The Poison Thread Read online

  Praise for The Poison Thread

  “With the skill of a born storyteller Laura Purcell has crafted a tale as intricate and flawless as Ruth’s stitches. By turns horrifying and humorous, The Poison Thread is a darkly compelling, unsettling, and fascinating book, where pseudo-science meets needlework in the most chilling and unexpected ways. . . . The Poison Thread is the very best kind of gothic fiction. Reminiscent of Sarah Waters and Margaret Atwood, but uniquely and unmistakably Laura Purcell.”

  —E. S. Thomson, author of the Jem Flockhart Mysteries

  “A potent, powerful novel: seductive, spellbinding, and—in every sense of the word—haunting. As atmospheric as Sarah Waters, as psychologically astute as Tana French.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author A. J. Finn

  “A chilling and engrossing read.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Beautifully written, intricately plotted, a masterpiece.”

  —Sarah Hilary, author of No Other Darkness

  “Vivid and well researched, this book is an evocative portrait of a society that punishes women who dare to contravene social norms . . . as well as a splendid mystery with suitably melodramatic flourishes.”

  —The Guardian (UK)

  “Heart-pounding . . . A classic Victorian tale of murder most foul, twisted with a curious supernatural thread.”

  —Stylist (UK)

  “All but the most cynical will find it hard to stop turning the pages.”

  —The Observer (UK)

  Praise for The Silent Companions

  “[An] extraordinary, memorable, and truly haunting book.”

  —Jojo Moyes, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “A perfect read for a winter night . . . An intriguing, nuanced, and genuinely eerie slice of Victorian gothic.”

  —The Guardian (UK)

  “If The Silent Companions lands on your night table, don’t plan on leaving your bed anytime soon. Immersive, meticulous, and reminiscent of the masters of gothic fiction—not only a compulsively readable ghost story, but a skillful, loving ode to the entire genre.”

  —Lyndsay Faye, bestselling author of Jane Steele

  “Purcell crafts a virtually flawless work of gothic fiction with this deeply atmospheric, foreboding story. . . . In inviting us into her eerie gothic world, Purcell masterfully attends to every atmospheric detail—from the dirty hems of skirts to the slanting light of dawn. Her novel is reminiscent of the work of all the greats, particularly Shirley Jackson and Daphne du Maurier, but Purcell has a style all her own. A must for all lovers of gothic literature.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “An atmospheric, eerie Victorian gothic novel . . . its combustible tale of a nineteenth-century woman tormented by an English country house’s creepy curios does produce sparks.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This perfect fireside read combines all the best characteristics of the gothic genre.”

  —Booklist

  “Irresistibly creepy, this romps along, Purcell turning her screws with skill. It’s what crumpets and dismal afternoons were made for.”

  —Glamour (UK)

  “A genuinely creepy Victorian ghost story, it’ll keep you up half the night reading it . . . and you won’t want to turn off the light.”

  —Good Housekeeping (UK)

  “One of the most well-written horror stories I’ve read this year, The Silent Companions is proper gothic fare. . . . What is commendable is how Purcell is able to weave all these [classic] elements in a story that is layered and psychologically complex till the very end.”

  —Book Riot

  “The chill of The Silent Companions sneaks up on you and then settles in like a gray mist on a British moor . . . a shivery treat.”

  —BookPage

  “Laura Purcell weaves a classic tale of gothic horror. . . . Purcell has all the finest ingredients of the gothic tradition. . . . Reminiscent of Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black and even du Maurier’s Rebecca, The Silent Companions will chill readers who fall under its spell.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE POISON THREAD

  Laura Purcell worked in local government, the financial industry, and a Waterstones bookshop before becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Colchester, the oldest recorded town in England, with her husband, and is the author of The Silent Companions.

  ALSO BY LAURA PURCELL

  The Silent Companions

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in Great Britain as The Corset by Raven Books, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2018

  Published in Penguin Books 2019

  Copyright © 2018 by Laura Purcell

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Purcell, Laura, author.

  Title: The poison thread / Laura Purcell.

  Description: New York : Penguin Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019005177 (print) | LCCN 2019006439 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9780525505822 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143134053 (pbk.)

  Subjects: LCSH: Paranormal fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6116.U73 (ebook) | LCC PR6116.U73 P65 2018 (print) |

  DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019005177

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Alison Forner

  Cover image: (needle) Anja Weber Decker / Arcangel Images

  Version_1

  For Steph

  Contents

  Praise for The Poison Thread

  About the Author

  Also by Laura Purcell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1: Dorothea

  2: Ruth

  3: Dorothea

  4: Ruth

  5: Dorothea

  6: Ruth

  7: Dorothea

  8: Ruth

  9: Ruth

  10: Ruth

  11: Dorothea

  12: Ruth

  13: Dorothea

  14: Ruth

  15: Dorothea

  16: Ruth

  17: Dorothea

  18: Ruth

  19: Ruth

  20: Dorothea

  21: Ruth

  22: Dorothea

  23: Ruth

  24: Dorothea

  25: Ruth

  26: Dorothea

  27: Ruth

  28: Dorothea

  29: Ruth

  30: Dorothea

  31: Ruth

&
nbsp; 32: Ruth

  33: Ruth

  34: Ruth

  35: Dorothea

  36: Ruth

  37: Dorothea

  38: Ruth

  39: Dorothea

  40: Ruth

  41: Dorothea

  42: Ruth

  43: Ruth

  44: Ruth

  45: Ruth

  46: Dorothea

  47: Ruth

  48: Dorothea

  49: Ruth

  50: Dorothea

  51: Dorothea

  52: Dorothea

  Acknowledgements

  Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

  Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!

  It is not linen you’re wearing out,

  But human creatures’ lives!

  Stitch – stitch – stitch,

  In poverty, hunger and dirt,

  Sewing at once, with a double thread,

  A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

  But why do I talk of Death?

  That Phantom of grisly bone,

  I hardly fear its terrible shape,

  It seems so like my own –

  From ‘The Song of the Shirt’, Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

  1

  Dorothea

  My sainted mother taught me the seven acts of corporeal mercy: to feed the hungry; refresh the thirsty; clothe the naked; shelter the traveller; comfort the sick; visit those imprisoned; and bury the dead. Most of these we undertook together, while she lived. Then Papa and I buried her, so that was another one checked off the list.

  A single merciful act eluded me: visiting those imprisoned. A lady in my position has ample opportunity to feed and clothe, but who can she call upon in gaol? Which of her genteel acquaintances is ever incarcerated?

  I mentioned the difficulty to my father once, at breakfast. My words hung in the air with the steam from our tea; hot, uncomfortable. I can still see Papa’s grey eyes narrow over the pages of his newspaper.

  ‘Charity is not a competition, Dorothea. These “acts of mercy” – you do not need to perform them all.’

  ‘But, sir, Mama said—’

  ‘You know your mother was a . . .’ He looked down at his paper, searching for the word. ‘She had odd notions about religion. You must not take what she said to heart.’

  We were silent a moment, feeling her absence in the empty chair at the end of the table.

  ‘Mama was a Papist,’ I told my toast as I buttered it. ‘I am not ashamed of that.’

  Had I sworn before him, he could not have flushed a brighter hue. His cheeks went puce.

  ‘You are not scampering around prisons,’ he barked. ‘Never mind your mother – I am your father. And I say you are a Protestant. That is my final word on it.’

  But Papa never really has the final word.

  When I came of age, I inherited my own money from Mama to spend as I pleased. Papa could do nothing when I decided to lay it out in improvements for prisons.

  Prison, along with Mama’s Catholicism, was attractive to me because it was forbidden, because it was dangerous. I sat on women’s prison boards, set up committees to help the poor wretches in Newgate and purchased pamphlets on Elizabeth Fry.

  I cannot say these actions made me a darling of society, but I acquired friends enough for my liking: charitable spinsters, rectors’ wives. Far worthier people than the fashionable young ladies Papa wished for me to associate with.

  ‘How do you expect to find a husband,’ he said, ‘when you are always off on these squalid sallies to gaol?’

  ‘I am fair and I have an ample dowry from Mama,’ I retorted. ‘If any man is fool enough to be put off by a few charitable enterprises, he does not deserve me.’

  So I won my way, as I always do.

  Two years ago the Oakgate Charitable Women’s Society began a project to dismantle the old, sinking hulk that passed for a penitentiary in these parts and build a new prison. That was my chance. When the women’s wing was complete, the Society ruled it would be beneficial for lady visitors to call upon the inmates and improve them with edifying conversation. Naturally, I volunteered.

  In my visits, I have seen many wretches. Desperate, friendless, craving comfort. But I have never met a criminal quite like her.

  I was feeding Wilkie, my pet canary, this morning when the note from Matron arrived, informing me we had another one. I knew she meant the worst of all criminals: a taker of human lives. My blood began to hum. I ordered the carriage and dashed for my hat and gloves.

  Anticipation dried my mouth as I rumbled along in the carriage towards the prison. One never knows what to expect with a murderer. When I was young, I used to imagine they all had compelling reasons to commit their deeds: a stolen lover; vengeance for a parent; betrayal; blackmail. This is a fallacy. Murder can have the strangest, most mundane of motives – or sometimes none at all.

  I remember Mrs Blackwood, who maintained that she ‘never drowned those poor dear children, it was them that came and did it, they were always killing and they always made her watch’. Then there was Miss Davies, who told me she ‘bore no malice to the young black, never did mind his kind, but alas it was necessary for him to die, a sacrifice had to be made’. Most chilling of all, I think, was Mrs Wren. Yes, she had killed her husband. Did he beat her? No. Visit other women? Oh no, never. Had he in fact done anything to merit his death? Certainly, the brute – he had criticised her cooking. Not in general, no, just the once. It was enough. What wife would not kill him, she wanted to know.

  Phrenology is the only answer to the behavioural patterns of these women. They are born with the propensity to kill. It is all there, mapped out on the cranium. If precautions are not taken, or the wrong organs become inflamed, they give way to vice. Our society is at fault in neglecting this essential science. Had we measured the heads of these females whilst they were young, we might have averted their crime by careful instruction and conditioning. Alas, I fear the cerebral malformation has now progressed too far. And if we cannot change their characters, what hope for their souls?

  New Oakgate Prison reared up from the horizon, its stone shining white as redemption. Scaffolding covered the unfinished male wing, but within it I discerned the contours and the gaps where the windows would eventually gleam. On the women’s side, we have them shaped like portholes, giving the place the feel of a great steam paddler. Saplings ring the high, iron fences. One day they shall grow and cover the exercise yard in green shade. It looks like a hopeful place, a place where perhaps all is not lost.

  The porters opened the gates, which did not whine or clank but glided easily on their fresh hinges. As I climbed out of the carriage and arranged my skirts, another porter met me and marked my name off in his ledger. Then came one of our warders to guide me through the limewashed corridors I know by heart, straight to the office of our principal matron.

  She was sitting at her desk. When I entered she rose with a clink, drawing my eyes to the leather belt about her waist and the keys suspended from it. They did not look like instruments of incarceration. They were polished, shining with the same spanking newness of the gaol. Her office smelt fresh, of wood and lime.

  ‘Miss Truelove. How prompt you are.’ She offered me a curtsey and another metallic jingle.

  ‘But of course, Matron. I am all eagerness to meet our new inmate.’

  Her face moved into an expression – I am not sure what it was, but it was certainly not a smile.

  Matron is one of those unreadable women who fade so easily into the mechanics of an institution: age indeterminate; features regular and without distinction; voice monotonous. Even her skull remains concealed beneath a starched cap, showing no discernible bumps. If I was forced to reach a conclusion, I wo
uld say she does not like me – but of course she offers no evidence, nothing tangible for me to base this on.

  ‘I must urge you to observe caution, Miss Truelove. This one is dangerous.’

  A thrill chased up my spine. ‘Murder, I think you said?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘Was it dreadfully grisly?’

  ‘No.’ Her mouth tightened, but her voice did not change. ‘Devious. She killed her own mistress. Slowly, by degrees.’

  Not an act of passion, then. I yearned to ask how she committed the deed, but I reined in my curiosity. Matron is not like me; she does not question motives and hope for change. It is enough for her to ensure the women are fed and clothed – she does not appear to believe the prisoners possess souls.

  ‘A maid, I presume? What age is she?’

  ‘That is the worst of all. She is but sixteen years old.’

  A child!

  I had never met a child murderer. This would enhance my work greatly – to assess the tender skull and see if the criminal organs had already grown to their full extent.

  ‘Her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Ruth Butterham.’

  I appreciated that plosive surname: it seemed to strike the air like a fist.

  ‘Perhaps you will take me to her cell?’

  Matron obeyed in silence.

  Our footsteps crunched on the sanded floors, stopping finally outside a barrier of iron. Such a large door, I thought, to keep a child in. The enamel plaque swung blank – Ruth had not been there long enough to have her name and sentence inscribed.

  Matron creaked open the iron observation flap on the door. Holding my breath, I leant forwards and peeked through.

  I shall never forget that first sight of her. She sat on the side of her bed, fully dressed, with a spiral of tarred rope on her lap. Her head was bent, her shoulders stooped, so I could not make out her height, but it seemed to me she was no more than the average size. Wiry black hair fell about her temples. The staff crop it short, to the chin. This helps keep the prisoners free of vermin and gives them the look of a penitent. Yet somehow the operation had the opposite effect on Ruth Butterham – she appeared to have more hair than an innocent woman, for it frizzed and expanded into a dark aureole around her head. I could not glimpse the criminal organs of the skull beneath. Perhaps the centre of Murder above the ear was engorged, but I would have to feel with my hands.