((The expression is, of course, après nous, le déluge. Here, it is turned around to translate to After the flood, us.))

8. Après le déluge, nous

With no money to afford servants, it was only logical that both Thomas and Lucille knew how to cook. And to be frank, he'd always been better at it. For her, it had been a chore, and it had tasted like that. He had liked reading recipes and had over times learned to alter them to his tastes. He'd enjoyed it, to a point, but never as much as this morning. He prepared as lavish a breakfast as their provisions allowed for the two of them, his heart dancing with joy. Before he could carry their plates up, Edith appeared in the doorway, smiling so warmly he thought it must be the harbinger of spring. They ate in a silence that, maybe for the first time since they'd arrived here, wasn't awkward but companionable. He watched her for signs of doubt or caution. Nothing. She trusted him. Edith trusted him. With that thought in mind, even getting corpses out of the viscous clay sounded bearable, even facing the body of his son. He could do this. He wasn't alone and he wouldn't be when this was over.

When he rose to go to the mine, Edith stopped him. 'It's done,' she told him. 'I brought up the last two bodies yesterday before you decided to murder the piano.'

For a moment, less than a second, Thomas feared that he'd been wrong. That she might trust him but that he had failed because she had been the one to fulfil his task. But that would have been Lucille's way of thinking. 'You didn't tell me earlier because you didn't want me to think I'd lost you.'

Edith nodded. She walked towards him and put her arms around him. 'Now I can say it. I love you, Thomas. So much.'

He held her tighter but remained silent. If he talked, he'd end up sobbing in her shoulder and he wanted to avoid that. It was enough that she had seen him reduced to tears the day before.

Edith pulled away, kissing him softly. 'We need to pack for a while. I want to be able to leave at once when Finlay comes.'

The packing included clothes for them both, but also putting the bones into large jute bags. Finlay had no idea of what had happened in Allerdale Hall, and he didn't need to find out now.

They managed just in time. The sky was growing dark even though it was early, threatening snow, when Finlay came up walking next to a horse that pulled a cart. He helped loading the bags onto the cart without asking about their contents and together, they set out down. Thomas glanced behind himself and felt a grim satisfaction. Lucille had never liked being alone, had hated it when Thomas travelled as much as he had flourished every time he could leave the house. And her. His hand found Edith's as they walked in silence. Something was changing. He was changing. Into a man that could think of Lucille without aching, but also without hatred or anger. He had thought he'd become the most he could be when he'd returned to the house. But apparently, he wasn't quite done growing out of his restraints. What he would be at the end, he wasn't certain. But now he was confident that whatever it was, Edith would love him then as much as she had back before this entire mess, as much as she did now.

Ϡ

'You have a cart full of … what? And I am to … do what?' Reverend Cirhan's accent was heavy with emotion. 'With all due respect, Sir Thomas. This is hardly proper procedure.' His expression and tone said clearly that he considered every bit of respect too much in their case.

Thomas raised his arms. 'Then consult Doctor Pilgrim and follow whatever procedure is needed. He knows of the bodies and Edith has given a statement. Even I had a talk with some inspector when I was still in hospital. It's all been said and the only thing these women need is a burial. Please.'

'And you know who these people were?'

'Yes,' Edith said. 'The information you need is in this envelope. Look, Reverend. They were kept up in the manor, and they haven't found rest. Maybe if they're buried, they will.'

The Reverend's gaze travelled between her and Thomas. 'Haven't found rest? Are you telling me that Allerdale Hall is haunted?'

'Precisely.' They'd spoken together and Edith had to stop herself from grinning. It wouldn't help their cause.

'Are you sure? In my experience, hauntings have other causes, most of the time. They may range from the simple fact that an old house creates sounds, to intruders, to mental illness.'

Edith felt a surge of anger. 'Thomas and I are not mad. We wouldn't be here talking to you about this if we weren't certain.'

'And besides that,' Thomas said, 'these people should be buried. I think by your profession alone you should agree that the victims of a violent crime can do with a final blessing.'

The Reverend ran a hand over his bald head. 'Very well. It's not like there haven't been rumours. Leave them to me. I'll call you when I'm ready.'

'There is something else,' Edith said. 'Another spirit. We need to get rid of it, but it's not a victim. I mean …'

Thomas put an arm around her waist. 'No. Definitely not a victim. The murderer. My sister. I'm sure you heard that, too.'

Reverend Cirhan's gaze darted to the jute bags and back to them. 'Look. I'm hardly an expert, I'm not even sure I believe this at all. Truth be told, if it were only you, Sir Thomas, I'd wonder if maybe what was wrong with Lucille runs in the family, but your wife isn't related and seems to believe this hogwash as well. While I don't like sending you to the competition, you might want to ask that Catholic. Father Christopher. Him or that crazy Irish woman. Deirdre. They've both dealt with such matters in the past, or so they say, maybe they are more accommodating.' During his speech, the Reverend had ushered them out of his yard. 'Now leave. I've wasted enough time on the both of you.'

Thomas wasn't cowed. 'The witch?' he asked. 'She still lives?' Thomas shrugged at Edith's frown. 'She was already old when I was little. An Irish woman with a lot of knowledge about herbs and such. And of course, everyone calls that woman a witch. Do you mean she actually is one, Reverend?'

Cirhan looked deeply disgusted, whether by Thomas or by the thought of a witch, Edith wasn't sure. Probably both. 'Sir Thomas, I mean nothing at all. Except that if you believe that your house is haunted, you may want to turn to someone who is more likely to believe that than that you are simply not quite right in the head.'

'Father Christopher, then,' Thomas decided. 'Deirdre is creepy.' He shuddered in the cold. 'Can we rent a room somewhere? We won't be going back up.'

'By the looks of the weather, you won't be going up for the rest of winter.' Cirhan huffed. 'You know the café at the corner?'

'Yes. I know it. We're not staying there.'

'Don't grin like that, young man, I'm not suggesting that you drag your wife into that pit of sin. But across from it, there's Madam Tate's house. She's an old widow who owns at least two more small cottages. If you're lucky, you can rent one for the time being.'

Edith looked at Thomas. His gaze went into the black of night, in the direction of Allerdale Hall. He looked back at her and gave a mixture of a nod and a shrug. Edith licked her lips. 'Do you reckon that she'd sell one of them?'

The Reverend's eyebrows rose. 'You would have to ask her that.' He rubbed the bridge of his nose and fumbled with the envelope. 'So. You have five bodies?'

'Bones. Don't be startled, they were submerged in liquid clay and they look the part. Of four adult women. Their names are in there with descriptions how you recognise them by their injuries. And a child. An infant.'

Reverend Cirhan swallowed. 'An infant. Whose?'

'Lucille's,' Thomas said quietly. 'And no, she wasn't married.'

The Reverend opened his mouth, but Edith was faster. 'One of the women, Enola, she realised the child was dying and performed an emergency baptism. You can bury him.'

Cirhan's expression spoke volumes. He didn't believe a word and Thomas's reaction told a story of its own. His look was one of gratitude and shock at once. The truth was, she had thought about this on the way. And the Reverend couldn't prove her wrong. He knew that, too, of course. 'I see. Very well. You can leave now. I'll take care of them. Don't wait for a message from me. I believe these dead can take their final journey well enough without you.'