The Hidden Evil Page 4

  Not so scary after all, Maggie told herself.

  Just a little boy.

  A little boy having a tantrum.

  Maggie closed the door behind her.

  “Garret, I am Miss Thomas. I am your new governess.”

  Garret rocked harder, his head still turned away. He had blond hair like his brother’s, but straight, not curly. His hair had the coarse appearance of matted straw.

  Maggie sat down on his bed and thought for a moment. She decided not to bring up the vase. The vase that lay shattered downstairs in the entry hall. The vase that had come so close to hitting her. She decided not to mention the horrible threats he had yelled through the door.

  She did not want to start off their relationship with accusations.

  “Garret,” she began again. “I know your mother died recently. You must be missing her terribly.”

  No response.

  “To lose a beloved parent—it is very painful, I know. My own father—”

  She was surprised to find herself choking up the moment she said the word “father.” She had to pause.

  “My own father died recently as well. Rather suddenly, in fact. And—well, I lost my dear mother when I was only six. So I think I know how hard it can be to lose someone you dearly love and—”

  Garret stopped rocking.

  Maybe I’m getting through to him, Maggie thought. “Well, nothing can ever make up for your loss, Garret,” she rushed on. “But I cherish many fond memories of both my parents.”

  She clapped her hands. “I know! Perhaps you and I can start a journal together. We can write down all your dearest memories of your beloved mother and—”

  Garret turned slowly in the rocker, so that he faced her at last.

  Maggie stopped midsentence with a sharp “Oh!”

  Garret glared at her, clenching his little jaw so hard his whole face shook.

  “You think I loved my mother?” he spat out. “I did not love my mother! I hated her! Hated her! Hated her!”

  Chapter

  10

  Garret pounded the arms of the rocker with all his might. Then he sprang out of the seat and stamped on the floor. “Do you hear me? I hated her!”

  Maggie felt a shudder rip through her. What could possibly be the cause of such venom—especially in such a little boy?

  She reached out for him, but Garret flung himself down on the floor and shoved himself away from her. He rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  His face turned a deep red. Maggie could hear his breath coming in harsh pants. His blue eyes appeared glassy.

  Maggie had to find a way to calm him. She noticed a large sketch pad. Maybe this would give them some common ground, something she could talk to Garret about.

  “Ah,” she said, reaching for the pad. She forced herself to make her voice calm and pleasant. “Do you know, Garret, I like to draw as well.”

  Garret lunged forward and grabbed the pad before she could touch it. Then he scrambled back out of reach.

  “I did not draw as a child,” Maggie continued smoothly, “but I recently found myself with a lot of time on my hands. I drew with chalk.” Not true. She sketched on the cell wall with tiny stones.

  “May I see?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  Garret sneered. “You are not interested in my drawings,” he muttered. “You are only pretending to be interested, since it is your job to care for me.

  “But I am interested, Garret. Truly.” She kept her hand out, palm up.

  Garret stared at her for a long moment. What is he thinking? Maggie wondered.

  Garret shrugged and handed her the sketch pad. She flipped it open and smiled. A detailed sketch of a hot-air balloon filled the page. Garret had drawn himself in the balloon’s basket, happily sailing through the clouds.

  “This is wonderful, Garret,” Maggie told him. He didn’t reply, but Maggie noticed he scooted a little closer to her. She flipped the page and found a sketch of Garret on a tropical island surrounded by monkeys and zebras and giraffes.

  What an incredible imagination he has, Maggie thought. Seeing his sketches made her even more determined to find a way to reach the angry little boy. They would become friends somehow, she promised herself.

  “I wish I could draw as well as you do, Garret,” Maggie told him. “How do you think of such amazing things?”

  “I don’t know. I just do,” Garret admitted shyly. He edged a little closer to Maggie. She pretended not to notice.

  “What could be on this next page?” she asked, smiling at him. “I can’t wait to see!” Maggie flipped the page—and gasped.

  “No!” she whispered. A sharp, burning taste hit the back of her throat.

  Maggie turned the pages faster and faster. Sketch after sketch showed a woman in a coffin.

  Each woman’s face twisted in an expression of terror.

  A different creature fed on the woman’s body in each drawing—worms, bats, lions . . .

  In the last picture, a baby with sharp bloody teeth and a wide grin ripped the beating heart out of a woman’s chest.

  “Did you draw all these?” Maggie asked Garret. Her face felt frozen. Expressionless.

  He nodded. He took back the sketch pad and flipped to the first sketch of a woman in a coffin. “These first few sketches I did of Miss Winston. She came to take care of us right after Mother died. She was not as pretty as you,” he added.

  He flipped another page.

  “This is Mrs. Squires. Mr. Squires’s wife. She was our next governess.”

  Flip.

  “This is Miss Nealon.”

  “But Garret,” Maggie said, trying not to show him her horror, “why did you draw them all in coffins with . . . with . . .”

  “Because they are all dead now,” Garret answered calmly. “All dead and rotting in the ground.” He gazed at her, his eyes wide and unblinking. “You will be dead, too—if you stay here.”

  Chapter

  11

  “What do you mean?” Maggie demanded. “What are you talking about? How can you say something so dreadful?”

  Garret did not answer. Anger flooded Maggie’s body. Anger and fear. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “What do you mean?”

  Garret began to laugh. “Don’t you know? Haven’t they told you? I killed them.” Garret laughed and laughed, his breath coming in shallow wheezes.

  “Stop it!” Maggie cried. “Stop it at once, do you hear?” Maggie leapt up and strode from the room. She slammed the door behind her, then leaned against it. She could still hear Garret laughing inside.

  Garret tried to frighten you, she told herself. That is all. What child doesn’t play tricks on the new governess?

  But those drawings were no child’s joke. They were gruesome. How could a boy so young have such thoughts in his head?

  Not just any young boy, Maggie reminded herself. An imaginative young boy whose mother had died recently. What more natural reason for seeing death everywhere?

  Curses upon my weak soul, Maggie thought. I let the boy frighten me! The past governesses are not dead. They cannot be!

  One of the governesses was that sour servant’s wife, she reminded herself. And she ran away. So I know the boy is telling me lies.

  She hurried downstairs. Found her way to the kitchen. Cook stood at the sink, washing dishes. She looked up, startled.

  “Ah, Miss Thomas,” Cook said, blushing slightly. “I hope you punished him severely. You could have been badly hurt, you know.”

  “Yes,” Maggie agreed. In her mind’s eye, she saw the heavy vase falling. Saw it shatter on the floor at her feet.

  Then she saw the vase falling again. Saw it smashing into her skull. Saw her blood spraying across the floor.

  “The key,” Maggie said. She handed it back to Cook.

  “Thank you.” Cook slipped the key into her apron pocket and returned to washing the dishes, humming a cheerful tune. As if I am not still standing here, Maggie thought. Is she deliberately
trying to ignore me?

  “Cook—” Maggie began.

  Cook did not look up.

  “Have Garret and Andrew had many governesses before me?” I am curious, nothing more than that, Maggie told herself.

  Cook held the dish up to the light, Maggie could see the reflection of Cook’s serious face in the spotless china.

  Cook cannot meet my eyes, Maggie realized. “Should I repeat the question?”

  “Three,” Cook admitted at last. “Three governesses before you, Miss Thomas. I believe.”

  Three.

  Garret’s grisly pictures flipped through her mind.

  Miss Winston. Mrs. Squires. Miss Nealon. All being eaten alive.

  “What happened to them?” Maggie asked.

  “They left,” Cook answered quickly. “One was Mr. Squires’s wife, who ran off, as I mentioned.” She chuckled. “Who can blame her? No one could live with a man as grim as that.”

  “So that is why she ran away? Because of Mr. Squires’s manner and behavior?”

  “Who can say what goes through a person’s mind?” Cook said with a nervous shrug.

  “Three governesses in less than a year. That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.

  “Aye,” Cook answered. Her fingers strayed to the cross around her neck. And a shiver raced through Maggie.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Maggie took a small bite of veal and chewed slowly. Her eyes wandered from the dark paneling on the walls to the dark pattern on the tapestry.

  I feel as if I am eating in a cemetery, Maggie thought. Only she and Andrew spoke. Cook and Mary, the maid who helped serve, stayed deathly silent. As did Garret.

  This gloomy room needs something bright and sparkly, she decided. A chandelier would be beautiful here.

  “Miss Thomas,” Andrew piped up. “Have you ever been to a circus?”

  “Yes,” she told Andrew. She dabbed her lips with her cloth napkin. “I have been to three circuses, as a matter of fact.”

  “Three!” His eyes grew large and bright. “Are they grand?”

  “Very.

  “Are the lions scary?” Andrew asked.

  “Goodness, yes,” Maggie replied. “You should hear them roar.”

  “Father told me that the lion tamer sticks his head right into the lion’s mouth,” Andrew added.

  “That’s true,” Maggie told him. She remembered the lion in one of Garret’s sketches. She glanced over at him and found his eyes locked on her, his face expressionless.

  What is he thinking? she wondered.

  “Do you think the lion ever snaps his mouth shut and bites off the lion tamer’s head?” Andrew asked.

  “Andrew!” Cook exclaimed, shocked out of her silence.

  “I was curious,” he explained.

  “Curiosity is a very good thing,” Maggie said. “But some types of curiosity are not appropriate at the dinner table.”

  “Sorry,” Andrew muttered. “But will you tell me more about circuses later?”

  Maggie smiled at him. “I don’t see why not.” She turned to Cook. “I have been meaning to ask you. When will Mr. Malbourne be returning?”

  “Mr. Malbourne?” Cook asked, as if she had never heard of the man. “I will be with you in one moment,” she said, hurrying out of the dining room. “I must see to the pudding.”

  No one seemed to know when her employer would return. And she so needed to talk to him. Tanglewood was a troubled place. And his children needed him. Both his children.

  “Father is never here,” Garret mumbled.

  “I should very much like to go to a circus,” Andrew said wistfully.

  “Someday I shall take you both,” she promised. “If the circus comes to Boston. And now if you boys will both excuse me, I find I am quite worn out from my travels.”

  “Do you not want to stay for dessert, Miss Thomas?” Garret asked.

  “No thank you, not tonight.” She stood. “Cook tells me your bedtime will be upon us soon. Please change into your nightclothes, wash your faces and say your prayers. She will come by to say good night so that I may retire early.”

  She climbed the stairs to her room slowly. She felt exhausted. And not simply from the journey.

  Maggie trudged down the hall and opened her door. She crossed over to the bed and sat down. The mattress felt deliciously soft. She felt as if she could lie down and sleep for a year.

  After a good night’s rest, the new job would not seem so difficult, she felt sure. She would find a way to reach Garret somehow. And she could already tell she and Andrew would have lots of fun.

  Wearily she got to her feet and headed to the wardrobe for her nightgown. It would be so good to get out of her governess uniform. All day long the stiff neck of the dress felt as if it would choke her.

  Maggie opened the closet door.

  And uttered a high, shrill scream of terror.

  Chapter

  12

  Maggie gasped as she stared at a full-length sketch of herself. She lay inside a coffin, with a flock of red-breasted robins pecking out bits of her eyes.

  She backed away, hands covering her mouth. Garret did this, she thought.

  She turned and strode to the door. She flung it open—and found Andrew racing down the hallway toward her.

  “What is wrong?” he exclaimed. “I heard you yell. Are you all right, Miss Thomas? What is it?”

  Maggie pointed at the picture.

  Andrew stared at it for a moment. Then tore down the picture and crumpled it into a ball.

  When he looked up at Maggie, tears shone in his big blue eyes. “It is happening again,” he said simply.

  “What? What is happening again?” asked Maggie. She tried to keep her voice calm. She did not want to alarm Andrew any further.

  “Nothing,” Andrew said quickly. He clutched her hand. “Oh, please do not leave,” he begged. “Please do not go away and leave me alone with—”

  He broke off and stared at the door. All the color drained from his little face.

  Maggie turned and saw Garret standing in the doorway.

  “Go ahead,” Garret challenged Andrew coldly. He smiled. “Say it. Please do not leave me alone with Garret. He is a killer. Say it!”

  Andrew began to shake.

  Maggie put her arm around the younger boy’s shoulder to protect him. But Garret flicked his hand out and pinched Andrew’s ear hard.

  Andrew squealed in pain. He slapped Garret’s cheek.

  “I will get you later,” Garret told Andrew, spitting out the words. “Sometime when you do not have her around to protect you, little baby.” He turned and ran, hands clenched into fists.

  “Oh, dear,” Maggie said. She sat down on the bed and patted the spot beside her.

  Andrew hurried over and dropped down next to Maggie. “Garret does not mean all the horrible things he says,” Andrew told her.

  “Oh, no?” Maggie asked. Then why are you so frightened of him? she thought.

  “No, Miss Thomas, he puts on an act, that is all. He did not kill our other governesses.”

  “What did you say?” Maggie cried.

  “I am sure he told you he killed them. He wants to scare you. He wants you to leave, you see.”

  “I know he does,” Maggie told Andrew. “I know.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Why did the other governesses leave?” she asked.

  “One governess left to get married,” Andrew said. “Mrs. Squires left because she was angry at Mr. Squires. And the other one . . .” Andrew’s words trailed off. He lowered his eyes to the floor.

  Maggie felt her body tense.

  “You can tell me, Andrew,” she coaxed. “The other one? That would be Miss Nealon, would it not?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie grasped Andrew’s chin and gently tilted his face up. Forcing his gaze to meet hers.

  “Why did Miss Nealon leave, Andrew?”

  “Well, she . . . she did not understand Garret,” Andrew said at last. He grippe
d her hand tightly and gave her a small hopeful smile. “Please say you will stay with us. Please.”

  How can I leave this little boy? Maggie thought. Or his brother? Garret clearly needs me too. I certainly cannot abandon them before their father returns. Making sure they are well cared for is my job. It is what I have agreed to do.

  Maggie noticed a shiver run through Andrew’s body. She hugged him, hard. “Of course I will stay,” she told him, feeling a sudden rush of warmth. “I will stay! I will stay!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  That night Maggie had trouble falling asleep.

  Every time she closed her eyes she thought she heard the soft beat of wings. She pictured a flock of red robins slowly flying down to peck out her eyes.

  Finally, though, she felt herself floating down, like one of the robins, into a deep, restful sleep.

  She awoke to the sound of someone crying softly.

  Maggie tried to block out the sound, tried to stay asleep, safe and snug in her bed.

  But the crying grew louder.

  Was it one of the boys having a nightmare?

  She sat up. Listened hard. From some distant corner of the mansion came a mournful cry. So full of pain.

  It did not sound like a child’s cry. It scarcely sounded human.

  Maggie felt her heart flutter in her chest. What could be making that awful sound?

  I must find out, Maggie thought. The boys could be in danger.

  Maggie swung her bare feet out of bed and onto the cold floor. Shivering, she slipped on the dark red robe that she found hanging in the wardrobe. Probably left behind by one of those other governesses, Maggie thought.

  Maggie found a candle and matches on her dresser. She struck a match, but her fingers trembled so badly it went out before she could light the candle.

  Calm down, she ordered herself. She tried a second match. It blew out.

  The low cry filled her ears again. I cannot bear it, Maggie thought. The sound was worse than any of the cries she ever heard in prison.

  Maggie struck a third match—and managed to light the candle. She picked it up and made her way to the hall.