue is. You can buy second hand frocks at the market, can’t you?” He shook his head in bafflement. “How is this any different?” 

“It just is.” She held a hand to her mouth as her bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know what to do with them.” She wiped away a couple of tears. 

“No need for hysterics, Frances,” John said, raising his hands in surrender. “If you want rid of them, that’s fine, but can you at least wait until tomorrow?” 

“Why? What’s tomorrow?” 

“I was going to take you out to dinner tonight and if you chuck them today, you won’t have a stitch to wear. It’d be good to go out. You haven’t left the house since Sunday.” 

“Dinner?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes. I’d like to take you for dinner, you madwoman. I said Thursday, remember? What do you think about that?” 

“I’d love to, but—” 

“Shh,” he said, placing a finger on her lips. “Stop worrying about it. I’ll bet they just belonged to some rich lass who had more than she could wear in a lifetime. Think no more of it.” He kissed her on the forehead and stood up, checking his pocket watch. “I have a meeting at ten. I’ll see you back here this afternoon,” he stopped at the doorway and blew a kiss. 

Frances placed her head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling again.

---

10 

Elsie was sitting on her bed when Frances came upstairs to say goodnight. “Mummy, you look beautiful,” she cried when Frances entered the room in the red gown. It trailed slightly as she walked across to the bed. It was the most elegant dress that she had ever worn and she had spent the entire day altering the bust and the shoulders. The previous owner had possessed a slightly larger frame and a more generously proportioned chest. Frances considered it a blessing that there was half an inch to spare in each seam and dart, else she’d have absolutely nothing to wear. 

“Thank you my darling,” she said as she sat down on the bed, smoothing her skirts. She caught a glimpse of herself on a table mirror and thought that the rouge complemented her fair skin, almost as though it was made for her. Although she had doused herself with some of her own perfume, there was still a faint scent that she didn’t recognise. It wasn’t unpleasant– it just wasn’t her scent. 

She looked over to Elsie who was playing with a music box that Frances hadn’t noticed earlier. “This is lovely,” her mother said, holding the box in her gloved hands. She wound the brass key until the resistance became too strong for her fingers and let it go. It played a familiar melody. Elsie hummed along. 

 “Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my bonnie to me, to me,” Frances sang quietly. Elsie’s eyes lit up. 

“Do you know it, Mummy?” 

“I do. It’s called My Bonnie.”

“Is it a sad song?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“How does it go?” 

“My Bonnie lies over the ocean,

My Bonnie lies over the sea,

My Bonnie lies over the ocean,

Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

Bring back, bring back,

Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me, to me.

Bring back, bring back,

Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.” 

Elsie, placated with the lullaby, slipped down under her covers. Frances placed the music box on Elsie’s bedside table and kissed her forehead. “Sarah is taking care of you while Mummy and Daddy go out. Are you going to be a good girl?” 

Elsie nodded happily. “I am always a good girl.”

“That you are, sweetheart.” She stroked her golden hair and tucked her in, inhaling her daughter’s unique smell as she kissed her. 

 Sarah followed her out to the other side of the door. Elsie watched them leave and rolled over. 

“I hope you have a lovely evening, ma’am,” Sarah said, admiring the dress. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you Sarah,” Frances turned away and grabbed the hand rail and stopped herself. “Just one thing– Sarah. I’ve noticed that Elsie has been telling little lies since we arrived here.” 

“Oh?” Sarah closed the bedroom door over so Elsie couldn’t hear. 

Frances looked around at the empty landing. “It’s probably nothing, but you need to keep an eye on her. She says her Daddy didn’t buy any of the toys in her room. I don’t know why she’d say that, but I’d like it if you could discourage the dishonesty. He must have bought the music box, too. I don’t know why she thinks otherwise.” 

Sarah’s brows were knotted in a tangle above her blue eyes. “I hadn’t noticed, ma’am, but I’ll keep an eye on her.” 

“Thank you, Sarah.” 

John had booked a table at a new hotel less than a five minute ride away from their home. Frances fidgeted with her new satin gloves in the back of the cab as they rode through the street and down towards the city centre. The reassuring clip clop of hooves helped her steady her breath as she thought of the crowded dining room that awaited them. She had mostly lived a quiet life with her mother on the outskirts; the city, growing larger each year, had always seemed enormous and terrifying. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, stop fidgeting,” John said, resting a hand on her lap. 

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been to dinner in such a long time,” she said, looking out of the window. “I’m out of practice.” She fiddled with the velvet collar around her neck. It was itching her. 

“I’m sorry, darling. It’s my fault.” 

“No, no, This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you, John.” She thought of the house and the money. He was wearing a new dinner suit and top hat. “It’s really lovely. I am looking forward to our new life here.” 

“It’s what we deserve,” he said. 

The maitre de guided them to their table in the grand dining room. “They have balls here, too,” John said with a wink. “Perhaps you’d like to go to a ball one day.” 

The thought of ballrooms and dancing lightened her head. She had not danced since before they were married– she had been just a girl. She met John at a church fete when she was twenty. He was twenty-five and as far as Beatrice was concerned, must have still been a bachelor for good reason “can’t be unmarried at that age unless there’s something wrong with them,” she remarked. He would often visit Frances at the schoolhouse, stealing a moment with her on her way home, or meeting her for a walk on the way to work. In the autumn, he would bring her a basket of apples from the nearby orchard, “for my favourite teacher,” he’d joke. Every night, her mother would pop her head into Frances’ bedroom to make sure that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Frances knew this, and waited until the light under her mother’s bedroom door was dark before slipping out on summer evenings. She fell helplessly, recklessly in love with John Bryant, and she couldn’t stand to be away from him.

 It was to Beatrice’s deepest regret that her daughter had ignored her parents’ wishes and married him anyway. They had eloped to Gretna Green in September of 1887, returning to West Derby in December of the same year. Her father, too angered to speak to her, held off any communications until he reached his deathbed in 1889. Her mother, now alone and mourning, reached out to her daughter upon her husband’s death. The memory filled Frances with shame, flushing her cheeks crimson as she was shown to her seat.

“Are you all right?” John asked, fixing his gaze on her from across the table. She nodded. 

“It’s warm in here, that’s all.” She fanned herself with a hand and sipped some water. She looked over to her husband, who was relaxed in the chair with his legs crossed. The restaurant was incredibly busy, even though it was to be expected. She felt her hands shaking as she slowly drank some more water. People were looking at her. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the room, Fan,” he said, smiling with even, neat teeth. She blushed again, feeling like a doll on display in a shop window. “The moment I saw you, I just had to have you. I meant to come home sooner, I really did. Australia is just so damn far away.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You’re here now and that’s all that matters.” She opened the menu and stared at the pages, unable to focus on any particular item. 

“Ah, yes,” he said with sinking shoulders, “about that.” He leaned forward and tugged on his lapel. “I need to go to South Africa a week on Monday,” he said in a quiet voice. She barely heard him over the clinking of cutlery, music and conversation from the other diners, but she did hear him, much to her chagrin. She felt her heart sink through her chest. Her hands felt clammy.

 “No,” was all she could say. 

“Not forever. Just for a month or so. There is some business I need to attend to. It’s worth quite a lot of money. It’s important business.” He fixed his beautiful bright eyes on hers. “I promise, it’s the last time.”

“It’ll take more than a month, John,” she said, shaking her head. 

“Yes, I suppose, what? Three weeks travel either side? More like two and a half months.”

She swallowed back tears. “No,” she said, her voice wavering with disappointment.

“Frances, it’s all right. It’s just one trip. That’s it.” 

“Please, you can’t leave me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She quickly grabbed the napkin and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just so scared, John.” 

“What? What are you scared of?” 

“I don’t want to be alone again.” She swallowed back tears and stared at him. He looked devastated. 

“I promise you, I’m coming back,” he reached out to touch her hand. 

“Excuse me for a moment.” She lifted herself from the chair and sailed out into the foyer, looking for the W.C. The foyer was crowded with dinner guests and tourists loitering and smoking on the sofas. She brushed past them and looked across at a mirror on the wall. 

Her heart stopped. In the foreground of the reflection, she saw a chestnut-haired woman, slightly taller than she was, wearing the same red dress. Her scarlet shape provided a stark contrast with the smattering of black and white clad gentlemen in the room behind her. With an expressionless gaze, she looked at Frances, as though studying her for a minute. Frances inhaled a deep breath and held it. The brunette’s expression transformed from a look of indifference to sheer terror, and with her mouth rounded and open wide, she let out a piercing scream, shattering the mirror into a thousand pieces. Frances shielded herself from the shards and rolled to the floor. 

“Fan?” John was staring at her, waiting for her to respond to his question. She looked around in disbelief; she was sitting back at the dinner table, holding his hand. The music, the chatter and the clinking of cutlery was as it had been before. 

“I’m so sorry, what did you say?” 

“I said I’m coming back.” 

“Gold?” 

“Yes. They’ve just opened more goldfields.” 

“You’re going to be prospecting?” 

He shook his head, “no, I’m just keeping an eye on things. The man who sold me the house, Mr Ellman? Well… I work for him, but he’s old. He’s too ill to go this time. I’ve been asked to go in his place.” 

“Oh… I understand.” 

He leaned back in his seat, confused by her sudden change of behaviour. “Are you all right?” he finally asked. 

“I’m fine. I’m just famished, probably,” she said, catching sight of the waiter approaching with the trolley. “Oh look, dinner’s here.” 

---

11 

She gripped his hand tightly on the cab ride home, as though if she held on for long enough, fate would change its mind, and Mr Ellman would be able to go as planned. “I’m going to be back in no time,” John said. 

“I know. I know.” 

“Your mother will be pleased.” 

“No she won’t. She’s fond of you now.” 

“Even more fond if I was out of the way though, surely?” 

“Oh I don’t know.” Frances looked out into the evening as they rode up the hill. 

“Will you ask her to come and stay?” 

“Do you want me to? I have Sarah.”  

“I know, but the question is, do you want to ask your mother?” he asked. She thought for a moment. “You did say you didn’t want to be alone– even though Sarah lives with us— and I can’t stand the thought of you feeling alone so… Beatrice will have to do.” 

“You don’t mind?” 

“What leg do I have to stand on? I’m that bastard leaving you again.” He smiled. 

“She understands. She does.” 

Frances recalled the last time he left her. She cried for weeks: while her infant slept beside her, while her infant suckled, while she rocked the baby’s bassinet through the night, she cried. She remembered the long nights and blurred days. Sarah had been the light in a dark, dark tunnel, sharing the burden of motherhood in the early months and eventually, becoming a much needed aid to the family. It was Sarah who had helped her remember to feed herself, wash herself and dress, but it was her husband that she had wanted by her side. The thought of him leaving again crushed her. 

She had pored over his letters, rereading them until the next ones came. She loved him and longed for him but their separation hurt her deeply. She wasn’t sure if she could cope with another repeat of his long absence. 

“I’m doing this for us, darling. Nothing in the world matters more than my family.” 

She blinked back tears. “I know. I know,” she heard herself saying. “I just hate the thought of you leaving me.”

Frances rested her head on his shoulder, trying not to think of the screaming woman in the mirror. 

He locked the front door behind them when they arrived home. Frances gathered her skirts and charged up the stairs immediately, leaving him to stand in the hallway, accompanied only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and soon after, the closure of the bedroom door. He poured himself a brandy in the parlour room and waited, not knowing if it was safe to go to his own bed or not. Her mood had confused him. 

As he had hoped, she returned, this time in what he had first thought was a white nightgown. “I wanted to get out of that thing.” 

“Must have been uncomfortable– wait–” 

She sighed. “I can’t get it off by myself.” 

He placed his drink down on the side table and walked over to her, placing his fingers on the outline of the corset that she was still wearing. “Then let me.” They both knew that she could have called Maggie to come up and remove it, but it was obvious to him that Frances didn’t want to. He gently loosened each crossed cord and untied the knots. “I don’t know why women bother with these things,” he grumbled. 

She felt his face close to hers and whispered, “me neither.” He lowered his hand down the front of her shift, feeling her nipples harden. “Maybe because we’re all fools.”

Within minutes, he was making love to her on the sofa of the parlour room. She moaned softly, looking over his head at the open door. At any moment, someone could walk in; the very thought of it drove her wild with lust, and she thrust her face into his neck to conceal her cry of pleasure when it overwhelmed her. She climbed onto his lap and groaned before collapsing into his chest, feeling him tense up and tremble inside her. He pulled her close to him, pushing a soft, relaxed breath into her ear. 

The clock struck twelve, unlocking their lovestruck tangle and deafening them both into alertness. Frances, suddenly aware of her breast hanging out of her shift, covered up and rubbed her arms. Her skin was goose pimpled and stinging from the cold air. John reached for his jacket, pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “This time it’s right. Makes a nice change.”

“Is it just me or is it quite cold in here?” she asked, watching clouds of icy breath leave her mouth. John seemed unperturbed at first as he rose from the sofa and pulled his trousers back on. They both heard the chiming of the clock slow down. She watched him suddenly stop what he was doing. The temperature in the room had fallen dramatically, and he felt it too. 

“It’s baltic in here,” he said, as wisps of hot breath floated into the icy room before him. The air became thick, smothering them into silence as they looked at one another. Frances clenched her chattering teeth. With her gaze fixed on her husband, she saw the shadow pass through the hallway only in the corner of her eye. Unable to turn her head to look, she could only assume that it passed in the direction of the stairs, rendering her powerless to do anything but observe the rising terror in her throat. John’s eyes didn’t leave her face. 

From the staircase, they heard the sound of something heavy being dragged along the tiles and onto the first carpeted step. It slid and gently thumped, sliding again, with another thump, and another, until the hallway finally fell silent. Frances swallowed and dared to turn her head. She saw nothing but the clock standing sentry in the hallway, its pendulum moving at a natural rhythm once more. She turned to look back at John to find an expression she had never seen cross his face until now: fear. 

After a quick shot of brandy, John gingerly approached the staircase, looking up into the dimly-lit landing. Frances crept closely behind him, shivering within the shield of his body. She wanted nothing more than to get back to the bedroom and lie down in his arms, where it was safe. 

They reached the top of the stairs where their bedroom was waiting for them, lit and arranged as though they had been there all night. Frances almost fell into the wall when she saw the red satin gown draped across the bed. 

“That isn’t where I left it.” 

“What?” he whispered. 

“Th-th-the dress. I put it in the wardrobe.” 

John, having stuffed the dress into a chest in the guest room at Frances’ insistence, went upstairs to check on Elsie and Sarah. Both were fast asleep. He returned to Frances soon after, reassuring her that everybody was fine. He assured her that he’d seen nothing but his reflection holding a candle in the mirrors that he passed. “Sometimes, when you’re exhausted, you shiver a lot,” he said softly, rubbing his hands up her bare arms to warm her. “It’s not cold in here.”

“I know what I saw,” she said, folding them across her chest. 

He let out a long sigh. “I’ve seen nothing in the house since. We’re probably just tired.”

They didn’t talk any more about what they’d seen together. John, after lying in the bed in silence, eventually drifted off. 

Frances, after some time, fell into a deep sleep, finding herself back at the hotel restaurant, sitting across the table from John, who had a moustache again. 

“Do you think I enjoy it, Frances?” His tone had transformed from calm and apologetic to curt. “Do you think I like travelling across the world just to keep a wife?” His voice sounded like a low, pressurised hiss threatening to burst from his mouth. She saw his countenance darken, highlighting wolfish features on his thin face. “I have to work until I drop dead to keep my family. The least you could do is thank me for it. I’ve done nothing but work hard for you. Christ, I even sent flowers to your mother when your father died. I have yet to receive a thank you for taking care of everything.” 

 She stared at him in shock. She had never seen him in this light.“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know–” 

“Why would she have told you?” he snapped. “If she did, you’d think she had no good reason to despise me and she can’t have that.” He took a long sip of his wine and looked away in annoyance. 

“It must be so hard for you, darling.” She fought back tears. His face relaxed again and he broke the tension with a smile. 

“I’d do anything for you.” 

“I know.” 

“Anyway, let’s not think about it. I have to sign some papers and do a bit of business. That’ll be it for a long time, possibly even forever. I’ll be back home with you and Elsie after Christmas.” 

“That’s not what you said yester–” 

“What?” The music was louder now. His attention had drifted elsewhere. 

As though she had awoken from a trance and watched from another table, she saw his eyes wander, fixing themselves on several glamorous women who passed them. “Oh yes, before Christmas, I meant,” he said over his shoulder as one of the women smiled at him. France’ sadness turned to unchecked, unrelenting, all-consuming jealousy. She wanted to get up and scream at them, telling them to leave him alone. He noticed her stare and returned to his meal. She watched him cut through the rare, bloody steak on his plate, tearing and chewing it vigorously. Its pink juices slipped from the corners of his mouth before he could dab them away with his napkin. 

“You’re not eating, darling,” he said with a concerned glance. She looked down at her dish of blood, watching it grow colder by the minute. The woman in red was standing over their table, bent forward, heavy droplets of blood crashing down from her throat onto Frances’ plate. Frances wiped the gentle spritz of splatter from her cheeks and looked up at John’s disappointed face. “Mary made this just for you, and you’re being rude.”

The clock in the foyer of the hotel struck with a resounding bong, sending vibrations through her body, rattling her teeth. It struck again, forcing her onto her feet. “I want to go home,” she declared. 

John, as though immune to the clock’s obnoxious striking, looked up at her in confusion. “What?” 

“I want to go home. Now!”

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